Everything I Wanted

Panic - 38

The night felt slow and easy in a way that was rare on tour. After a long day of rehearsals, Story and Billie had both crashed in Story's hotel room, too tired to go anywhere but too wired to sleep. When Billie suggested room service, it turned into an entire spread—pasta, fries, smoothies, and a ridiculous amount of dessert they definitely didn't need but ordered anyway.

They sat cross-legged on the floor, plates scattered between them, music playing softly from Story's phone. Every few minutes, Billie would say something stupid that sent Story into a fit of laughter—the kind of laugh that left her cheeks aching and her stomach sore. It wasn't even that funny; it was just Billie. She had this way of making everything lighter.

"Okay, you have to admit," Billie said through a mouthful of fries, "these are like... the best hotel fries ever."

"They're literally just fries," Story teased, leaning back on her hands.

"Exactly," Billie said, pointing a fry at her dramatically. "And yet, they're perfect. That's art."

Story laughed again, shaking her head. "You're insane."

"Yeah, but I make you laugh," Billie said, grinning.

"You do," Story admitted softly. Her eyes lingered on Billie a moment too long, and Billie must've noticed, because her grin faded into something smaller, gentler.

After dinner, they took their desserts—a slice of chocolate cake and two spoons—out to the balcony. Sydney stretched beneath them, glittering with lights and noise, but from up here, it felt like the world had quieted just for them. Billie leaned against the railing, wind tugging at her hair, while Story scooped a bite of cake and held it out to her.

Billie raised a brow. "You're feeding me now?"

"Just take the bite, rockstar," Story said, laughing.

Billie did—and promptly made a face. "Oh my god, that's so sweet."

Story grinned. "Then don't eat it all."

Billie took another bite just to be difficult. "Too late."

They stood there for a while, passing the fork back and forth, their conversation flowing from random jokes to deeper thoughts about the show, the tour, the pressure that came with it all. Billie was unusually open tonight, talking about how strange it still felt to have millions of people watching her every move. Story listened quietly, every word sinking in.

At one point, Billie sighed, glancing out at the city. "You make all this feel... normal, you know that?"

Story blinked. "Normal?"

Billie nodded. "Yeah. Like it's okay to just be. I forget that sometimes."

Story didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't. Instead, she reached out, their fingers brushing before Billie laced their hands together without hesitation. It wasn't planned or even acknowledged—it just happened, and somehow, it felt more intimate than any words could.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The night breeze moved around them, cool and steady, carrying the faint sounds of the city below. Story looked over at Billie, and Billie looked back. There was no teasing now, no barrier between them—just quiet understanding, something soft and fragile suspended between them.

Then Billie smiled, stepped a little closer, and pressed a gentle kiss to Story's forehead. It was barely there—warm, careful, fleeting—but it sent a pulse through Story's chest that left her breathless.

"Goodnight, Story," Billie whispered, her voice low.

Story swallowed hard and managed a small smile. "Goodnight, Billie."