Wicked Strings, Wicked Things.

Love Like This Doesnt Fade.

The suitcase sat in the corner of the hotel room like a bomb waiting to go off.

Connar zipped it shut. Slowly. Like maybe if she did it quietly enough, Jolly wouldn't notice.

He did.

"Flight's at four?" he asked, voice soft.

She nodded.

"Studio meeting tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

Silence.

Then Jolly stood. Crossed the room. Wrapped his arms around her from behind.

Neither of them said what they were thinking:
That this was the end of something.
That this might change everything.

---

At the airport, he kissed her like he was memorizing her.

Not because he was afraid she'd disappear — but because he knew she was about to become someone even bigger, even brighter.

"Come visit," she said, forehead to his.

"Try and stop me."

"And if I get too busy—?"

He cupped her face. "Then I'll wait."

She stared at him.

Saw every truth he hadn't said.

And kissed him one last time before disappearing past security.

---

One Month Later.

Jolly hadn't heard her voice in four days.

She was working. Shooting. Blowing up faster than either of them expected. And he—

He was proud.

Terrified.

Lonely.

So he did what he always did when the noise got too loud.

He wrote.

And this time, the lyrics weren't coded.

They were hers.

Every note.

Every line.

---

Three Months Later.
Los Angeles.

Bad Omens was playing a surprise set at a private industry showcase.

Connar wasn't supposed to be there.

She had a gallery opening. In another city.

But somehow, she was.

Front row.

Wearing his old hoodie.

Jolly spotted her mid-song.

Almost dropped his guitar.

---

After the set, she found him backstage.

He didn't say a word.

Just stared like he couldn't believe she was real.

Then she said:

> "I didn't take the job with the label."

"What?"

"I took freelance. So I could travel."

"But—"

She stepped closer.

"I chose me. But I didn't stop choosing you."

And that's when he said it.

The thing he hadn't dared to admit until right that moment.

> "I wrote a song for you."

Her smile wobbled.

"Play it for me?"

He pulled out an acoustic guitar, sat her down, and played.

The lyrics were simple.

Clear.

No metaphors this time.

Just a single chorus that said:

> "Wherever you go / I'll meet you halfway / Love like this / doesn't fade."

When he finished, she was crying.

So was he.

Then she whispered:

> "Let's stop running. Let's build."

---

That night, they didn't make love like the world was ending.

They made love like it had just begun.

And for the first time in a long time—

Neither of them felt afraid.

---

THE END.