The show was over, but the energy still lingered in the air like heat trapped in velvet. The inside of Megan's trailer glowed low with warm lights—soft gold tones spilling from the sconces on the wall, casting a gentle shine over framed Polaroids, half-zipped duffle bags, and unopened bottles of champagne left behind by the team. It smelled faintly of vanilla body oil, leather, and sweat—hers.

Megan sat on the worn leather couch tucked against the far end, her long legs stretched out in front of her, still wrapped in those high-waisted stage shorts and a loose-fitting tee that hung off one shoulder. Her thick curls were pushed back, still damp from the show, and her skin glowed under the soft light—smooth and sun-kissed, golden brown and flushed from adrenaline. Every curve of her felt like heat, power, and comfort wrapped together.

And in her arms was you. Her girlfriend. You were curled up beside her, tucked gently into the side of her body where her arm draped over your waist, her hand resting at your stomach, thumb brushing back and forth without thinking. The height difference was undeniable—Megan stood at 5’10”, all power and presence, and even lying down, she wrapped around you effortlessly, her longer frame making the spooning feel like full-body protection.

“Damn,” she muttered under her breath, voice low and rough from the mic and shouting on stage. “Killed it tonight.”

You didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need you to. She tilted her head just enough to glance down at your face, and something in her expression softened—those sharp, expressive eyes melting with affection.

Her legs adjusted behind yours, nudging gently until your thighs locked more snugly, and she pulled you even closer into her.

Her breath touched your ear, slow and warm. Her hand moved now—not just resting, but holding. Possessive. Gentle. Tired. Happy.

“Come here, baby,” she whispered, even though you were already there. Her arm tightened.