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hiii, you had me panicking girl when you left. glad you’re back and wishing you the best <3 can you please do one with the singer khamari ? probably along the lines of him and the reader being on tour together, getting super close and the fans notice. idk if you know him but i’ve seen no fics of him 😕 thank you !!
on the road.
a khamari fic
summary ~ requested!
includes ~ strangers (kinda) to lovers // singer reader // reader cries a lot // comfort
word count ~ around 3k
a/n ~ i do in fact know who khamari is. i did not expect this request at all, so thank you!
————————————————————————
The first time you met Khamari, he was standing alone in the corner of a rehearsal studio, headphones around his neck, humming something under his breath like the rest of the room didn’t exist.
That was what you noticed first. Not the face, though he was handsome enough to make noticing him feel almost unavoidable. Not the way he carried himself with that calm, quiet confidence that made people look twice. It was the humming.
Soft. Almost careless. Like melody lived in him naturally and slipped out whenever he wasn’t paying attention.
You had just been added as the opening act for the second leg of his tour, which was still wild to think about. One minute, you were posting bedroom covers and small venue clips online, praying somebody would care. The next, your manager was calling you at midnight saying, “How do you feel about going on tour with Khamari?”
You had screamed into a pillow for five minutes.
Now you were standing in the same rehearsal space as him, trying to look like your stomach wasn’t full of butterflies.
His manager introduced you first.
“Khamari, this is her. She’ll be opening for you.”
He looked up then.
And Lord.
His eyes were serious, warm, and unreadable all at once. The kind of eyes that made you feel like he was listening before you even spoke.
You smiled. “Hi.”
He stepped forward and gave you a small, easy smile back. “Hey. I’ve heard your stuff.”
You blinked. “You have?”
“Yeah,” he said. “That acoustic version of 'I Love Lucy' you posted? Wow.”
Your face warmed immediately. “You saw that?”
“More than once.”
That was the first time he caught you off guard.
You expected politeness. Maybe a quick welcome, a nod, some casual industry friendliness before everyone got back to work. But he said it like he meant it. Like he had actually listened, actually remembered, actually cared about the way you sang.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
He nodded. “You ready for tour?”
You looked around the rehearsal room, at the band, the crew, the cables, the cases, the schedule taped to the wall. “Ask me after I survive the first show.”
He laughed, low and quiet, and the sound stayed with you longer than it should have.
The first week of tour was chaos.
Beautiful chaos, but chaos.
Different city every night. Soundcheck. Meet-and-greets. Hotel rooms that all started to look the same. Makeup in poor lighting. Eating dinner at midnight. Losing your lip gloss, finding it in your boot, then losing it again. Sleeping on the bus with your hoodie over your face and waking up not knowing what state you were in.
Khamari was quieter than you expected.
Not shy. Just observant. He didn’t fill space just to fill it. He watched everything, listened to everyone, smiled when something was actually funny. Before shows, he stayed calm, almost still, saving his energy for the stage. But when he performed, everything changed. His voice opened up the room. Smooth, aching, honest. He sang like he was telling secrets he wasn’t sure he should be giving away.
You tried not to watch him too obviously from side stage.
You failed.
The fans noticed before either of you did.
It started small.
At the Atlanta show, someone posted a clip of you standing backstage during his set, eyes fixed on him while he sang. You weren’t doing anything dramatic. Just watching, arms folded, a soft smile on your face. But the caption was enough to start trouble.
Then came another clip from Charlotte, where he stood side stage during your set. You were singing one of your softer songs, eyes closed, hand wrapped around the mic, and the camera caught him in the shadows nodding along with the smallest smile.
After that, fans started looking harder.
They caught him handing you water after soundcheck.
They caught you fixing the collar of his jacket before a post-show photo.
They caught him laughing at something you whispered during a radio station visit.
They caught you asleep on the tour bus with your head leaning against the window, and him quietly reaching over to pull your hood up because the AC was blasting.
Neither of you noticed the pattern at first because, to you, it didn’t feel like a pattern.
It felt like friendship.
At least, that was what you kept calling it.
You and Khamari got close in the in-between moments. Not the stage moments. Not the pretty ones with lights and screaming fans. The small ones. The tired ones.
The two of you started eating together after shows because everyone else was either partying, sleeping, or glued to their phones. Sometimes it was room service in a hotel lobby. Sometimes cold fries in the green room. Sometimes takeout balanced on your knees in the back of the bus while the highway blurred outside.
One night in Chicago, after a show that had left both of you drained, you found him sitting alone on the curb behind the venue, hoodie pulled over his head, face tilted toward the night air.
You stepped outside with two paper cups of tea. “You hiding?”
He looked up. “Resting mysteriously.”
You smiled and handed him one of the cups. “So you're hiding.”
He took the tea with a giggle, fingers brushing yours. “Thank you.”
You sat beside him, close but not touching.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The city hummed around you. Cars passed. Somewhere nearby, a group of fans were still singing one of his songs while walking away from the venue.
He listened, quiet.
“You ever get used to that?” you asked.
“To what?”
“People singing your words back to you.”
He looked down at the cup in his hands. “No. I don’t think I want to.”
You nodded. “Why?”
“If I get used to it, I might stop being grateful.”
That made you look at him.
He glanced over, catching your eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
You shrugged softly. “You’re more sentimental than you look.”
His mouth curved. “What do I look like?”
“Like you pretend not to care about things you definitely care about.”
He laughed under his breath and looked away.
You smiled into your tea.
That was the night something shifted.
Not loudly. Not suddenly. But after that, he started looking for you after every show. You started looking for him too.
If your set went well, his eyes were the first ones you wanted to find. If his voice sounded especially good, you told him before anyone else could. If you got nervous before a big venue, he noticed before your manager did.
In Houston, you stood backstage picking at your nails before your set. The crowd was louder than usual, and your in-ears felt wrong even though nothing was wrong with them.
Khamari appeared beside you. “You good?”
You nodded too fast. “Yeah.”
He tilted his head. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You pick at your nails when you’re nervous.”
You looked down at your hands, annoyed that he had noticed.
He gently caught your wrist, not pulling, just stopping the motion. His thumb brushed once across the back of your hand before he let go.
“You belong here,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“I know.”
“No,” he said, voice softer. “You’re saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
You looked up at him.
The noise of the crowd pulsed through the walls.
His eyes stayed on yours, steady and calm.
“Go sing,” he said. “They’re lucky to hear you.”
You almost cried right there.
Instead, you rolled your eyes because feelings were dangerous. “You always this motivational?”
“Only when you need it.”
“And when I don’t?”
He smiled. “Then I mind my business.”
“You never mind your business.”
“Not with you.”
There it was again.
That almost.
You walked onstage before you could respond.
And you sang better than you had the whole tour.
After Houston, the fan theories got louder.
People started making compilation posts. Little moments. Tiny touches. Him watching you. You watching him. The two of you whispering during backstage interviews. He started commenting on your tour photo dumps with one-word compliments that looked casual if you didn’t know him.
But fans knew.
They always knew.
Under one photo of you leaning against the tour bus in a brown leather jacket, he commented:
voice crazy tonight.
You texted him immediately.
You:
You know people can see comments, right?
Khamari:
That’s usually how comments work.
You:
You’re annoying.
Khamari:
You sounded good.
You:
You could’ve texted that.
Khamari:
I did both.
You stared at your phone, fighting a smile.
Then another message came through.
Khamari:
You looked good too, but I was being respectful.
You threw your phone onto the hotel bed and walked away.
It buzzed again.
Khamari:
You smiling?
You were.
Unfortunately.
The problem was, Khamari was easy to get close to and hard to stay casual about.
He remembered things.
How you liked ginger tea before performing. How you hated when people talked to you right after you got offstage because you needed five minutes to come back into your body. How you always misplaced your lip balm. How you got quiet when you missed home.
In Dallas, you had a bad night.
Not performance-wise. The show was fine. Great, even. But afterward, you got a call from your sister telling you your mother had been crying because she missed you and didn’t want to make you feel guilty. That cracked something in you.
You tried to hold it together until you got to your hotel room.
You almost made it.
Khamari found you in the hallway, standing outside your door with your keycard in your hand, crying silently because it wouldn’t scan.
He didn’t ask too many questions.
He just came over, gently took the keycard from your shaking fingers, and opened the door.
“You want me to go?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head.
So he came in.
You sat on the edge of the bed, face in your hands, embarrassed by the tears you could not stop. Khamari knelt in front of you, giving you space, his hands resting on his knees.
“What happened?” he asked.
You told him.
Not neatly. Not all at once. You talked about your mom, about missing home, about feeling guilty for chasing your dream because it meant leaving people behind. You talked until your voice broke.
Khamari listened.
When you were done, he said, “You’re not leaving them behind.”
You wiped your cheek. “It feels like it.”
“I know.” His voice was gentle. “But you’re carrying them with you.”
Your eyes filled again.
He reached up slowly, giving you time to move away. You didn’t. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, soft and careful.
“You don’t have to be okay every city,” he said.
You let out a shaky laugh. “That’s not how tour works.”
“That’s how being human works.”
You looked at him.
He was so close.
Too close.
His hand was still near your face. His eyes moved over yours, searching, patient, warm.
For one second, you thought he might kiss you.
For one second, you wanted him to.
Then he pulled back.
Not because he didn’t want to. You could tell he did.
Because you were vulnerable, and he was too careful with you to take advantage of that.
That ruined you more than a kiss would have.
He stood and said, “I’m gonna order food. You need to eat.”
You stared at him. “I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You were crying over a keycard. I’m taking over.”
You laughed despite yourself.
His smile softened. “There you go.”
By the next morning, fans knew something had happened.
Not the details. Just that you and Khamari had left the hotel together for soundcheck, and he had your tote bag over his shoulder while you walked beside him wearing sunglasses despite the cloudy weather. When someone called your name, you smiled weakly. Khamari glanced at you first, checking, before he waved at the fans.
That one little look became everybody’s evidence.
A week later, the two of you were asked about it during a joint interview.
The interviewer smiled too knowingly. “Fans have been saying you two have great chemistry on tour.”
You froze.
Khamari, sitting beside you, looked down with a small smile.
You cleared your throat. “We’re both artists. I think when you’re on the road together, you naturally build trust.”
“Mm-hmm,” the interviewer said.
You smiled professionally.
Khamari looked over at you, amused. “That’s a good answer.”
You cut your eyes at him. “Thank you.”
The interviewer laughed. “So just trust?”
Khamari leaned back, still smiling. “Trust is important.”
You wanted to kick him under the table.
He knew it too.
That night, after the show, you found him in the green room tuning a guitar he didn’t need to tune. Everyone else had gone to loadout. The room was quiet except for the low sound of strings.
You stood in the doorway. “You enjoyed that interview too much.”
He looked up. “Which part?”
“Khamari.”
He smiled. “What?”
“You know what fans are saying.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“And what?”
You crossed your arms. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
He set the guitar down slowly. “Does it bother you?”
That question sat between you.
You wanted to say yes because yes was safer. Yes meant boundaries. Yes meant you could both pretend this was just tour closeness, just circumstance, just two artists getting emotionally confused because buses and green rooms and late nights made everything feel more intimate.
But the truth came out quieter.
“No.”
His expression softened.
“It doesn’t bother me either,” he said.
Your heart started acting stupid.
He stood and walked toward you, stopping close enough that you had to tilt your head back a little.
“I don’t want to play with you,” he said.
You looked up at him.
“I know this tour is intense,” he continued. “I know feelings get weird on the road. But this doesn’t feel weird to me. It feels like…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Like I’m myself more when you’re around.”
Your chest tightened.
“That’s a risky thing to say.”
“I know.”
“You still said it.”
“Because it’s true.”
The room went very still.
For a second, neither of you moved. His hand was still near your chin, your eyes still locked on his, and all the noise from the venue seemed to disappear behind the door.
“You feel it too?” he asked.
You could have lied.
You didn’t.
“Yes.”
His breath shifted.
That one word changed everything.
Khamari’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted back to yours, slow enough to give you space, close enough to make your heart forget what it was supposed to be doing. You didn’t step back. If anything, you leaned in first, just barely, but enough.
Enough for him to know.
His hand slid gently to your waist, and then he kissed you.
Soft at first. Careful, but not hesitant. Like he had been thinking about it for weeks and still wanted to savor the exact second it became real. Your hand rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath your palm, and he exhaled against your mouth like he had finally let go of something he’d been carrying all tour.
When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You smiled faintly. “You ask me that a lot.”
“You make me want to make sure.”
That did something to your heart.
After that, everything changed and nothing changed.
You didn’t announce anything. You didn’t make it a spectacle. But you stopped pretending so hard.
He held your hand when you were walking through quiet backstage halls. You rested your head on his shoulder during long bus rides. He started showing up at your hotel door with tea without needing a reason. You started stealing his hoodies and giving them back smelling like your perfume, which he complained about exactly zero times.
Onstage, the chemistry became impossible to hide.
During the last song of your set, he came out to surprise the crowd, singing harmony with you. The audience screamed so loudly you almost missed your cue. You looked over at him, laughing, and he smiled back at you like he forgot anyone else was there.
That was the moment fans knew for sure.
Because when the bridge came, he stepped closer, eyes locked on yours, voice wrapping around your melody, and you had to look away before you smiled too hard.
Backstage, after the song, you shoved his shoulder.
“You did that on purpose.”
He laughed. “Did what?”
“You looked at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you had no sense.”
His grin widened. “Maybe I don’t.”
“Khamari.”
He caught your hand before you could walk away and pulled you lightly back toward him.
“You mad?” he asked.
“No.”
“Embarrassed?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
You gasped. “Good?”
“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And yet.”
You tried not to smile.
Failed.
By the final night of tour, the entire crew knew. The band knew. Your managers knew. The fans knew. Honestly, the only people acting like it was still subtle were you and him.
The last show was in Los Angeles, and the energy was different from the moment you stepped inside the venue. Bigger crowd. More cameras. Industry people. Friends. Family. Everyone emotional because the tour was ending.
You were emotional too, though you tried to hide it.
Khamari found you before your set, standing alone in a hallway, staring at nothing.
“You good?” he asked.
You laughed softly. “There’s that question.”
He leaned against the wall beside you. “It’s my thing now.”
“I’m okay. Just sad.”
“Because tour’s ending?”
You nodded.
He looked at you for a second. “You think this ends when tour ends?”
You turned to him.
He looked serious now.
Not nervous exactly. Just honest.
“I don’t want this to be something we leave on the road,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“You don’t?”
“No.” He reached for your hand. “I want to see you in normal places too. Grocery stores. Studios. Your couch. My kitchen. Wherever. I don’t just want the tour version of you.”
Your eyes softened.
“What if the regular version is less glamorous?”
He smiled. “I’ve seen you cry about hotel keycards.”
You groaned. “You promised not to bring that up.”
“I did not.”
“You should’ve.”
He laughed, then pulled you closer.
“I like all versions,” he said softly.
You looked up at him, heart full.
“Me too,” you whispered.
The final show felt like a celebration and a goodbye all at once. You sang your heart out. Khamari watched from the side like he always did, arms crossed, eyes soft. When his set came, you watched him from the same place, mouthing lyrics you knew by heart now.
Near the end, before his last song, he paused and looked toward the side stage.
Toward you.
“I’ve had somebody on this tour who made every city feel a little less lonely,” he said into the mic.
The crowd immediately started screaming.
Your eyes widened.
He smiled, looking down for a second before continuing.
“She’s one of the most talented people I know. And she reminded me that music is better when you have somebody to share the quiet parts with too.”
Your hand flew to your mouth.
The band started playing the opening chords.
Then he looked right at you and said, “Come sing with me.”
The crowd lost it.
You walked out, trying not to cry, and took the mic one of the crew handed you. When you reached him, he smiled at you like the whole room could disappear and he would be fine as long as you stayed.
The song was soft.
Soulful.
The kind of song that felt like midnight conversations and hotel hallways and hands brushing in the dark. Your voices blended perfectly, his low and warm, yours smooth and aching. Halfway through, he turned toward you fully, singing like every word belonged to you.
You almost forgot to sing back.
When the song ended, the applause was thunderous.
Khamari took your hand.
Just for a second.
But he didn’t let go quickly.
And neither did you.
Backstage after the show, you barely made it two steps before he pulled you into his arms. You laughed into his chest, emotional and overwhelmed, while the crew cheered around you.
“You did amazing,” he murmured into your hair.
“So did you.”
He pulled back, hands still at your waist. “You crying?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Mind your business.”
He smiled. “You are my business.”
That made you roll your eyes, but your heart folded in on itself.
A few days later, when the tour was officially over, you woke up in your own bed for the first time in months.
No bus. No hotel. No call time.
Just quiet.
At first, it felt good.
Then it felt too quiet.
You checked your phone and found a message from Khamari.
Khamari:
Feels weird not knowing what city we’re in.
You smiled.
You:
You’re in LA.
Khamari:
You sure?
You:
Pretty sure.
Khamari:
I miss you.
You stared at the words, warmth spreading through your chest.
No stage. No crowd. No tour bubble.
Still there.
You:
You saw me two days ago.
Khamari:
And?
You laughed softly.
Then another message came through.
Khamari:
Dinner tonight? Normal place. No backstage. No tour bus. Just us.
You bit your lip, smiling.
You:
Just us sounds nice.
And it did.
Because somewhere between soundcheck and sunrise, between hotel hallways and side-stage glances, between fans noticing what you were both too scared to name, Khamari had become more than the person you shared a tour with.
He had become the person you looked for when the lights went down.
The person who knew when you needed tea, silence, food, or a hand to hold.
The person who made every city feel warmer.
And now that the tour was over, you realized something.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
