Chapter thirty-four
Frankie
As soon as Frankie got off stage, she called her. She was still buzzing, breathless, sweat cooling on her skin—but none of it mattered. Because when she looked out into the spot where Willa always stood—where she always looked, even when she knew Willa wasn’t there—this time, she was.
Frankie sank onto the dressing room couch, guitar still slung across her back, phone pressed to her ear as the call connected.
“Baby!” she said, grinning so hard it hurt. “You were out there!”
“I was,” Willa said, smiling from ear to ear. “Sort of.”
“It was so fucking good to see you, even through a screen,” Frankie said, voice still hoarse from the set. “How did that even happen?”
Willa grinned. “Kara called me and asked if I wanted to watch tonight. She set everything up—had someone hold the iPad right at the barricade.”
Frankie shook her head, half-laughing. “Goddess. I hate her—but also? She’s kind of amazing sometimes.”
“She really is,” Willa agreed.
Frankie leaned her head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. “I just wanna stay on the phone with you forever, but I’ve gotta shower and get on the bus.”
“I know,” Willa said softly, trying not to let anything show. “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Frankie smiled, eyes still closed. “I’ll call you soon, okay? I love you.”
“I love you too,” Willa said, and meant it with every inch of her heart.
They hung up with matching smiles—soft and sleepy, full of I love yous and I miss yous and the quiet ache of almost.
Frankie stayed there on the couch a beat longer, her phone still cradled in her hand, heart hammering in her chest. Her body ached from the show—knees sore, voice raw, hair damp with sweat—but the adrenaline hadn’t left her.
Not yet. Not with Willa’s voice still echoing in her ear.
Not with the knowledge that tomorrow she’d be home.
That in less than twenty-four hours, she’d be back in New York.
She thought about what she’d say. What she’d do.
Whether she’d cry or kiss her speechless or both.
She thought about the hoodie Willa always wore to bed, the way she tugged the sleeves over her hands when she talked, the smile she gave when she was trying not to look too happy—and failing completely.
Frankie wanted to see that smile in person again.
She grabbed her towel and headed for the shower, steam already fogging the edges of the mirror in the green room’s tiny bathroom.
She scrubbed off the night—makeup and sweat and stage light—all while picturing the way Willa would look when she opened the door.
The way her arms would feel around her. The way her lips would taste.
She dressed in a rush after that, her heart picking up speed with every mile the tour bus would soon cover. She didn’t even complain about the straight-through drive Kara had booked. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t protest. She wanted the night to pass fast and quiet and without delay.
She wanted to be home.
And by the time they pulled into the city hours later, the streets slick with rain and the sky still navy with early morning, Frankie felt it in her bones—that something was different. That something was waiting.
She climbed out of the van, lugged her bag up the stairs, and fumbled for her key. But when she pushed open the door, everything stopped.
Everything changed.
The door creaked open, and Frankie stepped into the soft dark of her apartment, the weight of the show still charged under her skin.
Everything felt different.
Not in the way it always did after tour—the hollow quiet, the stillness after the chaos—but in a way that made her breath hitch the second she crossed the threshold.
It smelled like candlewax and lavender and something warmer beneath it. Something familiar. Something that smelled like Willa.
She dropped her bag by the door and kicked off her boots. The thud echoed in the quiet apartment. Her body buzzing from exhaustion and adrenaline, from the ten-week marathon of music and movement and pretending that Willa’s absence wasn’t ripping through her like wildfire.
But now—she was here… And something was off.
No—something was perfect.
The faint sound of water running came from down the hall. Light flickered low and golden. Her brows furrowed. Her heart began to pound—not from nerves, not from fear, but from something far more intimate.
“Hello?” she called gently, her voice scratchy with fatigue and surprise.
Then Willa appeared.
She stepped into view slowly, barefoot on the hardwood, her short silk robe clinging to her body like a second skin. It was deep red, almost black in the low light, and did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there was nothing underneath.
Frankie’s mouth went dry.
Willa’s hair was down, tousled at the ends like she’d been running her hands through it while she waited. She looked like sex and devotion and something holy all at once.
Frankie’s knees nearly buckled. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to drop to the floor or drag her to bed right then.
“Baby,” Frankie whispered, stumbling forward like she’d just been punched in the chest.
Willa smiled, slow and knowing. “Hi.”
That was all it took.
Frankie crossed the room without thinking, without breathing. Her arms wound around Willa’s waist, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that tasted like I missed you and I love you and I’m home.
They kissed like it was the only language either of them remembered. Frankie’s hands slid up Willa’s back, tangling in her hair, gripping her like she might float away.
“I missed you,” Willa murmured into her mouth. “So much.”
Her fingers found the tie on Willa’s robe, tugged it gently—but Willa caught her wrist and smiled.
“Come on,” she said softly, brushing a kiss across Frankie’s jaw. “Let me take care of you, rockstar.”
There were candles everywhere. Dozens of them. Some on the counter, some on the edge of the tub. Their glow danced across the tile, reflecting in the rising steam that curled up from the full bath waiting for her.
Frankie blinked. Her throat tightened. “You did this… for me?”
Willa turned to face her, stepping into the warm light. She untied her robe slowly and let it fall to the floor.
And Frankie forgot how to breathe.
She’d seen Willa naked before—had kissed every inch of her—but this… this was something else. This was Willa in her space. In her home. In her light.
“Jesus,” she whispered.
Willa smiled and stepped into the tub first, easing back against the edge. “Get in.”
Frankie stripped slowly, heart thundering, her gaze never leaving Willa. She sank into the water between Willa’s legs, her back to her chest, and let the heat swallow her whole.
Willa wrapped her arms around her from behind, kissed her shoulder, her neck, her jaw.
“I love you, Mae,” she whispered again, so quietly it made Frankie’s eyes sting.
“I love you too, Willa,” Frankie whispered back.
They stayed like that for a while. No rush. No noise. Just soft kisses. Willa’s hands stroked her stomach, her hips, her ribs. Frankie’s head tilted back, resting against Willa’s collarbone, her eyes closed.
“You did it babe, only one more—in a few days—here at home.” Willa smiled, kissing her shoulder.
“I know, it’s been amazing,” Frankie said, “But it’s been ten weeks. I’m tired. Not just tired—done. I’ve missed you. I missed sleeping in a bed that didn’t move. I missed the cat. I missed my fucking coffee maker.” A small laugh. “I missed… breathing without pretending.”
Willa kissed her temple. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“I wrote a few songs the last couple weeks,” Frankie added, voice softer now. “Some are rough. Some are probably just horny poems with good rhythm.”
“Sing me one,” Willa said, her voice solemn, like a dare wrapped in affection.
Frankie didn’t answer. She just started singing.
The acoustics of the bathroom turned her voice into something ethereal. She didn’t project—she didn’t have to. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and still it echoed like prayer.
The melody was slow. Languid. Almost fragile.
But the lyrics?
They were pure sex.
They painted Willa with sound—how she tasted, how she sounded when she came, how her hands felt against Frankie’s skin, how she whispered her name like it was something sacred.
Willa’s breath caught. Her thighs tightened beneath Frankie’s. Her arms tightened too.
When Frankie finished the last note, silence fell.
And then—
“You’re gonna have to either figure out how to fuck me in this tub,” Willa whispered, wrecked, “or we need to get out. Now.”
Frankie turned in her arms, kissed her chin. Her jaw. Her mouth.
“I don’t want to have sex in the bathtub,” she murmured. “Because I want to be on top of you.”
Willa groaned. “Then let’s go.”
They stood quickly, dripping, flushed, hands already grabbing at skin and mouths already searching. Frankie barely got the towel around Willa’s shoulders before she was kissing her again, leading her backwards down the hallway until Willa’s knees hit the bed.
They fell into bed together, tangled and breathless, Willa on her back and Frankie hovering above her like she’d never seen anything so stunning in her life.
“Every inch of you feels untouchable,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Like I’ll never get enough.”
Willa arched into her touch, hands sliding through Frankie’s hair. “Then take me.”
Frankie’s breath caught.
She leaned in slowly, kissed Willa like they had all the time in the world.
Like she wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the way her breath hitched just before she moaned.
Her hands slid over damp skin, across Willa’s ribs, down to her hips—just holding, just feeling.
“I missed you,” she murmured into Willa’s mouth.
“I missed you too,” Willa whispered back, breath trembling. “So much.”