After the applause

Boundaries and boiling points

The morning sun spilled through the sheer curtains, casting warm, dappled light across the hotel bed. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light, turning the room into a hazy golden dreamscape. Camila stirred slowly beneath the covers, her face nuzzled into Lauren's pillow, still scented with that blend of rosewood and vanilla she was quickly becoming addicted to.

It was a scent that wrapped around her like an anchor, grounding her in a present that—despite the chaos swirling just outside these walls—felt right. Felt safe.

For the first time in a long time, Camila felt something close to peace.

Her fingers curled instinctively into the edge of the comforter, tugging it closer like she could trap this fragile, perfect moment. The soft hum of music floated in from the small kitchen area, a soulful, raspy female voice threading through the air with warmth and familiarity—maybe Norah Jones, maybe someone else—but whoever it was, it felt like a lullaby spun just for her.

Camila blinked the sleep from her heavy-lidded eyes, a soft yawn escaping her lips as she shifted onto her side, drawn toward the source of the sound.

And there, barefoot on the tiled floor and bathed in pure sunlight like some impossibly beautiful mirage, stood Lauren. An oversized T-shirt hung off one shoulder, baring a sliver of pale, freckled skin. Her hair was twisted up into a messy bun, rebellious strands framing her face, and she was flipping pancakes with a casual grace that made Camila's heart ache in the sweetest way.

Her hips swayed absently to the music, a soft, unconscious dance that made the worn hotel kitchen look like a stage built just for her.

God. She was beautiful.

Camila's smile curled slowly, sleep-heavy and sincere, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the sunlight. "I could get used to this," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, low and unguarded.

Lauren turned at the sound, eyes lighting up like sunrise itself. She set the spatula down and padded over with an easy, feline grace, a playful smirk pulling at her lips.

"Good morning, hermosa," she murmured, voice still rough with sleep, like velvet dragging across Camila's skin.

Camila sat up, stretching her arms above her head before reaching out for her. Lauren didn't hesitate. She leaned down, pressing a kiss first to Camila's forehead, lingering there, then to her lips—soft, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world and she planned to spend it right here, right now, savoring every second.

"How'd you sleep?" Lauren asked, fingers brushing a stray curl from Camila's cheek with heartbreaking tenderness.

"Like I didn't have the ghost of my ex trying to crash our tour," Camila joked, though her voice wavered slightly around the edges. The flicker of tension was there, under the surface, but Lauren's presence softened it. Made it manageable. Bearable.

Lauren sat down beside her, thigh pressing into hers, squeezing her hand once, grounding her. "We handled it," she said simply. Steadily. "And we'll keep handling it."

Camila looked into her eyes—really looked—and felt something catch in her chest. Lauren's gaze was steady, clear, a harbor in a storm. There was no doubt in them. No fear. Only love. Only fierce, stubborn devotion.

"Thank you," Camila whispered, the words feeling too small for the gratitude swelling inside her. "For last night. For everything."

Lauren shrugged like it was obvious, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You don't have to thank me for loving you," she said. "You deserve someone who chooses you. Every time. And I do."