The drive home is spent wondering how I'm ever going to come down from this high. With the windows down and a breeze flowing past, I soak in the scent of Hawaii underneath sheets of starlight.

        I take one look at Brendon in the driver's seat and back out of the window, realizing how I have everything I want in the world with me right now.

        I'm such a bouncy mess of excitement that I can't even insert my key into the doorknob and Brendon has to take the key from me so he can do it himself. With his chest up against my back and arm above my shoulder, he pushes the door open and gently nudges me into the apartment.

        "Not to be alarming but I could drop dead right now and be perfectly content." I drop my bag onto the counter and take off my shoes. "That was good. That was so damn good."

        Brendon laughs, kicking his shoes off. "It was."

        "That feeling? That's what everyone is talking about when they say they're chasing that something. Feeling like you're flying and never wanting to come down. Like you're invincible. Like I could beat Superman to a pulp without breaking a sweat."

        "You could do that any day of the week."

        I grab a hair tie and gather my hair into a bun, not caring how messy it is. I just need my hair out of my face.

        When I turn around and see Brendon watching me, I'm reminded of what I told him that first night we met. I'm hit with the realization that in his eyes, I'm the only star there is—maybe I've known it all along and I've been afraid to confront it.

        "What are you thinking?" he asks. He always asks me what I'm thinking. He would probably give anything to see inside my head. I'm glad he can't because he's so ingrained in every thought that he'll likely just be staring back at himself the entire time.

        "I want a milkshake."

        He smiles at me. I'm never going to get used to that being directed at me this much. "Do you have the stuff to make a milkshake or should I order you one?"

        "I have no idea. I don't know what's in that fridge."

        Brendon makes his way to the kitchen and rattles off all of the ingredients I have. Call it a miracle.

        He hands me a Nutella milkshake after a few minutes.

        Since my feet are about to fall off from all of the jumping and prancing around the stage, I slide onto the ground so I can take my shoes off and toss them the six feet to the door.

        Without hesitation, Brendon joins me. He lets me drink the best milkshake I've ever had, occasionally stealing a sip for himself, and listens as I explain every nonsensical thought about tonight's show.

        "Sounds like that was your Monaco," he says after I pause.

        "That would be nice to think so."

        "It is." He wipes the corner of my mouth. "You're glowing, Stevie. Alive. The most you that you've ever been."

        After spending years in an industry full of fake this and make-believe that, I find it easy to believe only a handful of people know the real me anymore—MARS, Maverick, Brendon. If he's telling me this, I have to believe it's the truth. He's seen me at my highest of highs and my lowest of lows, and these days, that's not easy for people to come around.

        "You know what's funny? I didn't realize how big the world was growing up."

        "I don't think most kids do, to be honest."

        "It's not like I just felt alone. I was separated by an entire ocean from so many places that are close to me. Growing up on an island can be pretty disorienting. You either feel trapped or too sheltered to understand the rest of the world, and it's hard to reach out, especially when you're young. You know?"

        "And now you get to see all of it."

        With the now empty glass of milkshake discarded, my fingers dance along his palm mimicking the plucking of guitar strings, or a pebble skipping across a fluid sheet of glass.

        "Sometimes it doesn't feel like enough. Sometimes I think life is gonna just say fuck it, let's throw her for a loop and just take all of this away from me. And then what? I crawl back to Hawaii with nothing but these good memories. I always feel like if I don't just...go for it, it's all going to slip out of my fingers."

        Brendon looks down at our fingers. Nobody ever talks about how easily two people slip into a steady rhythm. One day you're volleying playful insults to each other, the next you're using their shoulder as your favorite place to cry on. I hardly remember a time when there was Stevie, and there was Brendon. The only future I see is Stevie and Brendon.

        "You do that a lot," he says after a beat.

        "Do what?"

        "Overthink every good thing that happens to you. Think it's some kind of fluke and not something you genuinely deserve." Brendon smooths his fingers over a faint white line on the back of my knuckles; a scar from when I was a child. "Or undermine your worth. I get it, I do. But I wish you could see yourself the way I've always seen you. You'd never doubt yourself again."

        I love the act of storytelling.

        There aren't as many books being checked off my to-be-read lists since our careers took off and we've become busier and busier with each passing year, but I've always believed those who have the power to tell stories also have the power (and responsibility) to make a difference with their words. We do it on a smaller scale with our music, and with a different fluidity.

        Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. For the most part. You establish everything important at the start, watch it grow and bend, and oftentimes shatter into a million pieces before being stitched up again once you reach the end. Maybe a sad or complex one comes along and doesn't quite follow the same rhythm, but humans are optimistic by design. We want to see a happy ending, whether we admit it to ourselves or not.

        But the best stories are the ones where the lines blur together. The beginning doesn't feel like an introduction, but like jumping right back into familiar territory. And the middle has so many twists and turns along the way that you don't realize how cathartic it is when the end finally comes. Because, truthfully, the end is never an end. Not in stories. The truly great ones. They continue until the last star in the galaxy dies, and then some.

        Despite every painful hardship I've endured, mine is my favorite story. Who else can we count on to root for ourselves time and time again? I've come to learn that, even if I'm still a work in progress.

        But Brendon is so intrinsically part of my story that there is no longer any beginning, middle, or end. He simply is. And just because my story will always be most important to me doesn't mean I can't hold equal regard for his story alongside mine. Learning to love myself and every messy part of me is a lifelong journey, and I'm not sure where I'm at right now; it's okay if my favorite version of me is the one I see with him.

        So why—god, why—do I look at him and think he's too good for me? Why is it so easy to fall into these slippery moments of self-doubt, and why is it so difficult to believe this good person in front of me is someone I deserve?

        Why is him calling me out on it just another example of why I love him so much?

        Brendon doesn't look surprised to see me leap away from him and start pacing on the other side of the counter. My hair tie begins to feel like it's yanking all of the strands back, and the cool air from the air conditioner is no longer enough.

        "Don't do this," he says softly.

        "I'm so annoying. Why can't I get out of my head?"

        "You're not annoying."

        "Every time I think I'm in a good place—am in a good place—I do that. I think I'm due for something bad to happen and it becomes this self-fulfilling prophecy and I hate it. I hate that I expect the worst."

        I only catch him in flashes because I'm still pacing, but where I expect to see irritation from hearing the same complaints over and over again, Brendon just looks....sad. Sad that, as he just said, I can't see myself from his point of view.

        "You remember what I told you the other day, right?"

        Whenever I close my eyes, I hear those words on a loop. It's not possible for me to forget them, or to forget how they made me feel. A rush of strength before facing one of the most terrifying confrontations of my life. A surge of adrenaline before I take on the world knowing he has my back.

        I remember those words all too well.

        "Don't—"

        "No matter what happens, I love you. Don't ever forget that."

        "Brendon."

        He smiles. Of all things to do, he smiles. "Stevie."

        "You're ridiculous sometimes. You know that, right?"

        "You're the one standing there trying to convince the both of us that you don't love me too."

        I don't even know what to say to that.

        So I don't say anything and walk away instead.

        Of course, Brendon follows me. I could walk head first into traffic and he would be right behind me. I know this because I would do the same for him. Any day of the week, any year within eternity, across any stretch of the galaxy. It's scary how much I know I'll do for him, also knowing he feels the same way.

        "You have to stop running away at some point," Brendon says once we make it to the living room. I stand in front of him facing the windows, not quite sure when I'll be ready to turn around again without crumbling straight into his arms. "Once you accept you're the strongest woman I know and that you're surrounded by people who love you, are in love with you, you'll never go back. I promise. You'll be ridiculously happy, and even when you're not, even when you're sad because life sucks and things don't always go the way we want them to or the way they should, you'll come out of it even stronger. You do it already. You always do."

        "God, stop, please."

        "No. Stevie, look at me." He waits. He waits, and he waits, and he waits until he knows the waiting is killing me. "We both know what this is, even if you don't want to admit it out loud. Don't try to tell me otherwise."

        "Brendon—"

        "I love you."

        "Stop."

        He steps closer and forces me to look up at him. "You love me too."

        "I can't do this right now."

        "Yes, you can."

        "What happened to waiting for me?"

        "That's before I realized how stubborn you were going to be."

        "Look. I'm indecisive and reckless and just a bit too stuck on doing more and more, and you deserve someone who knows exactly what she wants—"

        "Why do you keep trying to scare me away?"

        "I'm not. I just think you deserve better than whatever this mess is that I am."

         "But I know what I want. You're what I want."

        "—Someone who can give herself freely to you without second-guessing every choice she's making." I pause and take a breath. "I would never forgive myself for breaking your heart if it came down to that."

        He looks at me with frustrated lines etched into his features. "Why do you think you're going to break my heart?"

        I throw up my hands. "Because!"

        Even as my words echo back to me, I realize how silly of a statement it is to make because the look on his face tells me that's exactly what I'm doing right now, pretending like we don't both know where this is all heading, where it's been heading since we met.

        But then it stops. His features shift into hard determination, and I accept that I'm that prize he's fighting to cross first over the finish line for. And he's what I've wanted this entire time. Fuck the Grammys; Brendon is better than any subjective award any other person can give me.

        In that instant, I know I'm gone. Just waiting for him to unleash every harsh and loving reality on me. The one I've been fighting so hard to avoid, knowing it'll swallow me whole when I give myself over to it. Because it's Brendon. It's always been Brendon. Even when I think I'm confused or lost or struggling to find myself in this world, it's been him. Even when I've fought so hard to deny the simplest of truths sitting directly in front of me.

        I am me and that's all I need, but I love the version of me that exists with him by my side.

        His breath hits my face as his eyes close, leaning his forehead against mine. I don't move. I can't move. I wouldn't want to move even if he asked me. I've spent so long, flying across the world in search of a home away from home, when the one cradling my heart in his hands has been standing in front of me this entire time.

        "Then break it," he tells me with uneven breaths. "Tear it apart, stomp it against the ground. Shatter me into fucking pieces if it means I get one chance with you."

        He wipes away the tears slipping down my face. I'm not a hopeless romantic by any stretch, but he makes me believe for the first time that this version of me exists because of him. Because even when he wholeheartedly gives himself over to me and hands me permission to destroy his life, I can't take it. Not in the destructive way he's begging for. The only way I'll ever be able to love him is with every fiber of my being, every inch of my soul.

        Breaking his heart has never been an option. I'm a fool for believing so.

        "I've been in love with you since the first moment I found you on that roof," he says. A smile fights to his lips, and I'm a torrential downpour beneath his rays of optimism. "Hopelessly in love with you every night since. And it'll never stop. No matter what you say or what you do. Even if you—"

        I cut him off before he can finish.

        His touch is desperate, his kiss is pleading and terrified that I'll turn into smoke between his hands. Off stage, I'm not always the best with words, so I hope he feels everything in this kiss.

        Dragging my hands through his hair, I tug him down to me until there's no such thing as space. All of it has vanished and I don't want to ever know it again. The beginning of him, the ending of me, the two of us meeting in the middle of somewhere—I want all of these lines blurred into oblivion for the rest of our lives.

      Standing in front of this man whom I love more than anyone I've ever loved before feels like standing on the edge of the cliff, watching my life flash before my eyes.

        It happens slowly—whispers about the stars on a rooftop, racing across the world and into each other's arms, confessing our love through the biggest rush of adrenaline.

        In his arms, after those initial feelings of pure terror, I'm alive.

        I had yet to experience a truly soft kiss with Brendon. Nothing that wasn't either a precursor to something much more feverish, or one that was winding down from said ecstasy. Maybe it was better to slow things down and savor the moment. Postpone the end until we've forgotten where our beginning began.

        Then I remember we have all the time in the world. Just because we've reached the precipice of no return, doesn't mean we're doomed to fall. And even if we do, falling can be a good thing. Falling can mean stumbling into something even greater than anything we've ever known. I was ready to take that risk for him.

        Besides, trying to force a race car driver to slow down goes against his very nature.

        Cutting through the fabric of space and time, I don't notice we've moved anywhere when the end of the mattress hits the back of my legs. With ease, Brendon lifts me onto the bed and I sink into it and his touch. The desperation of my touch has grown tenfold since the last time we found ourselves in this sort of predicament, but it's equally matched by Brendon's hasty moves. This time, he's not stopping us. Neither of us is going to let this moment fade into nothing.

        His fingers glide across my skin like a comet shooting through the sky; his touch burns anywhere he lands, but I willingly let myself turn to ash beneath him. Gone are any barriers left raised between us—emotional or otherwise. I breathe him in, entranced by the feel of his smooth skin and all of the sculpted planes of his chest. The byproduct of his hard work and a reminder of how much he fights to prove himself week after week. Every hidden scar is revealed to me, and I kiss each of them, earning a newly released shaky breath in return. There's something indescribable about knowing I can have this kind of effect on someone, and Brendon is unashamed to let me see how my touch unravels something inside of him.

        Before we go any further, I pull back from him and stare up at his face. He presses his hands on either side of my head and tries to catch his breath with a confused look on his face, unsure of why I'm the one pulling away now.

        For the past few years, I've existed under a permanent spotlight, whether I wanted to or not, and I've learned to live with the third-degree burns that are a result of such an intense light. Brendon, on the other hand, avoids it all. I used to believe it was all just part of the act. Use his allure to gain him fans and support, because we're all intrigued by mysterious figures who always seem just out of our reach.

        Knowing him as I do now, I understand it's not that at all. He just simply has no interest in any of that and does all that he can to avoid such attention when he can. Maybe that's another reason why I've been afraid for us to become something more. I can't imagine ever getting out of this lifestyle without sacrificing something in my career, and dragging him into the mess is something I've always wanted to avoid.

        This thing between us—I know it'll find itself under its own spotlight, something even brighter than the one we're already currently under. But I want to preserve as much of our privacy as possible. I don't want this special thing between us to become tainted by the expectations or whims of other irrelevant opinions. Stevie and Brendon belong to Stevie and Brendon only. I don't care what the rest of the world has to say. If that means trying to find a whole new galaxy just to save us, I'll do it.

        He's so beautiful it's nearly painful. I reach my fingers up like someone on the brink of death reaching for those last hopeful rays of light, unaware that this man will forever be the end of me. Or the beginning. Or something blurry in the middle. Frankly, he can write himself into any part of my story. His features are soft beneath my touch. Almost as if I'm dreaming of him. Someone far beyond what I've ever thought I deserved, and someone who's made it his goal to help me realize that I need to stop undervaluing myself and my worth to other people. When his eyes close, I know he's lost in this same thought too.

        "I love you," I tell him. If there's one thing I refuse to do tonight, it's let him go to sleep not hearing those words from me. I repeat them over and over again, desperate to let this song carry on forever, and for him to find it even on the darkest nights when the stars aren't out. I love you's drawn out in legato, separated by kisses in staccato. "Don't ever forget that."

        He smiles into the kiss, swallowing every other I love you that drips from my lips. Slow and steady, hard and heavy. I want everything in between. I want, as he promised before, for us to take so much time getting lost in each other that I go to sleep dreaming of him and this infinite moment.

        Reaching up, he switches off the lamp and plummets us into darkness. Through the window, the moon bathes us in its soft light, painting our skies with the power of a thousand celestial bodies.

        This time, we run together past the point of no return. After we spend ourselves for as long as possible, I go to sleep dreaming of us. And because I'm the luckiest woman on the planet, I fall asleep with a smile on my face because I get to wake up to us too.