But I have two reasons to stay. Foster is obvious. The other is a vibes thing I can’t explain. When I worked on the documentary for Sound Clash, I went in with a solid plan. I left with a completely different one because of moments I couldn’t have anticipated.

The all-girl punk band I ended up centering the experience around, I bumped into while the first band played. They were neon colors and feathers and giggles. I fell in love with them.

I only asked the guitarist to wear the spy glasses during their set, but they continued swapping them off all weekend. What they captured changed the story I wanted to tell. All the way down to the final minutes.

You never know when a tiny detail can shift a perspective. Leaving the tour early, I might miss one.

Needing more than the same two rooms and a balcony, I pack up and move down to the hotel’s lobby.

The band flew in this morning, and the private floor is a prime spot for them to hang and write. If they want to avoid me, I won’t force myself on them.

I have no idea if anything changes now. Things with Foster still feel fragile, but more in a what comes next sort of way. We haven’t talked about what anything from the other night means. He left before I woke up the other day, and outside of a few texts, I haven’t heard from him. Understandable with their stop in California, followed up with the benefit concert.

His last text said he had a few things he needed to do today, but tonight, I was all his. I’m trying to not fall too hard over it, even if it feels like I’ll succumb to the Foster-induced fever faster the second time around.

I set up with my laptop, sinking into a cozy armchair in a tiny nook near the elevators.

After an hour, a shadow falls over me. Then a disappointed sigh.

“Have you left the fucking hotel since we got here?” Colton asks.

“I don’t stop, remember?”

When I look up, he half-smiles. “Adams told us you weren’t behind the shit the label pulled.”

I shake my head. “It was a misunderstanding that got out of control. No one’s come close to crossing my boundaries. If they did, I’d have said something, and I know it wouldn’t have happened again. You guys are all your own levels of douches, not creeps.”

Colton nods, then squints. “On the douche hierarchy, where am I? Specifically in regard to Adams. More douchey or less?” He breaks into a full grin when I glare and dips his chin toward my laptop. “You’re done working. It’s time for some mandated chill time.”

“What are we doing?” I ask, realizing how much I missed him. The easiness.