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The tour bus has stopped for the day, and you nudge Julien awake with a murmur and a kiss on her head before rising to your feet, stretching gratefully and slinging your duffel bag over your shoulder. Your friends are busy already; some industriously carting instruments from the bus to the truck that’ll continue on to the venue for setup, some eagerly draining the hotel’s complimentary coffee urns and retreating outside to grab a quick smoke. The aromas are tempting, but you move past with barely a glance, checking in quickly and then making a beeline for the hotel room you’ll share with her tonight.
You turn on the bathwater as hot as it will go and plug the tub drain, then set down your bag of accessories and unpack it. You kneel to throw in a heaping handful of Epsom salts and give the water a stir, hissing softly as the heat of it turns your fingers lobster-red.
You look up at the mechanical whir as the door unlatches to let Julien in. She yawns, shaking off the nap she’s just had, and bestows on you one of those sunlight-warm smiles that makes your heart beat twice as fast. Your hand lingers in the steaming bathwater, entirely forgotten, until she crinkles her eyes at you like a happy cat and moves into the room proper to drop her bags and set her door key on the corner of the table where she won’t lose it.
God, you think to yourself as you start breathing normally again. She is never going to stop having that effect on me, is she.
Not that you would want that. Not in the slightest.
You hear her kicking off her shoes before flopping on the bed.
“Don’t get too comfy,” you warn. “It’s almost done.”
She grumbles, and you laugh; even over the rush of the water you can hear the smile in her voice.
Moments later, she appears in the doorframe, looking petite even from your kneeling perspective. “Okay, I’m ready,” she says.
“You really couldn’t even take off your socks for me?” You laugh and she does too, mischief sparkling in her eyes. You don’t wait for an answer, moving over to undress her, starting with peeling the socks off her tiny feet one at a time. For all her impishness, she’s efficient here; after her shirt and sports bra are off you see her appreciatively inhaling the warm, scented steam that’s beginning to fill the room.
You make it as far as undoing her jeans before—“Shit,” you say, lunging to wrench off the tap. She’s small, but you still let a little water drain out to make sure it won’t overflow when she gets in. “This should be fine,” you say, turning to her.
You needn’t have; she’s already stepping past you, planting her feet carefully in the knee-deep water and letting a heavy sigh fall from her lips as her skin adjusts to the heat of it. She’s got one hand on the safety rail and one hand in yours as she lowers herself down.
You let her float uninterrupted as minutes tick by—five, ten, fifteen. You idly scroll on your phone while she bobs gently in the water, eyes closed in sybaritic bliss. You steal glances as frequently as you dare and try to memorize the relaxed lines of her face. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but it pulls you in all the same. You’re so mesmerized by the fact that she’s right here and alive and real and—
“You know I don’t like it when you stare.” Her voice interrupts your reverie; kind, as always, but with a note of reproach in it you know you deserve.
You look away hastily, internally cringing at yourself. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine.” You know she means it, too, and you don’t think you’re ever going to stop being awed by how easily she forgives. “You wanna join me? I think I’m pretty well pruned up by now.”
You strip off your own clothes before reaching over and draining the tub a little more to accommodate your body’s extra volume. She sits up and you settle in behind her to go through the same routine you’ve done just about every day of tour so far. You fill your palm with conditioner first, carefully massaging it into her hair from the ends up to the roots.
“You know, it probably wouldn’t get so tangled if you didn’t headbang so much.” You keep your voice light; you’d never seriously want to crimp your rockstar girlfriend’s style. Still, it has to be said.
“I know.” She sighs, pauses for a moment. “But then I wouldn’t get this time with you fussin’ over me, right?”
When you think the lump in your throat has dissipated enough for you to speak again, you debate how to address it. You could play it off jokingly, answering the crooked smile you know she was wearing.
You find yourself instead draping the conditioner-sodden length of her hair over one shoulder and leaning in to murmur at the nape of her neck. “You know I’d fuss over you anytime you let me, honey.” You don’t often use the term, but this feels like the right moment for it.
She tilts her head back into the crook of your shoulder, leans back to press against your torso, and you embrace the compact weight of her.
You can feel gooseflesh rise on her arms as you kiss her neck, her face, her lips.
“You know what I’m thinking,” she breaks off to whisper, searching your face with those eyes you could happily drown in. It’s a shorthand phrase between the two of you; it signifies the gratitude and unworthiness that comes with loving and being loved, without having to delve into all of that every time either of you feels that way.
“I know. I’m thinking it too,” you whisper back, supplying the expected reply. You close your eyes so she doesn’t see the sudden tears prickling at their corners, and for a moment you just hold her like that and breathe.
You hate to break the moment, but it needs to be done, and it doesn’t seem like she wants to go anywhere, so the task falls to you. “C’mon,” you say, nudging her gently. “Let’s get this slop outta your hair so I can actually get you washed.”
“Just in time to tangle it up all over again tonight,” she grins. “Sorry to be the rock to your Sisyphus.”
“Oh no, I have to take a warm bath with my handsome girlfriend and run my hands through her angelic hair every day,” you snort sarcastically.
She laughs at that, full-throated and ringing in the echoey acoustics of the bathroom, and you think that for all her gifts she’ll never be able to give the crowd anything close to the beauty of that sound.