Up front, the guys are arguing over the setlist—again. Sam’s threatening to throw Chace out if he sings Wonderwall one more time. Trey’s already halfway into a bag of gummy bears and trying to convince everyone we should open the set with an acoustic. It’s chaos. Familiar. Loud.
Perfect.
But I tune it out.
Because the only thing I care about is the girl in my arms.
We drive through the day and into the deep hush of night, chasing the heartbeat of something that feels like freedom. Like magic. Like the kind of Fall that brands itself into memory.
When we finally reach Montreal, the world transforms.
Reverb In The Pines isn’t just a festival. It’s a forested dream brought to life.
A winding dirt road snakes through towering pine trees, their dark silhouettes crowned with fairy lights that glitter like fallen stars. The air is crisp and laced with the scent of cedar, pine, and something warm and sweet—burnt sugar, maybe. Or just anticipation.
As the van creeps deeper, the scene unfolds in bursts of color and music and firelight.
Massive canvas tents stretch between trees—some lit from within like lanterns. Stages bloom from the forest floor, strung with dreamcatchers and vintage rugs. There are hammocks suspended between trunks, food trucks serving wood-fired pizza and gourmet coffee, and open-air bars nestled beneath arched boughs. People dance in the dirt, laugh over fire pits in the dusk, share whispered songs under the stars.
It’s not quite as big as Coachella… but with its different sections, booths and stages among meadows and woodland it makes something special. Like a festival in a fairytale, only the food is better, and the hygiene is… well, its young people drinking booze from wine boxes and plastic cups in the wilds of Northen America.
Our VIP villa sits tucked at the edge of it all—half-hidden behind hanging vines and glowing lanterns, rustic and quiet. Wood and stone meet velvet throws and warm golden light, with a private balcony that overlooks the festival’s beating heart. There’s even a fire pit, already crackling beside two rocking chairs and a bottle of wine waiting on a small table.
Mac yawns as we step out of the van, her eyes wide with wonder.
“It’s… beautiful,” she says softly, her hand sliding into mine.
I press a kiss to her temple. “Not as beautiful as you.”
Inside, the guys are fighting over beds, and someone’s already claimed the minibar, but none of it registers. She’s still holding my hand. Still wearing Braden’s hoodie. Still looking at this place like it’s something out of a dream.
In this moment—just Mac and I and the stars above—I know I’d follow her into any forest, through any fire.
Because loving Mac is like standing in a clearing after the storm—lungs full of air, heart full of light, and the quiet knowing that somehow, against all odds, I made it home.
Mac turns to me with that spark in her eyes—mischief and wonder all rolled into one.
“Let’s go get food and look around!”
I grin, already reaching for her hand. “Hell yes.”
I call back into the villa, “We’re heading out—getting food!”
Chace shouts something about saving him tacos, and Trey yells after us to bring him anything with fries. I just laugh and pull the door shut behind us, the soft click swallowed by the sound of music drifting through the trees.
Out here, everything feels alive.
The pulse of the festival is low and rhythmic, like the earth is breathing beneath our feet. Strings of fairy lights crisscross above us, tangled in the pines. Colored lanterns glow like low-hanging moons. The scent of grilled food, spice, and Fall air is thick and warm, curling around us with every step.
Mac slips her arm around my waist, and I tuck her in close, my hand settling low on her hip as we walk.
We pass through a clearing where people are dancing barefoot, twirling beneath a net of lights and hanging crystals. A soft beat hums through the air—electronic and dreamlike. Around us, festivalgoers lounge in hammocks, sip cocktails from mason jars, and laugh as they light sparklers near the fire pits.
I feel a few heads turn. Eyes widening. A couple of phones lift—quietly. Subtle. No one approaches, but I can tell they know who I am. Who we are.
Some smile when our eyes meet. A few snap photos. But they don’t intrude. They just let us be.
Maybe it’s the vibe here. Or maybe it’s the way I keep Mac so close—my body a clear message that she’s not just a girl I’m with.
