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A week later, Travis's phone buzzed. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
Rocky: u up
Rocky: trav
Rocky: helloooo
Rocky: wtv bruh
Travis stared at the ceiling of his hotel room, phone face-down on his chest, each vibration a tiny earthquake.
He'd been doing this for seven days now: reading the messages, not responding, reading them again at 3 AM when sleep wouldn't come, then deleting them. Then recovering them from the trash like some kind of addict.
His body still ached in ways that felt like secrets.
He'd thrown himself into work mode after that night, enough activity to fill every empty space until there was no room left to think.
It almost worked.
During the day, he was Travis Scott: rapper, father, visionary. The mask fit snug enough.
But nights were different.
Nights were when he felt phantom hands on his hips.
Heard that low voice saying "just breathe" against his skin.
Woke up hard and hating himself for it.
Another buzz.
Rocky: u know i got ur real number right
Travis's stomach dropped. He sat up too fast, grabbing the phone.
Rocky: hit me when u stop actin brand new
Rocky: or don't. idgaf either way
Rocky: actually i do gaf that's the problem
Rocky: ignore me king yk we love to see it
There were seventeen more after that, each one somehow more pathetic than the last.
Travis found himself almost smiling at a few before catching himself and deleting the whole thread again.
He didn't know what he was doing.
This was supposed to be simple.
It happened.
It was over.
They went back to their lives.
That was the arrangement.
That was the only arrangement that made sense.
So why did he keep checking his phone?
---
Three days later, a text came at 2:47 AM.
Rocky: i'm outside
Travis read it seven times before responding.
Trav: outside where
Rocky: ur hotel
Trav: how dyk where i'm staying
Rocky: i got people
Trav: that's creepy
Rocky: come downstairs
Trav: it's almost 3
Rocky: i know what time it is
Trav: i got studio in the morning
Rocky: lie
Travis stared at the screen. He did have studio in the morning. That wasn't a lie.
But the real reason he shouldn't go downstairs had nothing to do with sleep schedules.
Rocky: 5 minutes then i'm leaving
Rocky: 4:59
Rocky: 4:58
Trav: stop counting
Rocky: then come down
Travis threw his phone across the bed like it had personally offended him.
Then he got up.
Then he sat back down.
Then he got up again.
He was in the elevator before he fully decided to go.
The lobby was empty except for a night clerk half-asleep at the front desk. Travis pulled his hoodie tighter, scanning the glass doors until he saw him.
Rocky leaned against a black SUV, arms crossed, breath misting in the cold air. He was wearing some ridiculously priced coat, obviously, but underneath it he looked... tired.
Less polished.
His braids were pulled back, and there was a paper bag in one hand.
Their eyes met through the glass.
For a long moment, neither moved. Then Rocky raised the bag slightly: a peace offering, or maybe just an excuse.
Travis pushed through the doors.
The cold hit him immediately, sharp and sobering. He stopped a few feet away, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"How'd you find me?"
Rocky shrugged.
"Told you, I got people."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
They stood there in the parking lot, the silence between them filled with everything they weren't saying.
Travis could hear his own heartbeat.
Could smell that same cologne from the night carried on the air.
"You look like shit," Rocky said finally.
"Thanks."
"I mean it. You sleeping?"
"No."
Rocky nodded like he expected that answer. He held out the bag.
"Got you food. There's this spot—"
"I ain't hungry."
"It's not about being hungry."
Travis looked at the bag, then at Rocky's face, searching for the angle.
The joke.
The trap.
But Rocky just stood there, holding out food like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Why are you here?" Travis heard himself ask.
Rocky's jaw tightened. He lowered the bag.
"You tell me. You been ignoring me for a week and a half. I'm tryna figure out if that's 'cause you hate me or 'cause you're scared."
"Both."
The honesty surprised them both.
Rocky's expression shifted, something softer underneath the bravado.
"Get in the car."
"Rocky—"
"I'm not gonna do nothing. Just... get in the car. It's cold as hell out here."
Travis should've walked back inside.
Should've said no and meant it for once in his life.
But his feet were already moving toward the passenger door, and some part of him was so tired of fighting himself that he let them.
---
The car was warm.
Rocky kept the engine running, heat blasting.
They sat in silence, watching the empty street.
Travis picked at the food: some kind of rice bowl from a place he didn't recognize. It was good. He hated that it was good.
"You been working?" Rocky asked.
"Always."
"Me too. Album shit. Fashion week coming up. Riri's got me doing—" He stopped himself. Looked away.
The mention of her name hung in the air like smoke.
Travis kept eating.
"How is she?"
"Good. Busy. The kids keep her going."
A pause.
"She doesn't know about... this. Any of this."
"You think I told somebody?"
"I don't know what you did. You won't talk to me."
Travis set the container down.
"What's there to talk about?"
Rocky turned in his seat to face him fully.
"Brah. Come on."
"No, I'm serious. What's the conversation? 'Hey, remember when we fucked? That was crazy. Anyway—'"
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like it was nothing," Rocky's voice was low, controlled, but there was something underneath it.
Something raw.
"You been running from me for ten days. You think I don't know why? It wasn't nothing. For either of us."
Travis's throat tightened, he stared out the windshield.
"It can't be something," he said finally.
"You know that. I know that."
"Why not?"
The question was so simple. So impossible.
"'Cause I got a daughter. 'Cause I got a image. 'Cause people—" He stopped, jaw working.
"Cause my whole life, since I was a kid, I been told—" Another stop.
His hands were shaking.
Rocky didn't move. Didn't try to touch him either.
"You don't get it," Travis whispered.
"You walk around like nothing matters. Like you got nothing to lose. But I got everything to lose. Everything."
"You think I don't got things to lose?"
"Not like this. Not the same."
Rocky was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was different.
Smaller.
"You think I ain't scared? You think I don't lie awake sometimes wondering what happens if this gets out? If somebody sees us? If Riri—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Travis looked at him then. Really looked.
"Then why you here?" he asked.
"Why you keep texting? Why you show up at my hotel at 3 AM?"
Rocky met his eyes.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you. And I'm tired of pretending I can."
The words landed like punches. Travis felt each one.
"That night," Rocky continued, "it wasn't just sex to me. I know you probably think it was. I know you probably think I do this kinda shit all the time. But I don't. I ain't ever—" He ran a hand over his face.
"Damn. This is corny."
"It's not corny."
"It's corny as hell."
"Okay. It's a little corny."
Rocky laughed: a real one, surprised out of him.
Travis felt something in his chest loosen at the sound.
They sat there in the warm car, night pressing against the windows, and for the first time in almost two weeks, Travis didn't feel like he was drowning.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted quietly.
"Me neither."
"I got so much shit in my head. All the time. About what this means. About what it makes me."
Rocky reached over slowly, giving him time to pull away, and took his hand.
Travis flinched, then stilled.
Let their fingers interlace.
"It don't make you nothing," Rocky said.
"You're still you. That don't change."
"Feels like it does."
"I know."
A squeeze.
"But it don't. Trust me."
Travis looked down at their joined hands.
Rocky's skin was warm.
Real.
He thought about all the years of hiding, all the years of convincing himself he was one thing when some part of him always knew he was another.
Thought about his father's voice.
The guys back home.
The industry.
The fans.
All those eyes.
But right now, in this car, there were no eyes.
Just them.
"I can't do this fast," Travis said.
"I can't just... be okay with it. I need time. I need to figure out—"
"I know."
"And we can't tell nobody. Ever."
"I know."
"And if it gets too real, I might run again. I might—"
"Trav," Rocky squeezed his hand harder.
"I know. I ain't asking for forever. I ain't asking for a damn thing except you stop running. Just for now."
Travis swallowed hard, then nodded.
They stayed like that until the sky started to lighten, hands clasped over the center console, watching the sun come up through the windshield.
When Travis finally got out of the car, his phone buzzed immediately.
Rocky: same time tomorrow?
He stared at it for a long moment. Then typed back.
Trav: yeah
Rocky: good
Rocky: now go get some sleep
Trav: yes dad
Rocky: lol
Rocky: trav
Trav: what
Rocky: i'm glad you came down
Travis didn't respond. But he saved the messages this time.
---
The next night, Rocky was waiting in the same spot.
Same car.
Same paper bag, too.
This time, Travis didn't hesitate before getting in.
They talked about nothing for hours, music, dumb industry stories, that one time Rocky almost got arrested in Paris.
Travis found himself laughing, really laughing, for the first time in longer than he could remember.
When Rocky's hand found his across the console, he didn't flinch.
Small steps, he told himself.
Small steps.
---
Three nights later, they were in Travis's room now. Not for anything physical, simply talking.
Rocky was sprawled across the couch, feet up, complaining about some producer who'd pissed him off.
Travis sat on the floor, back against the bed, listening.
"—and then he had the nerve to say my verse was 'too braggadocious.' Like, bruh, that's literally the point. I'm supposed to brag. That's my whole—"
"Rocky."
"—brand. You know? Like if I wanted to—"
"Rocky."
He stopped.
"What?"
Travis was looking at him with an expression he couldn't read.
"I think I might be..." Travis started.
Stopped.
Then started again.
"I think I been lying to myself for a really long time."
Rocky sat up slowly.
"About what?"
"About everything. About who I am. About what I want."
He picked at a thread on his jeans.
"I got this voice in my head. Been there since I was a kid. Telling me what's wrong. What's weak. What makes me less than."
Rocky didn't speak just yet.
"Tonight, when I was listening to you talk, that voice wasn't there. For the first time in... I don't even know how long. It was just quiet."
He looked up then.
"You make it quiet."
The room held its breath.
Rocky crossed the space between them slowly, like approaching a deer.
He lowered himself to the floor beside Travis, close but not touching.
"That voice," he said.
"It's a liar. You know that, right?"
"I'm trying to believe it."
"Then let me help you."
Rocky reached out, palm up, an offering.
"Whenever it gets loud. Call me. Text me. Show up at my hotel at 3 AM. I don't care. Just don't listen to it alone."
Travis looked at the offered hand. At the man offering it.
"What do you get out of this?" he asked.
Rocky smiled, soft and genuine, nothing like his performance smile.
"I get you. That's enough."
Travis took his hand.
They sat on the floor together as the night deepened, and for once, the silence between them wasn't heavy with fear.
It was just silence.
Comfortable.
It wasn't fixed, nor was it solved.
Travis knew the voice would come back, probably tomorrow, maybe even tonight.
He knew there were still a thousand reasons this couldn't work, a thousand ways it could all go wrong.
But right now, holding Rocky's hand on a hotel room floor, those reasons felt very far away.
And for tonight, that was enough.