Grinning, I rolled my eyes at him before picking up that duffel bag, which had somehow made its way to the floor. "Well, hello to you too." I countered, shoving my phone that was miraculously still in my hand into the bag before zipping it up securely. Turning to face him again, I raised an eyebrow at him, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see a show."

Huffing out an exasperated breath, it was only through strong willpower that I refrained from rolling my eyes at him again. But I couldn't wipe that smile from my face.

God, I've missed him so much.

Heading towards the back door exit, I could sense the stares from my stage crew but I easily ignored them. Seth followed me, his long strides easily catching up to me ­so that we walked companionably side by side through the building and out the door, into that promised taxi. "No, seriously, what are you doing here?"

"I came to see your opening act, they're brilliant," he quipped, buckling his seatbelt. He carefully placed his guitar in the middle seat between us, while my duffel rested in my lap. I gave a bemused look at his answer, eyebrows rising again. With a grin, he leaned across the seat, "I thought I might as well hang back and see your show too. You weren't too bad, although you should have watched the finger noise, and your pitch was off in that last cover."

With a mockingly insulted look, I punched his arm not too lightly, exclaiming "You are such an asshole!" causing Seth to break into laughter as the taxi merged into the late night traffic.


Well, I didn't quite make it into my hotel room, but Seth's apartment was a pretty decent alternative. I'm not sure exactly how I'd agreed to come back here. I was too tired to go to the pub, but I'd wanted to catch up with Seth again after all this time. So this was the logical compromise.

That's what I'm telling myself anyways.

I had tried to ignore the fact that my pesky habit of obsessing over Seth Vaughn had crept up again. It started out with reading the odd article that appeared in the gossip magazines, which was harmless enough. Most of them had something to do with me, Will or Jake anyways. Especially after I'd dropped that Rosaline Michaels bomb last year, the shit had truly hit the fan then. Reading those stories wasn't pathetic in my mind, never mind that I'd never truly cared for the gossip rags before.

But before long I was following all Seth's social media avidly, not to mention searching for any news of him regularly on the internet. I don't even remember when it had gotten this bad, but the realisation that I had developed a pre bedtime ritual that could rival the most hard-core fan out there was sobering.

When did I get this pathetic?

Giving a subtle shake of my head as if to try and clear my thoughts, I rolled over in bed onto my back, turning my head to look at a shirtless Seth sleeping soundly next to me. He'd always looked so peaceful in his sleep, the lines and shadows on his face smoothed out as his chest rose and fell soundly, muted snores filling the room. Light from the window spilled through the white curtains that we'd hastily shut last night, basking the room in a soft light that cast interesting shadows across Seth's face.

It almost made him look angelic. Almost.

Turning to look at the rest of the room, I noticed the stacks of cardboard boxes piled up against the wall of his bedroom. There was also a severe lack of personal touches that I'd noticed in his apartment, a stark contrast to our old home in New York, where framed photographs littered the place, comfortable furniture and a homely mess that gave it a lived-in air. And this was despite us spending most of our time on tour. But here, the minimal touches made the apartment as impersonal as a hotel room. Kind of what my old apartment used to look like.

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