beyoncaholic 🌺

The first moment that you saw Noel Gallagher, you were hooked. Well, as hooked as an eleven year old girl could be in Manchester. 

It all started when he walked into your father’s music shop, instruments of all kind lining the storefront, but only the acoustic guitar on the left hand corner of the display ever caught his eye. You were sat on the counter, a lollipop between your teeth as your older brother manned the register — manned being a generous term considering he was just flipping through a rag, bored out of his mind and probably just craving a smoke. 

Noel had blonde hair then, the strands darker at the roots, foretelling that someday, his hair will be dark as oak and utterly bewitching. But ill-suited blonde hair aside, he immediately caught your eye. There weren’t many boys your age walking into your dad’s shop, most of them just interested in playing footie ‘til they were blue in the face. It was often old men and teenage girls that you saw perusing the aisles. Which is why your spine immediately straightened when the bell above the shop door tinkled and Noel came walking in. 

Behind you, your brother snorted, sensing your sudden shift in mood. “Looks like someone has a crush,” he teased, pinching your hip. 

You yelped and swatted him away. “Jacob,” you whined. “Stop,” you tried to sound stern but failed as Noel turned his head and met your eyes. They were the clearest blue you’ve ever seen, glimmering in the afternoon sunlight hitting the shop windows at the perfect angle to make it seem like he was glowing. Your cheeks heated as you gave him a small smile. And to the relief of your tiny heart, he smiled back. 

“How cute,” your brother drawled, putting his feet up on the counter and blessedly resuming reading his magazine. 

But you couldn’t care less, that one moment solidified it for you. That first day you met Noel Gallagher, you flipped. It didn’t matter that he didn’t buy a single thing, leaving abruptly after staring at the acoustic guitar on display for what seemed like hours when who you supposed was his little brother came busting through the doors, chanting Noely! Noely! Noely! C’mon!, pulling on Noel’s shirt sleeves and causing a ruckus throughout the shop. Because you knew that there was something about him, something in his bright blue eyes, in the way he tried so hard not to reach for the strings of the guitar, in the way he smiled at you. 

And you probably would have been fine had that been the last time your paths crossed. You would have eventually forgotten about the boy with the blonde hair and blue eyes, with his hands aching for a guitar. But Noel kept coming back. 

Sometimes you’d fool yourself in thinking that he came to the shop for you. It was a fantasy of a girl with her first ever crush, daydreaming on the cashier countertop all summer long, waiting for Noel to drop by like he always did. 

And just like clockwork, Noel always strode in, quiet and calm. He always stood in front of the same acoustic guitar, hands clenched at his sides as if restraining himself from reaching out. Then, like being woken from a dream, he’d vanish off into the afternoon. Sometimes with a polite nod to you and your brother, but mostly without any acknowledgment at all. 

“What a weird kid,” your brother mumbled one day, head buried in another magazine. You whipped around, brows knit in offense, ready to defend Noel. 

“No, he’s not!” you valiantly argued. “He’s just sensitive!”

Your brother scoffed. “Sensitive. You’ve barely even spoken a word to the kid,” he argued. “And I bet the reason you’re so scared to talked to him is because you know he’s weird.”

“He’s not weird!” you nearly shrieked. You huffed petulantly, putting on a brave face, you said, “I’ll show you who’s scared!”

So the next few days were dedicated to daydreams about what you’ll say to Noel. And more importantly, what Noel will say to you. Maybe he’ll complement the dress you’re wearing, maybe he’ll ask to borrow the guitar to serenade you, maybe he’ll go and ask you for some ice cream in the shop across from your father’s, maybe you could take him to your special spot up on the branches of the sycamore tree near the field. For days, you sat and pondered what could come of an interaction with Noel. 

That was until Noel finally appeared, wearing simple jeans and a nice jacket that you thought was the cutest. It wasn’t until then that you remembered that you’ve never actually talked to a boy who wasn’t your brother, let alone a boy that you liked. 

“Never buys anythin’” your brother grumbled as Noel walked in and began to stare at the guitar again. 

“Don’t be mean,” you scolded Jacob. 

He rolled his eyes in response. “Whatever, kid,” he said. “You gonna talk to the lad or what?”

It was precisely at that point that you knew that you hadn’t a clue what to say to him. All that daydreaming spent in vain, nothing to show for it as you said, “Welcome to Ed’s Music Box, what can I get ‘ya?” The words rushed out your mouth like a waterfall tumbling to a lake. They were the first words you thought of, your usual script for customers. You didn’t even spice it up, just the same old words. You felt stupid. Your one chance to talk to the boy you’ve been dreaming of, and you blow it. 

Noel blinked his blue eyes at you. “Uh,” he said, his voice higher than you thought it would be. You resisted a giggle at the fact that this somehow still counted as him talking to you. “Nothin’. Jus’ lookin’”

“Oh,” you said before pivoting. You’ve worked in this shop since you could talk. You knew how to charm a customer. Maybe a charming a boy wouldn’t be so different from that. “Well, d’ya know that you could actually take that guitar down and give it a play? I’m sure you’ll be amazing!”

Instead of the enthusiasm you expected from the boy who’s been coming in just to stare at the acoustic guitar display, Noel shrunk into himself. “I don’t know how,” he mumbled, eyes on the ground and feet ready to skitter away. 

You were awful at this, you decided then, grasping at straws to keep the conversation alive. You were even all too aware of Jacob’s eyes on your back and the laugh that he’s sure to have been holding this entire time. “We give lessons,” you said brightly. “Well, my dad and Jacob do,” you corrected before pointing to the counter where Jacob was staring right at you two. “I’m sure you’ll be a fast learner.”

Noel was red in the face now, hackles raised high in defense. “I don’t really have money for that.”

You paused. “Huh,” you said. You stupidly hadn’t thought of that. The heat in your cheeks was amplifying now, the embarassment growing tenfold the more you made a fool out of yourself. Still, you hadn’t backed down. “That’s okay, Noel. Some of these guitars have been here ages. I’m sure that when you grow up and save some money, they’ll still be here.”

Noel sputtered. “How d’ya know my name?” he asked, taking a mortifying step away from you.

Your eyes widened. Your mouth had betrayed you, running itself into the ground before you could even think about it. Because Noel had never told you his name. You only heard it once from a younger kid who was tugging on his shirtsleeves and chanting his name in a high voice. You tried to salvage it. “You’re here a lot,” you say. “And Ed’s Music Box values their customers.”

“Right,” said Noel warily. 

“And your brother once came in here calling you that,” you tacked on. 

“Okay,” he said slowly, eyeing you with a bit of suspicion. Now you’ve gone and done it. Jacob won’t let you hear the end of this now. “Well, I gotta go.”

“Oh,” you breathed. And before you could say see ya! Noel was already scampering out the door. 

You thankfully don’t see Noel for a while after that. And it wasn’t until weeks later, when Jacob finally slowed with his teasing that he told you on one of the last days of summer, “Noel’s family moved away.” Jacob had his feet up on the counter again, his trainers dirtying the surface as he crossed them at the ankle. You were too busy staring at the scuff marks on the counter to realize what he just said. 

“Wait,” you said, shaking your head. “Moved away?” you asked, your heart sinking. Had it been because of your weird encounter? Had he told his parents that the girl at the music shop knew his name when he hadn’t even told her? Had something bad happened to him? Will you ever see him again?

Jacob nodded. “Sorry, kid,” he said. “Heard it at the pub. Somethin’ about wanting to get away from their old man.”

Well, you couldn’t really blame them. You were far from a sheltered kid, growing up in the neighborhood you were in. You’ve heard countless stories, seen different friends move for the same reason, had heard shouting from your neighbors on different occasions. You were sad to see Noel go but … “I hope he’s okay,” you whispered, eyes on the acoustic guitar he used to always admire. “Wherever he is.”

Jacob pat your shoulder, an awkward brotherly gesture that only a teenager like him could manage, then went back to flipping through his magazine. The moment was over for him, but for you, you still couldn’t stop thinking about Noel. 

So much so that you even thought you had conjured him up on the last day of summer, Noel Gallagher standing right where he used to stand, under the display of acoustic guitars. But this time, he was reaching for one. 

“He’s here!” you whispered excitedly to Jacob. “He’s here! Pinch me, Jake!”

Your brother didn’t hesitate, pinching you hard on the hip. “Pipe down, kid. Or else we’ll have a repeat of last time.”

You lowered your gaze, embarrassed. “Don’t remind me,” you whined. 

He huffed, starting to stand up. “Stay here,” he warned, pointing to where you were seated on the counter. “Gonna help the lad with the guitar before he breaks it.”

“No, he won’t!” you managed to whisper shout at your brother before he jogged over to Noel. You watched as the two of them spoke, Jacob’s gentleness paired with Noel’s caginess. Your brother took the guitar from Noel’s hands, his stance careful as he lifted it off the hanging display and handed it to Noel with wary fingers. Then, he whispered something to Noel that, mortifyingly had Noel’s eyes shooting straight to yours. 

And when he finally made his way to the counter, guitar gripped tightly by the neck in one hand, a wad of cash on the other, you introduced yourself. “I realized I never told you my name,” you laughed, feeling silly. “So now we’re even! I know your name, you know mine!”

Noel only smiled slightly, handing over the cash to Jacob before turning back to you. “Nice to meet you,” he said quietly.

You could have leapt with joy. “You haven’t been around much,” you said. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

Noel didn’t take his eyes off his new guitar as he spoke this time. “We moved to a new neighborhood. The council estates, actually. So we’ve been a bit busy.”

Just a few neighborhoods away. You shared a look with Jacob who raised a matching brow with you. “Well, I hope you’ll still drop by!” you said, enthusiastically, swinging your legs on the countertop. “Now that you have your guitar and all, you’ll gonna need us for strings, an’that!”

Noel smiled at you as your brother handed him the receipt. “Maybe,” he said, before walking out the shop with a different pep in his step than there was when he came in. 

“How dreamy,” you sighed as soon as Noel was out of sight. 

Behind you, Jacob snorted. You pushed his feet off the counter for his troubles, uncaring. Noel was back.

You couldn’t have asked for a better end to your summer. The sunlight poked out its rare rays of sun, Jacob took you out for a cone of strawberry ice cream as soon as your shift ended, and your parents prepared your favorite meal for you that night. It was a day filled with so much smiles that your cheeks were still aching by the time you had to ride your bike to the bus stop the next day. You couldn’t be deterred; you were determined to have the best first day in school.

So while your schoolmates were all pulling at their uniforms with frowns on their faces and grumbling complaints leaving their mouths, you pushed yourself up and off your bike, locked it securely on the rack, and immediately began climbing the sycamore tree right beside the bus stop.

Like summer knew it’s time was over, the sun had disappeared beneath a thick set of clouds, casting Manchester with the familiar grey that everyone knew. Your legs worked themselves up the strong branches of the tree, your arms pulling your weight up and up and up until you had reached the tiny v-shaped nook in between two branches; a spot that fit you just right every single time.

The first time you had climbed this tree, you were eight years old and your kite had just flown right into the sycamore tree’s bright green leaves. You remembered looking around, trying to see if there was anyone you knew that you could ask for help, but all you saw were a bunch of stragglers with their walkman clipped to their belts and headphones placed firmly in their ears. So you shrugged, pushed your sleeves up, and began climbing. 

You weren’t very good at it those first few times you climbed. You always came out with a bunch of scrapes that you often showed off like scars from a war well fought. But that first time was the worst; you had fallen around six times, every time flat on your ass. But each time, you got up and you tried again. And you wrre glad you did. Because not only did you get your kite back, but you saw a view of Manchester that you had never seen before.

Your neighborhood was often loud and overfamiliar. You had long since memorized every inch of it and had spent most of your life trying to find a place for yourself. Your dad’s music shop was home, yes — but it wasn’t just yours. 

The tree, on the other hand? That was the first place you could have ever called yours.

Since then, the sycamore tree beside the bus stop became your sanctuary, with a beautiful view of the city that made you feel like you’ve never seen it before. 

And most useful:

“Five blocks away!” You called down to your schoolmates, spotting the bus getting nearer and nearer. They all grumbled vaguely in response.

You kept your eyes trained on the bus moving swiftly through the different stops. “Four blocks away!” You called every single turn, every single brake, every single stop the bus made until it was a corner away and you had to climb swiftly back down, your body now familiar with every foothold and every branch.

You wiped your palms off and smiled at your schoolmates, anticipating the seconds before the bus arrives. “Great job,” your friend, Lily said as you took your spot right beside her. “You’re so great at climbing up that tree,” she gushed.

You smiled at her, bumping her shoulder with yours in a friendly gesture. “You could be too if you’d let me take you up there.”

She grimaced, her body giving an overdramatic shiver as she said, “No thanks. No heights for me.”

You giggled. “Best keep our feet on the ground, yeah?” And just on time, the bus finally arrived in front of you. 

The whole school routine was like clockwork to you now. You had memorized every moving part and every gear that made the clock tick. Which is why you clambered up the bus like muscle memory, Lily close behind you as you spot your usual seat. You had a habit of settling in the middle row’s window seat so much so that it had become second nature for you to seek it out. Only for life to throw a curveball at you today and place Noel Gallagher in your seat instead.

“Noel?” you gasped, eyes widening and feet planted even as students pushed past you on the aisle. “Is that really you?” 

Noel turned from where he was gazing out the window to blink up ay you. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

You nearly squealed, your face splitting into a smile that could beat all smiles. “It’s me!” you squeaked. “I can’t believe we’re schoolmates now!”

Noel smiled politely, “Mum said it was closer than me old school.” He shrugged.

“It must be a tough change, huh?” you asked sympathetically. 

Noel shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “My old school was shite.”

It was your turn to blink soundlessly at him, but you forged on awkwardly. “Well, I hope you don’t think our school is shite,” you said. “Listen, I promised my best friend that I’d sit with her on the bus. But if you want —”

Noel shook is head, turning to put his gaze back on the window. “Nah,” he declined. “I’m alright.”

You smiled at him. “You’re free to join us at lunch, though.”

Noel returned your tiny smile. “Thanks.”

You were beaming all the way to school, all through first period, all through your science class, all the way to lunch where you were sitting at your usual table with Lily, giggling about frogs and mushrooms when you spotted Noel with a group of boys. 

“Looks like he found friends!” you exclaimed happily to Lily. 

She laughed. “You really like him, huh,” she said. “Doesn’t even matter to you if he sits with us for lunch as long as he’s not alone.”

You shrugged. “I hear he’s been through a lot,” you said. “I just wanna make sure he’s doing good.”

Lily kept laughing. “And you just might have a crush on him.”

You groaned playfully. “Lily, shut up!”

It was true. Your crush on Noel was something that wasn’t easily concealable. Every class that you two shared, you spent staring at the back of his head. Every lunch period you’d have, you’d look for Noel to make sure he had someone with him. Everytime you saw him in the halls, you’d greet him with a chipper hello that he returned with a bit of reluctance. To your delight, sometimes he’d even drop by after school to your dad’s shop for some extra gear. Those days were always thrilling. You’d be doing your homework on the counter, still halfway in your uniform when Noel would walk in, nod at you, and go and peruse the shelves. Your spine would straighten as you watched his next move with anticipation. As always, he’d take his time with  what he’s buying, plop it carefully on the counter, take a few quid out his jacket, then ask stiffly, How’s it goin’?

Those words always made you brighten up the entirety of Manchester. 

You were so deep into your infatuation for Noel that throughout the school year, everyone in your class knew the candle you held for the boy. You blushed anytime people made kissy faces whenever you and Noel were stood next to each other, you sputtered when people started singing about kissing in trees. Your brother was no exception, he’d take the teaisng back home where your mum and dad would exchange amused glances and coo about their baby growing up too fast. 

But through all of the mortification, Noel still had you utterly flipped. And that was just the beginning of it. 

***

At sixteen years old, many things have changed. The laundromat across your father’s music shop has been replaced with a small grocery shop, Jacob had finished his A-Levels and started working for the construction company across town, and you were about to finish secondary school. 

But one thing that hasn’t changed?

“Noel!” you called out to the boy pedalling slightly in front of you, his bike taking him in the direction of the bus stop. “Slow down!” you cried, your legs — longer than they had been when you first met Noel, pedalling as hard as they could. 

“We’re gonna be late!” he yelled back without looking at you. 

You kept the back of his head within eyesight. That was another change; where you would once stare at Noel’s wispy blonde hair was a dark mass of thick hair that began to grow once Noel had hit the fourteen year old mark a couple years back. It had freaked you out a bit when you saw him with his hair darkened, but once you got out of your initial shock, you found how much it suited him. 

“No we’re not!” you said as you rounded the last corner, the bus still not in sight. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Noel groaned, braking his bike and chaining it to the rungs near the bus stop. “Whatever,” he said, slightly out of breath as you parked right next to him. 

“See?” you said triumphantly, a giggle almost escaping your lips.”

Noel rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said again. “Go up to your tree, c’mon now.”

You gave him a mock salute before climbing nimbly up the tree, faster than you ever have in the years prior, your arms and legs now used to the struggle as you placed yourself in the familiar nook between branches and breathed in the clean morning air. 

Five years have gone past since you first met Noel, five years have passed and your heart still did funny flips whenever he was around. Everything in Manchester had changed, everything but your crush on him. And you were sixteen now, old enough to not squirm at the mention of romance, old enough to be in love, and old enough to have your first kiss. And all you knew was that Noel Gallagher was walking around with your first kiss, and you were damn well taking it. 

You peered down at him from between the branches separating you two and saw him speaking to some of your classmates. You smiled, how cute. Then, you turned your eyes back to the road, trying to spot your bus. 

You found it, as you always did in the years that have passed. Though, this time... “Huh,” you breathed. Behind the bus was a bulldozer roaring along the streets of Manchester. You had never seen equipment that big be brought into your neighborhood. In the city, sure. But where you lived? Not that much. You wondered where it was headed, what it was gonna do, following with your eyes as it tailed behind your bus. 

“Five blocks away!” you called down. The familiar vague murmuring of students came back up to you in the trees. 

The bus got closer, and so did the bulldozer. Maybe they’re about to start construction on a new building? You’d have to ask Jacob if he knew anything about that later at home. “Four blocks away!” you called. 

You trained your eyes on the bus, your legs swinging calmly in the branches as you called every stop and every turn. “On the corner!” you called again, about to climb back down when the bus stopped in front of the students, and the bulldozer did too. 

That was when your heart sank. 

Not only was there a bulldozer, but there were about a dozen men with different equipment; shovels, jackhammers, saws. It was then that you understood what was happening. 

“Come on! We’ll be late!” Lily called out to you from below. 

But you couldn’t move, the men were closing in on your tree, surveying it like a pig made for slaughter before looking up and catching your eye. “Oi!” one of the men called out to you. “You! Little girl! Get down from there!”

You shook your head. “What are you gonna do to my tree?”

The man scoffed. “You’re tree? Ya got a deed there, sweetheart?” he laughed, so did his other men. 

You reddened, but dug your heels in. “Are you gonna chop it down?” you cried. In your periphery, you can see a few students milling around and staring at the blatant scene you were making. “Huh? Are you gonna chop it down?” you called out again. 

The man sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Yeah, we are,” he said. Your heart could have cracked in two. Somewhere you heard Lily gasp. “Which is why you need to get down from there, sweetheart.”

“No!” you yelled, your voice cracking embarrassingly as tears wet your vision. Anything but your place, anything but your sanctuary. “And stop calling me that!”

To add to matters, the bus started honking. “Get in!” the driver yelled. 

You shook your head stubbornly, your hair whipping wildly. “Everyone,” you called out to your schoolmates desperately. “Everyone! Get up here! They can’t take the tree down if we’re all up here!”

The pit in your stomach became a whole the size of a crater when people just shook their head and went in the bus, not one of them sparing you another glance. 

“Please!” you pleaded. “You guys!” You locked eyes with Lily, who already had one foot on the steps of the bus, her eyes filled with conflict. You knew that if you kept her here instead of letting her go to school that her mother would have a field day with her. She had told you before about her strict mother and her apathetic father, the rules she had to obey, and the life she had to lead. So you met her eyes and nodded slightly, a small sign that it was okay for her to get on that bus and leave you. “It’s okay,” you mouthed as she smiled at you. 

“C’mon, kid!” the construction man yelled. “We need to finish this by today.”

“No!” you yelled back, before turning to the handful of schoolmates still outside the bus. “Guys, please! If we’re all here together, they won’t cut the tree down!”

Like sand slipping from your fingers, they all left with apologetic glances. Until all that was left was …

“Noel,” you pleaded with him. “If you could just get up here, the two of us could stop them from cutting down the tree. C’mon, Noel!”

Noel sighed, looking between you and the bus. You could see the gears turning in his head, could see what decision he was about to choose. 

“Noel! Please!” you cried, tears blurring your vision now. 

You felt your heart break as Noel clambered up the bus without another word, the doors slamming shut behind him as the bus left in a flurry of dust and smoke. 

“No,” you sobbed pathetically, eyes swiping aggressively at your face as you wiped your tears away haphazardly. “Not my tree.”

“Sorry, kid,” the construction man said from below as you curled into yourself high above him. “You’re gonna have to get down now.”

That was the worst start of the summer you could have ever asked for.

Everything after that was a blur. You don’t remember putting up a stubborn front up in the tree for hours, you don’t remember the small town reporters swarming the tree and taking pictures, you don’t remember Jacob coming up a ladder to get you down, and you don’t remember the ride home in his truck as you cried your eyes out. 

But what you do remember is the fact that your tree was gone.

You refused to pass by the road where your sycamore tree used to be, the sight of the stump would have brought in a fresh wave of tears that you didn’t want to deal with again. You’ve had enough of being recognized as the tree girl for a lifetime. 

So you put your mind to other things like manning your dad’s shop, playing a bit of piano when no one’s watching you tinker with the store products, helping your dad paint his newest collection of paintings, learning how to take care of your mom’s car, and taking care of your chickens. 

Back when you were twelve, you had the great idea of showing the entirety of your science fair the miracle of life. You shone a light on the eggs, did your research on how chicks were made and born, and brought five eggs to school just in time for them to hatch in front of everyone and their mothers. You had won the science fair then and had gained five chickens to take are of in one fell swoop. 

You had Flash, Bang, Clang, Zing, and Kapow, all names lifted from Jacob’s comic books which endlessly amused him since he couldn’t even tell each chicken from the other in the way you could. 

You tried to spend your summer away from the misery you felt at the fact that your tree was gone because after all, you don’t think that wasting away would be a way of honoring your tree. So you kept busy, doing bits and bobs here and there for your family, your friends, your neighbors, and most recently, the Gallaghers.

You discovered one day that their house was en route to one of your egg deliveries after catching Noel throwing out the trash. You had waved at him then from the vantage of your bike but he must not have seen you since he turned back and went inside. 

It was then that you thought well, we have enough eggs to spare. You loved your chickens, you really did. But if you had to eat an omelette again, you would lose your mind. So yeah, you could stand to lose a few eggs to give away.

Which is why the next week, you loaded up your bike basket with one more carton of eggs that you put in with considerably more care than the others. So you cycled through the city, to Mrs. Pullman who cooed and pinched your cheeks like she always did when you delivered her eggs, to Mr. Tran who stoically nodded at you before paying you with a generous tip he never acknowledged, to Mrs. Hartt who shuffled out in her robe after ten minutes of waiting on her stoop, all the way to Ms. McHenley whose dog would not stop barking at you, then circling around to Mr. Pomney who never tipped in cash but always in spare danishes that you ate for breakfast on the way to the Gallaghers.

One hand on the handlebar, you munched on your blueberry danish and kept your eye steadfastly on the road, the sunlight peeking through the heavy clouds and lighting your way as your heart beat loudly in your chest.

Giving Noel’s family a dozen fresh eggs for free was hardly a declaration of love. But your hands shook ever so slightly as you rounded the corner and stopped right in front of their front path, knees knocking together as you walked to the front door and gave a shaky knock.

“Hello,” you greeted Noel as he opened the door. Up until then, you hadn’t realized what you’d do if one of Noel’s brothers or Noel’s mum had opened the door instead of him. Pretended to have the wrong house? Sell them some eggs? Tell them you’re a friend of Noel’s who wants to give them free eggs? Either way, you were glad it was him who opened the door. 

“Hey?” said Noel, the end of his sentence catching like a question. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Oh, I saw you in the neighborhood last week while riding my bike. I have a bunch of chickens at home — y’know, the ones from the science fair a few years back?” you asked, Noel nodded. “Well, they’ve been popping out eggs like crazy and I can’t stand to eat another omelette again so I wanted to give you this!” You pushed the carton of eggs to his chest, which he catched with ease, his fingers brushing against yours in an electric current of energy. 

“Thanks,” Noel said, nodding appreciatively, carton of eggs clutched to his chest. “Appreciate it.” 

You smiled at him, toothy and giddy. “Well, I better be off! The morning is still young!” 

You were skipping down the path when Noel called out, “How’re you doing with the whole tree thing, by the way?” he asked. 

With your back to him, you winced. You had nearly forgotten all about your tree. “I’m doing better,” you said carefully, turning around to meet his eyes which shifted around in discomfort. “Trying to do something with myself instead of moping around.”

Noel nodded. “‘M’sorry, by the way,” he called, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched. “That I didn’t help you, I mean.”

Your lip wobbled, the memory of Noel turning his back on you flashing in your mind. “It’s okay,” you said, your voice cracking and betraying your evident not-okayness.

Noel frowned and shook his head. “I was just … worried, I guess,” he admitted, his feet shuffling as he stood by the door, eggs still in hand. “About what people would think.”

It was your turn to frown. You had never thought Noel would be so conscious of something like that. You always thought that he was so cool and unbothered. “What people think don’t matter as much as what you think, Noel,” you said, smiling comfortingly at the boy. 

“I guess,” he grumbled. 

“I know,” you grinned at him before turning back to

mount your bike. “See ya, Noel-y!”

You sped away in a flurry, knees nearly bumping into each other with how fast you pedalled home, marched to your bed, and squealed into your pillow. 

From then on, Monday deliveries were your favorite day. You cycled through your usual customers, accepting cheek pinches, danishes, barking dogs, and tips in a haze just to get to Noel’s door with a jolly knock and a happy Hello!

And it was Noel who greeted you every time, something you were always giddy about. He always answered after just a few knocks, greeted you with a polite smile, and asked after your chickens. You answered with grace, asked what they cooked with the eggs, and cycled away with a giggle. 

His mum had enjoyed the eggs he said, had cooked many a meal for him and his brothers with them. That fact made your heart soar for days. 

So you continued, adding a spare dozen eggs to your delivery batch each week just to see Noel on the front door waiting for you.

Mondays became a highlight for you because of Noel’s delivery. It never failed to brighten your day, and it always put a giggle past your lips.

Which was why your heart was beating a mile a minute in your chest as you waved goodbye to Noel one morning after a delivery, cycling away with practiced ease and a giddy smile. It was the reason for your distraction, the reason why you had forgotten the delivery basket you had brought with you today and the fact that you left it at the Gallaghers’ front stoop. And well, any reason to go back and see Noel was a reason you’d take. So you doubled back and cycled the short ride back only for your heart to break in half as you saw Noel taking out the trash, the carton of eggs placed firmly inside the bin. 

You couldn’t make sense of it. Was he just throwing away the carton? He must be. “Noel?” you asked softly. “What’re you doing?” 

Noel nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus,” he hissed, hand to his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

You didn’t have it in you to tease him this time. “What did you throw out?” Noel flushed, suddenly not meeting your eyes. And that was when you understood. You were optimistic, you were bright-eyed, you were giddy, but you weren’t stupid. The bright red of his cheeks paired with the nervous rub of his hand against the back of his neck told the tale. “Have …” your voice broke. “Have you been throwing away my eggs?”

Noel sighed heavily, “Please listen,” he pleaded. Your stomach dropped. It was true. All this time, you had prepared your eggs, had cycled all the way to his house, had been happy at the fact that you see Noel just for him to not give a single damn. “It’s just that me brothers … they asked me where the eggs came from. And I told them what you told me.”

You nodded stiffly for him to continue, arms crossed defensively on your chest. 

“And they told me that it’s not really … clean. To eat from backyard chickens, d’ya know what I mean?”

You didn’t know what he meant. Your lip trembled. You felt so stupid. “What?” 

“I’m sorry,” Noel said apologetically. “But we don’t know where the eggs have been and if you could really eat ‘em. They might be baby chicks or summat in there —“

“Baby chicks?” you cried. “I’ll have you know, Noel Gallagher that I sell these damn eggs all around the goddamn neighborhood. Mr. Tran says they’re the best eggs in Manchester, Mrs. Godlean tips me ten quid just for how rich the eggs come out, Mr. Pomney gives me free breakfast for delivering the eggs. All this time I’ve been giving you these eggs away for free and you just … throw them away because you think they’re dirty?”

Noel stood silently, admonished by your outburst. “‘M’sorry,” he mumbled. “I just didn’t know.”

“Then why didn’t you ask?” you snapped.

“Well, I could hardly ask you if your yard is dirty, can I know?” 

You doubled back in shock, your voice lowering as you asked, “What’d you say?”

Noel blinked at your dangerous tone, one that he had never heard from you and never expected to turn on him. “I just —“ he tried, searching for words that won’t make you storm off. “Your house ain’t exactly the cleanest in the block.”

You gasped in shock. “What the fuck?”

Noel’s eyes widened. He had never heard you curse before. “I’m sorry. It’s a dumb thing but —“

“It absolutely is a dumb thing, Noel!” you yelled, uncaring of the scene you were most likely making. “It’s so fuckin’ dumb!” you sobbed, humiliated by it all. Humiliated by Noel Gallagher, of all people.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

You sniffled, wiping your tears away. “Whatever.”

Noel stepped hesitantly closed, pausing before wrapping his arms around you while you stood stoically with your arms by your sides. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You scoffed wetly. “You don’t mean to do much, do you?”

“Hey,” Noel shook you in his arms lightly. You tried not to let the fact that your wildest dream of being held by Noel had come true deter you from the fact that he was being an asshole. “I’m sorry, yeah? I’ll — I’ll make it up to you. ‘M’sorry for makin’ you cry.”

You pushed away from Noel, wiping at your eyes before heading back to your bike. “I think it’s best we don’t talk for a while, Noel,” you said. 

“But —“

You never heard what he had to say next, because you were cycling away from him in rapid bursts of energy, your lungs heaving with embarassed sobs and tired huffs of breath. You followed your route home, hastily rounding every corner and stopping at every crossing, and looking away whenever a pedestrian looked too closely at your tearstained cheeks.

And if you stopped by the hardware store for a couple of items using your egg money? Some wood for a fence, some nails to hold it together, some paint to make it pretty, some flower seeds to plant on the windowsill. You’d just tell your parents you’ve got a new summer project to keep you busy. 

***

You and Noel don’t speak much after that, both of you orbiting two different circles that you were happy to keep separate. No more fresh eggs, no more buying strings from your dad’s shop, no more biking back to the bus station. Just radio silence. 

Sixteen and going through your first heartbreak, you were pretty sure that you would never love again. Which in hindsight truly was the peak of teenage melodrama. But that was the truth for you; you sat and stared out your father’s shop window, waiting for any sign of Noel that you know would never come. You’d catch sight of Noel past the hallway and immediately flush and look away. It was your new reality. No more Noel. 

So you kept your head down and finished school, your tight knit group of friends surrounding you as you tried not to let Noel Gallagher of all people get to you. You graduated with the best marks, passed every test with flying colors, and turned the tassel with a happy heart and bittersweet tears in your eyes. 

You were finally free of him. For so long, you had been acting like a total fool over the boy; everyone could see. And you would not let yourself be embarrassed like that ever again. Especially not by a boy who couldn’t see what was right in front of him. If he thought so lowly of you then fine, you’d do one better and not think of him at all. Which was a task that became quite easier as the one year mark passed, then two, and you suddenly found yourself back where you started; on a hot summer day on your father’s music shop with Noel Gallagher walking in with the same sharp-eyed stare. 

He hadn’t been back in the shop since the two of you were sixteen, and you still hadn’t had that awfully embarassing fight at the bus stop. Now, at eighteen, he still looked at home among all the guitars, the amps, and the records that you had just recently told your father to start selling to catch up with the times. He was still, heartbreakingly, the same Noel. Which made thinking of him as such a cruel boy all the harder. 

Noel didn’t say much, as always. And you didn’t know just what to think about that. Was he quiet because he didn’t want to speak to you? Was he quiet because he was guilty for what he said about you? Or worse, was he quiet because he didn’t even care? All he did was take a glance at the guitars on display, check the price tag before wincing, then strolling to the new aisle of records where he perused until he found a Burth Bacharach album that he brought to the counter. To you. 

You rang his order up. Noel coughed. “Uhm,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous hand. “I didn’t know you guys had a record section here now. You got a cool selection.”

You nodded, stoic, only opening your mouth to say, “That would be five quid.”

Noel blinked, clearly taken aback by the hostility you’ve never shown. And honestly, it hurt to be mean. Not because it was Noel but because it didn’t feel quite like you. You had always smiled at customers, made small talk about the recent matches, asked after sons and daughters and friends of people that frequented the store so much that they became characters in your story. You’ve never sat behind the counter and not said anything. 

So you hesitated before adding, “And yeah, I begged my dad to add a record section. The shop wouldn’t survive on just selling instruments. Records are hot right now, and it would be mad of us to pass up on that, yeah?”

Noel smiled, soft and reassured. Your heart fluttered traitorously in your chest at the sight. “Yeah,” he echoed. “It’s really cool. A shame that I won’t get to buy here for a while, though.”

You furrowed your brow, your hands sifted through the cash that he placed on the counter. “What do you mean?”

Noel shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Got a job as a roadie,” he said simply, as if you didn’t know how big this was for him. “Drum tech for the Inspiral Carpets. Heard of them?”

You have, but you weren’t letting Noel have that, so you shook your head. “No, sorry.”

He frowned slightly before readjusting himself. “Oh,” he said. “Well, they’ve got pretty good music. You should check them out.”

You took out a plastic bag before placing Noel’s record in. “Maybe,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. Noel was leaving. You didn’t know why that stung; maybe it was the fact that you knew that he would always be in your periphery. Maybe it was the fact that you still couldn’t fully forgive him for what he said. Maybe it was the fact that you wanted him to ask for your forgiveness. Maybe it was because he was leaving to actually make something of himself. Or maybe it was just because losing Noel would make everything so much more boring. So you couldn’t find it in you to ask when he’d leave. Couldn’t stomach the thought of not bumping into Noel no matter how angry you were at him. All you did was pass him his record, smiled a small smile, and turned away from him when he waved at you goodbye.

Life was different after that; far from Manchester, far from home, far from your chickens, far from your father’s shop, and far from everything you had ever known. London was different; life was faster, people asked you to repeat things due to your accent, and you were just so busy. There was no time to climb trees or have tea with your elderly neighbor or sit perfectly still on your front porch, just watching life pass you by in a haze. No, this time you had to grab life by the throat. 

Uni was harder than you thought it would be. You had always been a star student, but going to uni made you realize that there were may other star students out there. So you had to work twice as hard just to get the same marks you were getting when you were a teenager. 

You had friends, different from the ones you knew at home. They didn’t know you like anyone who grows up with you would know you. They knew you as this bubbly, confident, happy-go-lucky girl who studies ‘til dawn breaks and plays a few odd instruments here and there. They didn’t know about your sycamore tree, they didn’t know about the chippy back home that you would get discounts from just because the old lady running the shop thought you deserved it, they didn’t know about the eggs or the science fair, they didn’t know about Noel. And you could tell them about it — most of the time you did, but they wouldn’t understand it quite as well as your friends back home would. Which is natural, you supposed. 

So you built a new life for yourself. A faster life with only a few seconds in between for you to stop and smell the roses. You made time for phone calls back home, for climbing your dormitory rooftop to feel as if you were atop your sycamore tree, for perusing music shops without buying anything, and for borrowing bikes just to feel the wind whip around you. 

Friends stayed by your side, men who you took interest in never stayed long enough for you to actually like them, and you sneaked into the music majors’ practice rooms just to play a few chords of the guitar, just to play a few keys of the piano. Your first kiss didn’t go to Noel Gallagher as you had planned when you were eleven and naive; it went to a man named Fred who had kind eyes and blonde hair and who broke up with you after three months because things were getting too serious, or whatever that meant.

Those four years felt like an eternity of running around a city you were forever familiarizing yourself with. It felt like it whizzed by like a flash and crawled behind you like a sloth. Time did odd things in those four years because before you knew it, you were moving out your flat to come home for the summer after your graduation. A little slowness before your life began again, maybe you could even climb a tree or two while you were back home. 

***

Noel doesn’t see you for a while after that. And if he’s being honest with himself, he hoped that he wouldn’t bump into you again. Not because you were painfully in love with him and Noel didn’t know what to do with that fact. No, it was because he hoped that you had made it out your small neighborhood into something bigger; something that fit you and your gargantuan personality. Because that’s what you deserved. 

He remembers walking past Ed’s Music Box once, about to come in for a pack of picks, grunting as if he were in pain just for hauling him out the house. That’s when he heard you. 

To be more specific, that’s when he heard the trill of the piano, slow and quiet as if trying not to disturb anyone as it played an arpeggio on the ivory keys, your head sneaking glances left and right every now and then as if trying to make sure that no one was watching. 

He found it cute how awful of a job you were doing with playing your own supply of instruments as well as failing to play your own look out. But you were absolutely not failing at playing the sheet of music you had place in front of you from one of the display racks near the piano. 

Noel was impressed. He didn’t even know how to read music. All he’s got is a handful of chords, some lyrics that read more like diary entries, and a guitar that is lacking some picks. But looking at you then, back straight as a rod as if primed to jump up at the sound of the tinkling bell above the shop door, Noel couldn’t find it in himself to interrupt you. 

So he walked away. And a few weeks later, the stupid fight about the eggs happened. Something that Noel still partially blames Liam for, yet completely beats himself up over. 

And a handful of years later, there you were. Exactly where Noel hoped you wouldn’t be. In Manchester, in your familiar neighborhood, ahead of him in line for some chips, with your smile dimmed down with the weight of something Noel didn’t ever want for you. 

So he stood stiffly behind you, trying not to breathe so loud lest he attract your attention. But his plan didn’t seem to work. Something in you must have sensed his presence because your turned around to face him, shock written plainly in your face as you gasped, “Noel?”

“Hey,” he said, wincing slightly. 

You laughed in disbelief, “I can’t believe you’re here!” you cried, a smile that he hasn’t seen in a while lighting your face. “I haven’t seen you in forever!” 

Unwillingly, the words you had spoken to him about not seeing each other for a while flashed in his head. But he didn’t want to bring up any of that anymore, not when you were looking at him just like you used to. So instead, he said, “You look well.”

Your eyebrows rose teasingly. “Oh, I look well now, don’t I?”

Noel cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said, voice like gravel. “You look good.”

The corners of your mouth lifted teasingly, thankfully, you spared him. “Thanks, Noel,” you said sincerely. “You look great, too.”

Noel reddened, coughing again to clear his throat. Why was it so hot in this chip shop? Had you always been this bold? Had your hair always been that shiny? “Anyway,” he said as the line moved up. “Why’re you here? I thought I heard some folks say that you were off at uni.”

You smiled. “I was. Graduated just a few months ago.”

Noel grinned, clapping your shoulder. “That’s great!” he said. “Glad to hear it, really.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Thought I’d go back home for a while. London was summat else. Figured I needed to slow down a bit before starting work but …” you sighed, your eyes clouding with a familiar brand of pain that Noel knew. “You remember my brother? Jacob?”

Noel scrunched his brows, thinking back to the older boy who always sat at the counter of Ed’s Music Box during the summers, who worked construction with in a project by the estate council, who always nodded at Noel when he passed the street. “Yeah,” Noel said. “What about ‘im?”

You worried your lip between your teeth, your worry evident as you said, “He’s been in an accident last month. A beam fell on him at the site and — I just — it’s not been easy. For any of us, but most of all for him.”

Noel nodded. He knew what that was like. “So you’re back to take care of things?”

“I’m back to take care of things,” you nodded back, echoing him. 

“Next!” the cashier behind the counter called, clearly irritated by the way you had been ignoring the queue. 

“Sorry!” you squeaked before sending an apologetic glance at Noel and rattling off your order to the server. You smiled at him once you were done and mouthed I’ll wait for you to him before ambling out the shop with your order. 

Noel sighed before ordering. 

Before he knew it, he was outside with his brothers’ and mam’s orders, underneath the shop awing with you at his side. “It’s nice having you back, Noel,” you smiled up at him. 

“I’m glad to be back.” He shrugged. 

“The Inspiral Carpets treatin’ you well?”

He smiled. “As well as they could treat a roadie,” he laughed. “I love it, though.”

“I’m glad,” you said. “I remember when you were still little and staring up at the acoustic guitar on display at our shop like … every single day.”

Noel reddened. “You noticed that?”

You arched an unimpressed brow at him. “Noel,” you said sternly. “I noticed everything about you.”

Noel laughed lightly. “I guess that’s true,” he said. Working up the courage to bring up the elephant in the room that both of you have been dancing around, he began. “Hey, listen. I —”

“Oi, wanker!” Liam’s voice drifted from down the street. Noel closed his eyes and sighed. “You done fuckin’ flirtin’ or what? Your family’s fuckin’ starvin, mate!”

You laughed, bright and loud. Like sunshine peeking through the clouds. “Sorry ‘bout ‘im,” he mumbled. 

You shook your head. “No problem. You better get to him before he starts coming over here,” you said, nodding your chin over to where Liam was scowling with a cocked hip. 

Noel sighed heavily again. “Fuckin’ idiot.”

You laughed, placing your hand hot on his arm. “I guess I’ll be seein’ ya, Noel!”

Before he could say that he was only here for a two weeks and would you maybe want to grab a bite sometime? you had turned around and rounded the corner back to your father’s shop. 

“Fuckin’ Liam,” Noel groaned before turning to face the smug face of his baby brother. 

***

Like a tape stuck on loop, another Gallagher walks into your father’s shop that summer. This time, it was Noel’s younger brother, Liam. 

You didn’t know much about the kid. Being five years older than him meant that there was no reason for your paths to ever cross at school. But of course, you’ve heard rumors; he was the top dog of his friend group, he was a class footballer, and the fact that Noel had visited him a few years back because some kid thought it would be cool to strike Liam down with a hammer to the head. That coupled with the fact that Noel would always complain about the young man never being home when he needed to be, you were pretty sure that he was trouble. 

But the way he stared at the records on display reminded you so much of Noel and the girl that you used to be. Liam’s eyes were the same shade of blue as his brother’s, his hands fidgeting by his sides the same way Noel’s did, and he gravitated towards the same CDs that Noel always used to grab at after getting his paycheck. 

You were broken out of your stupor when Liam’s head turned sharply toward you, meeting your eyes. You smiled at him. “Hello, welcome to Ed’s Music Box. What can I do for you?”

Liam squinted, as if trying to figure out where he knew you from. Honestly, you should have been offended, you’ve given them free fresh eggs, you gave his brother music recommendations that Liam no doubt carried with him, you cycled to school with his brother. But still, you smiled as Liam snapped his fingers and pointed enthusiastically at you. “It’s you!” he cried out. “The mad chick that used to stalk me brother!”

Your cheeks heated, embarrassment flooding your limbs as you weakly said, “Stalking is probably not the word.”

“Nah,” Liam said, unbothered by your apparent humiliation at the reminder. “You used to follow ‘im around like a puppy dog.”

You huffed then. “Whatever,” you grumbled, your body temperature considerably higher than before this conversation started. “What do you need, Liam?”

Now familiar with you, Liam’s smile was warmer. You found that it wasn’t all that similar to Noel’s own smile, really. While Noel smiled like he was rationing a limited supply of them out, Liam smiled like a dog wagging its tail. “Just checkin’ things out,” he said. “I’m in a band, you see. And I just wanted to check some gear out, d’ya know what I mean?”

You raised a brow. “You’re in a band?”

Liam frowned quickly. “Well, don’t act too surprised! We’re top!”

You hid a laugh behind a cough. “I could imagine.”

Liam huffed before crossing his arms. “Well, you should see us perform. We’ve got a gig at the Boardwalk at eight o’clock tonight if you wanna swing by.”

It was the weekend, you didn’t have any other plans, and really, you were intrigued about Liam’s new band. So, you agreed. “Alright,” you said. “I’ll be there.”

“Cool,” said Liam.

You smiled and shook your head, amused. “Does Noel know about your band?” you asked, curious. You wondered how he would take it, knowing that his baby brother who used to go about heckling musicians at the field was now in a band. 

Liam snorted, already back to perusing the aisles. “It’s always about Noel with you, ain’t it?” You opened your mouth to squeak and indignant protest when he turned around to face you and asked. “D’ya have any Lennon in ‘ere?”

And so you tabled away the Noel-shaped elephant in the room and went and helped Liam get his Lennon record, and without preamble he paid and went out the door. And odd duck, that one, you thought to yourself. 

You spent the rest of the day in doubt. Should you really go out of your way to watch Liam’s fledgling band at the Boardwalk? Yes, you promised, but as you were organizing records and cleaning gear, you realized just how sudden the decision was. What if the band was terrible and you had to pretend that you liked them? What if you were the only one that showed up? You didn’t even know what instrument Liam played in this band, you knew next to nothing about them; not even their name. 

But you couldn’t help but think; what if they were great? What if they blew your socks off and became the next Beatles or something? And once everything’s said and done, you were still guaranteed to have a decent night out. 

And just like that, your decision was final — the clock ticked on until it was time to close up shop and lock up. You hung up your work apron, did a quick sweep of the shop, counted your money and stashed it safely away, then locked the storefront up with a groan. Had Jacob been here and been alright, you would have made him do the hard work of pulling the shutters down. Alas, life had brought you to your fate. 

It was a blur of muscle memory and hazy tiredness that brought you home and into a cute outfit, it was that same blur that brought you to The Boardwalk where you caught Liam’s eye as he mouthed “We’re next!” to you in exaggerated motions. 

But everything was clear as day as soon as the band started playing. The Rain, Bonehead said they were called after the gig was done. Liam scoffed, Nah, let’s think of summat else. You were grinning then as you watched them come up with a decent name, but all you knew was that the electric feeling you felt while they were up on stage was something you hadn’t felt before.

Suddenly, you were at every gig, attended rehearsals every week, had a handle on their money once you had found out that they had been spending it all on useless shit, and supplied them with discounted gear from your dad’s shop. You didn’t realized how big of a task you had taken on until someone at The Boardwalk came up to you during Oasis’ set, Liam still singing his heart out onstage, and asked “You’re Oasis’ manager, right?”

And, well, you supposed at that point you were. 

***

Noel’s too young to be feeling this old. And really, Noel’s too annoyed at the fact that he and Clint had just been sacked from the Inspiral Carpets. If you asked him, it was a load of bull. But if you asked any of the other roadies, they’d all go and call him a right lazy bastard. 

Add to the tally of why Noel was so ticked off, Liam was buzzing in his ear about the band that Noel didn’t even know his brother had up until a few weeks ago when their mam had called with a few innocent anecdotes. 

“A band?” Noel had raged when he saw Liam, the first words he spoke to his brother’s face in months. “You spent years calling me a pisspot for even liking music. And now your messed up fuckin’ head’s got itself in a twist and has you in a fuckin’ band? Nah.”

“As the frontman too,” Liam crowed. 

Noel nearly swung at him right then and there.

“Wanker,” he grumbled as the two of them started their walk back home. Another point to the board on Noel’s foul mood; there was no one but his baby brother who came to get him from the bus station. “Who else is in your shite band, anyway?”

Liam’s smile widened. The thing about Noel’s brother is that he had a lot of words to say. So instead of just saying the names of his bandmates and the instruments he played, Liam had to go in and tell the tale right from the fuckin’ big bang. Which was why Noel was already drowsing slightly by the bus window when Liam had said your name, a name that Noel hadn’t thought about in a while. 

“Huh?” Noel blinked awake, suddenly aware of how blatantly he was not listening to his brother. “What about ‘er?”

Liam gave him an odd look Noel couldn’t decipher before saying, “She’s our manager,” said Liam. “She went to uni for accounting or summat and she does all our books, keeps all our gear nice and new, schedules our gigs, arranges how we get from club to club. She’s awesome.”

Noel blinked. The last time he saw you was two years ago in a chip shop near the corner of Ed’s Music Box. Last he heard, your brother had been in an accident and you had stayed home to take care of the shop. You had seemed different then, no longer heart-eyed and giggly at the sight of him. Just a girl with a good head on her shoulders, a smile that could stop traffic, and a past that Noel knew too much about. Noel was even embarassed to admit that he had been frightened at the sight of you. Nearly his whole childhood, he tried to let you down gently. But you never seemed to pick up on his hints, always steadfastly determined just like you were with your sycamore tree, just like you were with your science fair, and just like you were with your eggs. 

But when you had turned around and gave him a polite smile, the familiar shine of your eyes gone, Noel didn’t really know what to feel. Relief? It really should have been relief. 

“Huh,” Noel breathed. “Wouldn’t have thought about that.”

Liam raised a thick brow. “‘Course you wouldn’t’ve. It was my idea.”

And just like that, Liam lost him again. Noel settled by the window and dozed, his brother’s rambling an ambient noise all through the ride home. He dreamt of nothing but peaceful darkness and calming stillness so much so that it being woken up felt like having a bucket of ice cold water dumped on him. 

“C’mon,” Liam smacked his shoulder harshly before standing up, taking Noel’s backpack from the overhead storage before forging ahead. 

Noel blearily followed, rubbing at his eyes when he took a look at where Liam had led him before scowling. “Oi!” he called to his brother, walking steadily ahead of him on the road. “This ain’t the way home, you wanker!”

“Gotta show you summat first!” Liam called, not even bothering to turn around in his quick stride. 

“Liam!” Noel scolded. “Where the fuck are you takin’ me?”

Liam refused to answer, instead, he lead Noel down the road, down a dodgy set of stairs, and along a long and winding hallway, the sound of music blaring past different doors as they finally stopped in front of a nondescript one. 

Suddenly, Noel realized. “You takin’ me to your band’s practice?”

Liam nodded, grinning manically as he turned the knob and went in, Bonehead, Guigsy, and McCarroll already tuning and warming up while you sat primly atop an amp, laughing at some joke Bonehead had said. 

Noel paused in the threshold. If anyone asked him, he would say it was because of the racket that the band were making. But if he was being truthful with himself – which he rarely was, then he’d say that it was because your laugh felt so familiar that he felt like he was eleven years old again. 

“Noel!” you exclaimed, your smile brightening the dull Manchester grey as you hopped of the amp in an action reminiscent of all the times he had seen you clamber down your tree and saunter into the bus. Noel couldn’t help his answering smile at the sight of you jogging towards him before embracing you in a decidedly very friendly hug. “You must be so tired from your trip! I can’t believe you went straight here!”

Noel laughed lightly before glaring at Liam who stuck his tongue out at Noel. “Well, someone decided that it was best to kidnap me and bring me here.”

You turned to Liam, “Liam,” you huffed. “I told you to let him rest!”

Liam shrugged carelessly, adjusting his mic stand. “He can handle it,” he waved off your concerns. “He’s a big boy!”

You tsked before turning back to Noel with your familiar warmth. “Sorry ‘bout him,” you said. Noel wanted to laugh again at the absurdity of you apologizing for his little brother’s behavior. “But I’ve got a feeling that he’s just excited to have his big brother back to see him play.”

Noel raised a questioning brow, looking to you then to the band who were gearing up to play, “They any good?” he whispered. 

You grinned, amused. “You think I’d be here if they weren’t?”

Noel shrugged. “I think you like a lot of things you shouldn’t” he said. Too late, he realized how loaded that might have sounded. 

You laughed, a sound that whistled like the wind and tolled like church bells. “Touche,” you said. “But you’re gonna wanna hear this. And you better make up your mind in around ten minutes so Liam can take you back home to rest.”

Noel scrunched his forehead in confusion. “Make my mind up about what?”

Your grin widened, your shoulder meeting his in an electric shock of contact. “If you wanna join the band, of course. I got another feeling Liam’s been itching to ask you that.”

Noel played hard to get after that. And Liam predictably sulked for a few weeks before Noel finally relented, as if being burdened by the weight of the world, as if he didn’t want to join the band as soon as the last chord rang out that practice room, as soon as you turned to him and asked brightly ‘So, whaddya think, Noel?’

Oasis after that, had been on the slow uphill climb. Noel brought his music in after calling The Rain’s original songs utter shite, and since then, everything changed. 

Well, not everything. Gigs were still sparse and limited to the usual Manchester scene that the band was sick and tired of, the practice room was costing more money than any of you were bringing in so you had to pull a few strings to make the basement storage of Ed’s Music Box soundproof and homey for the band, and mum had been scowling at the bills more often than not as she told both him and Liam to hurry up with being famous. 

For Noel, hope was sparse. And he only ever found it in you. 

Where once he would cower at your blatant affection and happy-go-lucky attitude, he now sought it out after a hard day. “We did good today?” he’d ask, sidling up to you after practice like a cat trying not to seem overeager while searching for head scratches. 

And you’d smile every time, the kind that makes the room glow golden. And he’d have no choice but to smile too. “Amazin’” you’d tell him.

And that would always be enough to set Noel right back on track. But this time, you were smiling and Noel was scowling as if he had just seen all of the seven deadly sins play out in front of him. 

“Who’s he?” he asked Liam, gruffly pointing at you and the skinny bloke you were talking to, the familiar bright grin on your face. “What’s he doin’ ‘ere?”

Liam bit a smile. “Bit jealous, Noel-y?”

Noel scoffed. “As fuckin’ if, Liam.”

Liam rolled his eyes playfully before whispering. “He’s the drum tech. Dan, I think his name is. Good lad, bit pathetic when it comes to her, though.”

The crease between Noel’s brow increased tenfold as he said, “Drum tech? A fuckin’ drum tech?” he seethed.

Liam nodded, now distracted by something or the other. “Yeah. He’s been working with us for a couple of months before you came in.”

“I’m a drum tech. Noel groused. That was my entire fuckin’ job for the Inspiral Carpets,” he groused, still looking at you. Your smile had fully morphed into a laugh now, the bright tinkling sound he’d known forever angled towards this random fuckin’ chap. Honestly, less than twenty feet away from him was you. With Dan the fuckin’ Drum Tech. And you’re laughing. What could you possibly be laughing about with him? How could you stand there along all the tangled wires and laugh and look so beautiful?

Before he knew it, Noel was marching straight to you, hands clenched at his sides as you stood in the middle of their conversation. “Terribly sorry to interrupt,” he said, his tone anything but sorry. “But I need to steal her away for a quick sec.”

And then his wrist was in your hand, your pulse on his palm as he took you back upstairs to the shop where he knew he risked the chance of Liam and the lads hearing whatever he had to say. And honestly? Noel didn’t even know what he wanted to say. All he knew was that he wanted you here with him and not down there with Dan. 

Suddenly, you yanked your hand from Noel’s gentle grip. “What was that?” you asked, a mixture of confused, bewildered, and annoyed. 

Noel shrugged. “Need to talk to you?”

You raised a brow. “And you had to literally pull me away from a perfectly nice conversation I was having?”

Noel nodded, feeling a bit stupid now. “Yeah.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “The fuck’s going on with you, Noel?”

Noel matched your defensive stance, shoulders to his ears. “Nothin’!”

You laughed, humorless. “Oh, so you’ll be alright if I just went back down and continued my conversation? Since you’re so okay and totally have nothing you wanna talk about.”

Noel shook his head. “Just … Wait.”

You blinked. “Wait?”

Noel huffed. “Just wait. I’m tryna think of what to say.”

“Think of what to say?” you echoed incredulously. “The hell is goin’ on here, Noel?”

“I just didn’t like seeing you with ‘im, alright? Put a pit in my fuckin’ stomach, it did, seeing you laugh like that because of a stupid drum tech,” he spit out without thinking. “And whaddya need a drum tech for, huh? I’m right ‘ere!”

You frowned. “Noel,” you said carefully. “Are you jealous?”

Noel reddened, his face turned to the ground. 

You gasped. “Oh my god,” you breathed. “You are.”

Noel refused to answer. 

“You are such a fuckin’ idiot.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m done with you.”

Noel didn’t quite follow. “Wait, what?”

You glared at him, fierce and burning Noel from the inside out. “I’m so done with whatever bullshit you’re trying to do here, Noel,” you said, your voice shaking with anger. Noel couldn’t get a word in edgewise becsause you ranted on, “The moment I get over you, the moment that I don’t fawn over you or tell you how great you are or put you up on that pedestal you adore. The moment that you’re not the center of my attention, you’re throwing temper tantrums and hauling me out the room.”

“That’s not what this is!” Noel protested hotly. 

“Then explain it!” you cried, hand clenched at your sides so tightly that Noel saw how white your knuckles were turning. 

“I–” Noel squeaked out. “I just —”

“Oh my god,” you laughed ruefully. “You can’t even say it!”

“I’m trying to find the words!” Noel snapped. 

“For someone who thinks himself the next McCartney, you sure are arse at finding words,” you spit. 

“This isn’t what you think,” he reasoned weakly. 

“Yeah? Because to me it’s exactly what it seems like.”

Noel groaned, trying to reason with you. “D’you remember in secondary school? The dumb fuckin’ basket thing I was assigned to? The bidding bullshit that all the girls had to bid on a basket boy of their choosing.”

You frowned. “Yeah,” you said. “And you skipped that day and claimed you were sick. Noel, what does this have to do with —”

“I felt sick to my stomach then when I heard you bid on Eddie Trulock,” he admitted, feeling the same pain in his stomach he did on the day he came back to school just to hear about you on your basket lunch with Eddie. 

You scoffed. Noel’s stomach swooped in fear. “So? What the hell’s that supposed to mean other than you’d always felt like I should be holding a candle for you my entire life?”

“That’s not–!” Noel bit off before restarting on a different note. “What I’m trying to say here is that it’s always been like this. I’ve always … liked you. Somehow, in my own way.”

You stared at him, silent and disapproving. “You liked me,” you echoed hollowly. “Somehow, I have a hard time believing that, Noel. Not when you keep treating me like shit you found at the bottom of your shoe.”

“I don’t know what to do,” said Noel, hands shaking as he watched you walk away. 

“You never do, do you?”

You expect that to be the last time that you or Noel ever mentioned that catastrophic fight. But it wasn’t. To your own surprise, you showed up the next week to rehearsals, sitting in your designated armchair as the band practiced a few of their songs. And to your utter shock, a sprig of flowers were waiting for you along with a pair of eggs that were bundled in a tiny basket. You glanced at Noel who was already looking at you, frowning in consideration at his shy smile. For you! he mouthed stupidly, pointing at the flowers and the eggs. You only raised a brow before sitting down, motioning to him to get back to work. 

And so began this odd period of Noel actually doing something.

He’d compliment your new dress, wear hair ties on his wrist because he knew that you always forgot yours, listened to your favorite album even though he once claimed that he hated it. He made a complete, utter, stupid, fool of himself in front of you, your brother, your mum, and your dad. 

“Why’s that Noel kid that used to stare at guitars all day bringing eggs to our house?” Jacob once said as you were giving him a sponge bath. 

You laughed, the situation so absurd. “It’s a long story.”

Jacob reclined in the tub. “Well, I’m not going anywhere, so…”

Noel was everywhere. At your home’s front stoop every Monday morning to deliver a fresh batch of eggs, at band practice with a new song that you knew was about you and a lasagna date you definitely did not want to go on, at the shop helping you and your dad out with the inventory, and even offering to give guitar lessons to kids who came in the shop for free. 

You tried to bite your smile everytime you felt the flutter of your stomach at his determination. Because you had long since decided that Noel Gallagher wasn’t for you. But here he was, wanting to prove you wrong, wanting to bring back your childhood butterflies, wanting to show you just how much he really cared. 

“I have a hard time with this whole emotion thing, d’ya know what I mean?” Noel said once after practice, the two of you untangling wires and securing them. He wasn’t looking at you when he said it, his body turned away and tense. 

You couldn’t help it, you snorted. “I can kinda tell.”

He laughed lightly. “But I wanna try.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just let the silence shroud the two of you in its comfort. 

It wasn’t long after that that Oasis struck gold. A chance encounter with The Sister Lovers who had insisted on the band joining them for a rare gig outside Manchester, a gig that was just as electric as every practice run, and a music executive coming up to you with an offer you can’t refuse. 

Everything after that is a whirlwind. You didn’t know what to focus on. A record deal, an album deadline, a debut gig, a TV appearance, a single release. It was all too much. But through it all…

“Hey,” Noel said softly, knocking on your makeshift office door at Ed’s Music Box with a mug of piping hot tea in his hand. “Rest yer pretty little head, aye? Have some tea.”

You smiled at him, reclining back in your chair with a groan, and accepting the tea that Noel placed on your desk as he sat across from you. “Your band is a walking headache,” you said. 

Noel laughed. “A headache that’s gonna make a shit ton of money pretty soon.”

You smiled, raising your mug as if to toast. “I’ll drink to that,” you said drily. 

“What’re you gonna buy with your label money,” asked Noeld. “Summat for Jake?”

You blinked. It was going to be a few sessions at the fancy physical therapy clinic in the city. You had long since been eyeing their services but the price was enough to put your entire family in debt. So you held off. “Yeah,” you admitted, telling him your plan.

“That’s nice,” he mused.

“What about you? Rolls Royce?” you jested. 

He snorted. “Not until the third album, I think.”

“Thinkin’ big, I like it.”

He chuckled. “I’d like to buy a proper house for me mam. But I doubt she’d ever want to move away from here so I’d settle for just payin’ off our debts.”

You nodded. “That sounds like a dream,” you said. 

“For me, it really is,” he said. “Then I’d like to buy me older brother some nice gear. Maybe even give him a vacation to stop him from working so hard at the plant.”

“And for Liam?”

Noel scoffed. “Kid’s gonna get a bigger payout than me. Being the frontman and all. He should be givin’ me something.”

You sipped your tea. “One day, I’d make you two get along,” you vowed.

“The impossible task,” said Noel. 

You shook your head, amused. “How’s the album going, chief?” you pivoted, back into manager mode. 

He shrugged. “Doesn’t quite sound right. We recorded everythin’ but it just don’t sound like us. I said to just release it and let us just work on a better second album; have everythin’ done with.”

“No,” you protested. 

Noel sighed. “That’s what Liam and the others said as well,” he said dejectedly.

“Noel, there isn’t gonna be a second album if the first is shite,” you said. 

“Ow,” he said. 

You shrugged. “Harsh truths.”

“Got it, boss,” he said. “But enough about work, I’m here to clear yer head of that, right? D’ya get the eggs?”

You smiled at the dozen eggs on your porch this morning. “Yeah,” you said. “Made some excellent french toast with it.”

“Y’know I never properly said how sorry I was about the shit I said when we were sixteen.”

“Oh god,” you groaned. “That was a lifetime ago, Noel.”

“Still don’t make it okay. And it never was okay. And I’m sorry for making you feel like that, for making you cry.”

You smiled tightly. “It’s not something I like thinking about all that much, really.”

“Me either,” Noel said. “But I just wanna let you know that I really am trying,” he said. “To be better, I mean.”

You smiled, “I know,” you said.

“Y’know Liam said the oddest thing to me today,” he began. “He told me I flipped.”

You raised a brow. “Flipped?”

Noel nodded. “Said I’ve completely flipped for ya. Gone mad and found myself chasin’ after you like a puppy dog.”

“He said the same thing to me a few years back. Said that I used to follow you around like a puppy dog.”

Noel barked a laugh. “Cute,” he said. You blushed despite yourself. “And i think it definitely is my turn to do the chasing, yeah?” He smiled back before abruptly standing up. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m sure that my yammering isn’t doing you all that good. Got a couple of errands to run anyway.” And with a quick wave to you, a smile, and an exaggerated goodbye as he went out the door, he was gone. And you let the stress of logistics get to you once again. 

You spun numbers around in your head, shuffled schedules, computed expenditures, and nearly lost your damn mind in your office before hours had passed and you finally called it quits, closing shop and heading home. 

You were looking forward to the warm embrace of your bed, to a conversation with your brother, to your mum’s homemade cooking. But you were halted by the sight of a hole that was dug into your front yard.

“What the fuck?” you whispered before charging inside the house. “Dad! Why’s there a hole in the yard! I’ve just treated the grass —”

“Calm down,” your father greeted you with a kiss to the cheek. “It’s there for a reason,” he said, pointing out the window and right to the hole where Noel Gallagher was digging as if searching for gold. 

“What is he doing?” you shrieked. 

“Relax, sweetheart. He has permission.”

“Permission?” you said, shrill. “Permission for what?”

Your dad smiled at you warmly. “You’ll see.”

So you stood there and watched through the window as Noel dug and dug and dug through your perfectly manicured garden and stood up from the ground just to grab …

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “He didn’t,” you said, in disbelief.

“It is,” your dad confirmed.

“Is that —”

“Indeed. Brought it all the way here and asked for my permission.”

And before you knew it, your hand was wrenching the front door open and you were flying out the door, tackling Noel in a fierce hug that landed you both on the soft grass. “A sycamore tree!” you laughed, your legs on either side of him as you sat atop a bewildered Noel. “You got me a sycamore tree!”

Noel grinned dopily up at you. “Sure did.”

You smacked his shoulder. “You dick!”

He laughed. “D’ya like it?”

“Are you crazy?” you said, bending down to wrap your arms around him tightly. “I love it.”

His arms wound around you, holding you close. “It’ll take time to grow,” he said. “So don’t go climbin’ it yet.”

You smiled at him, all teeth and happiness. “Yes, chief!”

“Now, are you gonna get off me and let me finish planting it?” You got off him, standing up with dirt on your knees as you stretched your hand out for him to grab on to. He took hold of it and hauled himself up, finding himself face to face with you. “Hey,” he breathed. 

“Hey,” you said, smile not leaving your face.

“You seem happy.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, having had enough of dancing around elephants, so you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him, his lips tasting of mint and Marlboros, his hands a heady weight on your hips, his smile infectious as he kissed your grinninng lips. 

“Stop smilin’” he mumbled through kisses, his hand traveling up your spine. “Tryna do summat here, princess.”

You giggled against his mouth, your hands at his chest. “You’re so stupid.”

Noel took a step back to take a proper look at you. “I know,” he said. “I could have had you all this time.”

You sat by the ground, hand on the soil as you began tucking in the roots of your tree. “Well, we’re not wasting anymore time, are we?”

Dearest Noel,

The first time I saw you, I was pretty sure my heart fully stopped. I had liked other guys before you, had written them letters like these as well. But none of them made me feel like you did. What was once just a flutter of my stomach turned into a roar, hard to ignore. Which is why I’m writing this, in the hopes that putting pen to paper would make me feel less like this feeling would eat me alive. 

Not that you’ll ever read this, mind. 

It all started when I was thirteen years old, biking around the council estates when I saw you walking back to your home, wearing a blue jumper and carrying groceries in your arms. I just about fell down to the pavement at the sight of you. I didn’t have the guts to ring my bell at you or smile at you or even ask for your name. It wasn’t until a week later when I saw you again that I knew your name. Noel. Your little brother had been yelling it at the top of his lungs at the park, it was quite hard to miss, yet I do thank him for somehow introducing you to me by way of his tantrums. 

Since then, you’ve always been in my periphery. And steadily, you began to notice me. Just in tiny ways; nodding your head at me when I passed, picking up my stack of books when they got too heavy on my walk home, staying with me at the bus station so I wasn’t alone late at night. You’ve always been kind to me, courteous, I would even say. And that made me fall even harder for you. 

I know you don’t see me in the same light. How could you? I’m just your younger neighbor that likes to knock on your door to give cookies. You are kind to me because that’s just the kind of man you are, not because you like me like I like you. And that’s what pains me the most. 

I hope I never lose you in my life. You are a light, Noel Gallagher, and I hope you know that. 

Love, 

Your silly neighbor

***

You had always worn your heart on your sleeve. It was most likely a byproduct of the cheap paperback romance novels you loved reading, but you were a lover at heart; you loved giving your friends their favorite baked goods, you loved watching romantic comedies that made you swoon, you loved taking pictures to keep in your glitter-filled scrapbook, and you loved writing letters you’ll never send. You loved finding love everywhere in your life. 

Maybe a little bit too much. 

“Hey!” Amy called out from where she was biking right next to you. “Hellooooo?” she singsonged. From the tinge of exasperation in her tone, you could already tell that you’ve done it again. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop daydreaming while on the way to work?”

You shot her a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” you said, inconspicuosly trying to pedal faster to avoid the impending lecture. 

Your efforts to cycle quickly away were in vain. “I swear, one day you’ll bump headfirst into a pole and there’d be nothing any of us could do about it!” she huffed in frustration, pedaling her bike closer to you to lightly shove at you. 

You wobbled. “Careful!!” You took one hand off the handlebar and swatted at her. She rolled her eyes and dodged it easily. 

“What were you even daydreaming about this time?” she said wryly, already exasperated by your antics. Her face took on a teasing look that you dreaded as she cooed, “Was it Noel Gallagher?” she giggled, too loudly for your taste. 

You whipped your head around all directions before scolding her. “Amy!” you say, affronted. “Shhhhh!”

She only laughs in response, a bellowing thing that echoes down the streets of Burnage. You redden in embarrassment. “I swear,” she says, still chuckling under her breath. “All this daydreaming, yet still no action. Your love life’s drier than the Sahara.”

You grumble something unintelligible under your breath. 

Amy forges on. “You’re gonna have to make a move,” she says, urging. You’ve heard this spiel many times now, and not just with your infatuation with Noel. Amy’s said it when you first started having a crush on Samuel from your class, when you hid behind your hair whenever you saw Gary deliver your eggs to your house, the time when you liked Jonathan from the park so much that you couldn’t even look him in the eye. Amy’s always been in your ear telling you do something about your crushes. You’ve always just stared her down and told her you were content with loving them from afar. 

You didn’t quite know if you were saying a lie when you said that then. 

You sighed. “Yes, Amy,” you say frustratedly, legs pedaling faster and faster. Amy matches your pace much to your dismay. “I get it.”

Amy tears out a ragged breath beside you. “I don’t think you do, kid,” she declares. “It’s been how long since you’ve liked Noel?” she prompts.

You frown. She knows very well how long you’ve liked Noel. You grumble your response, “Two years.”

“Two years!” she shouts into the nearly empty street. You shake your head at her dramatics. “Two years and still no progress.”

“Who says there has to be progress?” you shot back. “Just because I like him doesn’t mean something has to happen.”

Amy gives you a flat look. “I can see you’ve convinced yourself of that,” she says flatly, the mild ire coating her tone prompting you to frown. “Just … try?”

You huff. “Try what?” you ask petulantly. 

She shakes her head, a motion that was more for herself than for you. “I can feel that big things are coming, kid,” she says, gaze now back on the road. “And I’m gonna need you to try and ride the wave, yeah?”

You wrinkle your brow in confusion. “Well, that’s not cryptic at all, Amy. Thanks,” you quip drily. 

Amy gives a half smile and kicks at your pedals, careful not to do any real damage. “After all I do for you,” she grumbles, but the upturn of her lips tells a different story. 

You smile at her. Amy truly did so much for you. “Diner’s just up ahead,” you told her. “You gonna be okay without me?”

Amy was still chortling by the time that you veered into the diner’s parking lot and chained your bike to the post, Amy continuing onto the main road to get to her own job at the pharmacy a couple blocks ahead. 

Sweetheart’s Diner was an old Manchester relic. Maintaining much of its original 50s charm, it’s a cultural staple that has been in the neighborhood for as long as anyone can remember. Everyone has a memory from Sweetheart’s — for you, it was the taste of their strawberry milkshake on that one summer day after your parents had saved up enough money to get you your own bicycle. 

That was your first taste of freedom.

You had always just borrowed Amy’s bike from her when she allowed you to. But she was strict with how long you could have it for and where you could take it. She claimed that the diner was too far away for you to bring her bike, so you stuck to just pedaling around the estates like a clown on a unicycle. 

But on your twelfth birthday, your father had brought home a bicycle, not exactly brand new like Jessica Bailey’s cobalt blue bike, but not beat up like Cyrus McConnell’s scuffed up monstrosity. It was pale pink with a matching pink bell on the handlebars, a seat that you suspected your father had reupholstered himself, a few faded stickers that hadn’t quite been scraped away, and dent marks in a few places. But you didn’t mind its imperfections, your eyes locked into the bike and you instantly knew that it was yours.

The first place you went to that afternoon was Sweetheart’s where Mrs. Pillock, the original owner’s grandaughter (or great-grandauhter, or great-great grandaughter — no one quite knew how old this woman was) had spotted your beaming smile and sold you a strawberry milkshake at half price. 

“Not for free,” she said sternly, though it felt less like being scolded and more like a maternal lecture. You smiled up at her, straw in your mouth. “Because nothin’s for free, yeah, hon?”

You giggled then, high off having the wind in your hair, the solid feeling of your own pedals on your feet, the sound of the bell chiming in the bright afternoon. That’s what you remember from Sweetheart’s the most, the freedom.

It wasn’t a hard choice to apply to be a waitress at Sweetheart’s for the meantime. After all, a uni scholarship only paid a certain amount of bills, and you needed to cover your half of it. So you walked up to Mrs. Pillock, handed her your resume, to which she snorted and hired you on the spot. 

“You didn’t even look!” you protested. 

“Don’t need to, kid,” she said roughly. “You start on Monday, yeah? You’re on the day shift.”

You’ve been donning the Sweetheart’s frilly pink waitress apron since then. 

It wasn’t horrible, all things considered. The days were busy, but it was miles better than the night shift, or worse, the graveyard shift. Working in a twenty-four hour diner in Manchester has its ups and downs, and you were glad that you were on the up of it all. You served customers with a smile, Mrs. Pillock dealt with the rude customers with efficiency, Asa the cook set aside enough food scraps for all the waitresses and baristas that they could be considered as full meals, and Noel Gallagher tended to buy two bacon butties on his home from work every Friday, an hour before your shift ended.

It was always a great pick-me up in the end of your week. Your bones would set in with a tiredness that you can’t seem to shake, your smile would begin to turn less and less genuine with each passing hour, and your wrist would ache something fierce everytime you carried a whole tray of orders. It’s always been just much of the same.

Though this Friday, it was a different face you were met with. 

You had just finished serving a table full of old ladies playing cards on a corner booth, their cooing over your appearance still ringing in your ears when he walked in. 

The shaggy cut of his hair was unmistakable, though you were quite sure that you’ve seen the shirt he’s wearing on Noel once. His blue eyes were drooping slightly as he scanned the neon signs displayed on the far wall by the entrance, and his fingers tapped a beat similar to the Elvis song playing on the old jukebox. He was unmistakable in his unbothered stance, the swagger of his walk, and the way that he lifted his chin just so — like he knew how good he looked and wasn’t above putting it to good use.

Liam Gallagher was trouble. Everybody who knew him knew that. Hell, just a few years back, you remember your mam telling you about how Liam was rushed into the hospital with a cracked skull from a hammer. Poor lad, she had lamented. 

He was loud, he was obnoxious, he was annoying, he was irritating, he once almost ran you over while driving his mate’s motorcycle, and he was …

Holding a suspiciously familiar stack of envelopes in his hand?

Your heart dropped to your stomach. 

“Fuck,” you whispered harshly, eyes wide at the impossible sight in front of you. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Fridays were for the old ladies playing bridge, the single mom who took her young son for a vanilla cherry coke after footie practice, the couple who ordered waffles in the early part of your shift, the little girl who spends her allowance on a banana split, and Noel Gallagher coming home from the construction site to buy his bacon butties. That’s what Fridays were more or less about — there was a balance to the world with Fridays at Sweetheart’s and Liam Gallagher was not about to ruin it. 

Amy’s words from this morning echoed dully in your head as your heart began to race where it had migrated to your stomach. I can feel that big things are coming, kid. And I’m gonna need you to try and ride the wave, yeah? You grit your teeth and cursed her. Of course, she’d do this. Who else knew about those letters? Who else was annoyed enough at you to mail them to their supposed recipient? Who else had the balls to drop the letter in the Gallagher’s letterbox, unafraid of the consequences she might face. 

“Y’alright, kid?” Maria, a waitress you were on shift with saddled close to you, her brows knit in concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Looking at Liam Gallagher, a stack of frilly love letters in his hand, you feel like you’re seeing worse. “I just —” you stutter, not taking your eyes off Liam who got sidetracked by the jukebox and was now rummaging in his wallet for some loose change. 

Maria turns to see what’s got you looking so shell shocked and cocks her head at the sight of Liam. “Ex-boyfriend of yours?”

“What? No!” you protest indignantly, a bit too loudly that Maria raises a brow and Liam turns to see the commotion. You hiss, backing away from the counter slowly as he prowls your way. You send Maria a pleading look. “Just stuff from the neighborhood!” you tried to reassure her shakily.

“Uh huh,” she says, unimpressed. 

You pout. “Maria, it’s nothing serious,” you say, the distance between the two of you growing as you begin to slowly back yourself towards the staff exit. “But I’m going to need you to cover me for the last hour of my shift.”

She sighs, deep and fond. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says warningly as she marches to the time clock and punches you out early. 

That’s all you need, you see Liam finally at the counter trying to get Maria’s attention but you’re already gone, past the kitchens where you loudly bid Asa goodbye. You didn’t even hear his response as you shouldered the heavy door open and ran to your chained bike. 

The bell above the diner rings as a customer steps out, your hands shake where they try to find your lock key in your pocket. “Oi!” Liam calls out to you. “Neighbor girl! Yoo-hoo! Wait up!” he calls out as he makes his way down the tiled steps, smiling jovially at you as his hands grip the unmistakable envelopes that contains your bare heart. 

There was no way that you were going to have that conversation with Liam Gallagher of all people. Hell, there was no way that you were going to have that conversation at all! No one was supposed to see those letters in the first place. 

You curse as he gets closer, the key not anywhere near to being found. In a desperate bid for escape, you search your surroundings and your eyes quickly alight as they catch sight of a pale blue bike with a scuffed up handlebar. 

“Aye, lover girl! Slow down!” Liam calls, seconds away from you, his scuffed up trainers making quick work of the distance. 

Your heart beats unnaturally fast in your ribcage, your palms sweat as you wipe them down on the frilly apron you forgot to take off before leaving, and you ask for silent forgiveness as you take hold of the bike’s handlebars and swing yourself on top of the seat.

You left Liam Gallagher in the dust, pedalling hard enough for you to be panting like a dog seconds in. It wasn’t until you had made it to your neighborhood that you saw the initials etched on the bike.

LG

Amazing. Absolutely top. The day started out well enough, it had been too chilly for you to wear your favorite skirt, but you thought your misfortunes would end there. Amy had given the last of the milk up to you for cereal, she had given up the first shower, and she didn’t even rush you when you insisted on finishing the lasat chapter of your book before leaving. Amy had been gracious and generous the entire morning and you were blissfully unaware that she was hiding an ace up her sleeve. 

You really should have known. The moment that you accidentally let the existence of those letters slip, you should have already burnt them. Because of course, Amy, the all-action go-getter that she is, would take matters into her own hands. 

You pedaled faster, a bit unused to the unbalanced way that Liam’s shoddy bike tipped to one side. Your hair whipped around your face as you let out a quiet shriek of embarrassment. Had Noel read your letters and sent Liam to come reject you because he couldn’t do it himself? Had Amy mailed out all of your letters? Did Liam find your heartfelt scribbles to his brother so amusing that he showed it to all his dodgy mates? 

You could cry with frustration, trying to ransack your brain for every line and ever sentence that could be deemed incriminating in those letters. You sighed as you realized that they were all quite incriminating. 

You make it back home to the estates at a record time, pausing by the Gallagher’s home with your head cocked as you watched for any sign of life. When there isn’t a creak or cough to be heard from the inside you look quickly to the side to see if anyone’s watching as you haul Liam’s bike over your shoulders, wincing in pain at the heaviness. You attempt to get it over their wooden fence and into their yard safely without any knuckleheads attempting to steal Liam’s bike. After all, that was not a crime you would like to be pinned onto you.

For the next five or so minutes, you spend your time with Liam’s bike over your shoulders, trying to make it go over, but instead having it fall with a loud clang everytime it fell on the pavement at your feet instead. 

A door creaks open, a head pops out to see you still panting, “You alright over there, dear?” Liam’s kind neighbor, Doris, had her glasses perched on her nose and her hand clutching a pack of biscuits. You smile and wave at her, trying to look like you weren’t returning Liam’s stolen bike. 

“Peachy, Eden! Absolutely swell!” you say, voice cracking as you shot her a thumbs up. 

She smiled warmly at you. “It’s nice to see those Gallagher boys finally having a good egg like you around them,” she said before closing the door and leaving you to your own devices. 

You huff, bending down to a squat and lifting the bike above your shoulders before finally tipping it over with a loud crash. “Shoot,” you mumbled at the sound. “Hope I didn’t break that.”

Then you run. In hindisight, it was quite stupid. There was no one but little kids and old people milling about the streets and the Gallaghers weren’t even home to watch your numerous attempts at getting their youngest’s bike in their property. Your hands were stained from where the bike scuffed as you lifted it, you were pretty sure there were some marks on your face as wel, but you were determined to get home. 

You ran down the street, into your yard where Amy’s bike was already parked, ripped the front door open and dashed up the stairs into your room. You didn’t yell for Amy yet, no, you needed to be sure. You got down on your knees on the shaggy pale pink carpet of your bedroom and lifted up your bedskirt to rummage for the old hatbox that had your letters. 

A swift count of them revealed that there were seven letters missing. It was no coincidence that you wrote seven letters to Noel Gallagher. You grit your teeth. 

“Amy!” you screeched, pushing yourself off the floor and nearly taking out your bedroom door from the hinges as you crossed the space between your bedroom and hers. “Amy, I can’t believe you did that!” you screeched, walking into her room and finding her smiling at you sheepishly. 

“Hey,” she greets, turning in her swivel chair to greet you. The nerve.

You march up to her, looking down at her from where you stood as you stomped your foot. “You sent my letters.”

“Not all of them,” she said plainly. “Just all of Noel’s.”

“Why?” you grit out, frustrated at her lack of understanding of the situation. 

She shrugged, you smacked her arm hard enough for her to protest. “Because you weren’t going to do anythin’ about it!” she exclaimed, still rubbing her arm. “You weren’t goin’ to send them!”

You groaned, stepping away from her and falling back into her bed. “They weren’t meant to be sent,”” you cry, putting your hands up to your face to hide in them.

Amy sighed. “Then were they meant to sit in that ugly old hatbox of yours forever?”

You took your hands away from her face to glare at her icily. “Yes,” you said emphatically. “And my hatbox is not ugly!”

You feel the bed dip beside you as Amy sinks and lies down right next to you. You cross your arms petulantly as she turns her head to look at you. “To each their own,” she muses. “But about those letters … kid, y’know it had to be done. You’ve been pinin’ away for two years now, sighing everytime Noel passes and it breaks my heart that you won’t give yourself the chance to fall in love because you’re stuck in this kind of bubble.”

You hum, half stewing in your butthurt feelings, half listening to Amy’s spiel. 

“The truth is that you won’t get anything you want without going for it. And the way I saw it, you wanted Noel Gallagher —”

“Want is a strong word,” you interrupt wryly.

“You want,” she continues, sending you a sharp look. “The kind of love you read about in those books of yours. And you’re not doin’ anythin’ about it.”

You sigh, finally turning to look at her. “Well, it wasn’t your decision to make.”

“I know,” said Amy. “It was a risk I was willing to take.”

You give her a look. “On my behalf?”

She shrugs, looking away from you and turning her gaze to the ceiling. “Big sisters know best, yeah?”

You snort and shove her lightly. “If this turns out badly, promise me you’ll go to Noel and tell him it was an elaborate prank.”

She laughs. “Promise,” she says. “But I have a feeling it’ll turn out fine.”

You look at her flatly. “Liam Gallagher barged into Sweetheart’s this afternoon with the letters. I had to clock out early and have Maria cover my shift so I wouldn’t have to speak to him,” you admitted. “Then I stole his bike. I had to lift it back into their yard before going home.”

“Well, at least this is entertaining?”

You shake your head in exasperation. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I kinda saw that coming. But I’ll do your laundry for a month if you just stick with this for a hot minute, yeah?”

“Just a hot minute?” you ask. 

A hot minute is like an eternity when your heart is in a stack of envelopes in Liam Gallagher’s hands. Are you curious to know why he has them in his possession? Obviously. But are you curious enough to go up to him and ask him about it? Absolutely not. In fact, you spend the entire weekend hiding away in your room, not so much as going into the view of any street facing windows lest either Gallagher brother catch sight of you. 

You felt like a wanted woman on the run. You refused to go out with Amy when she asked you to go to the shops with her, you had Amy buy the groceries your mam trusted you with, and you didn’t dare attempt go back to Sweetheart’s to get your beloved bike. You watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s, then The Philadelphia Story, then Sabrina. Then you read a few novels to keep your mind occupied. Because it it wasn’t, you tended to bury your head in a pillow and scream in embarrassment for your predicament.

You didn’t work weekend shifts. Anyone at Sweetheart’s could tell Liam that. But that doesn’t erase the fact that Liam very much knew where you lived. 

“Your bike’s back,” Amy said on Sunday, pouring herself some cereal as you munched on some toast. 

You blinked. “My bike?” you asked, dumbfounded. “How –?”

“How else d’ya think?” Amy asked flatly, speaking with a mouth full of Cheerios. You wrinkled your nose in disgust. “Liam picked the lock on your bike chain. Brought it over here last night.”

You wrinkled your brow in confusion. “Liam?” you said. “And how do you know all of this?”

She sighed, burdened. “The bastard kept throwin’ pebbles at my window thinkin’ it was yours.”

You raised a brow. “And did you tell him that it wasn’t?”

Amy shook her head, hair a tangled mess where it fell. “Nah,” she said. “He ain’t the brother you’re goin’ for, aye? Why bother?”

So you go back to eating your toast, heart a bit more full with the thought of your bike returned to you. At least you weren’t going to work in the morning on the back of Amy’s beat up bike like a toddler. 

But to every high, there was a low. Monday inevitably came. And you weren’t in the position to skip work, you needed that check. So you heave yourself up and off the bed, getting ready to march yourself into the outside world once again.

And what do you know, you clock in at eight o’clock in the morning on the dot to see Liam Gallagher already seated at the diner’s high chairs by the counter, sipping on a chocolate milkshake and swinging his legs off the seat with that carefree attitude of his. 

You sigh and make your way behind the counter. Liam clocks you instantly. “Wa-hey!” he cheers, mouth stained with a bit of chocolate. “It’s the bike thief!”

You whip your head around to glare at him. “Shhh!” you hiss. “Keep it down.”

He clucked his tongue at you. “I had to walk all the way home, me.” He shook his head in mock sadness, but the playful glint in his eyes told a different story. 

You scanned the diner for a way out of this conversation, a customer to tend to, maybe? But it was an abnormally slow morning. Great. “You could have taken the bus,” you told him. 

He shrugged, back to swinging his legs on the seat restlessly. “Didn’t have any more money. Put it all in that jukebox of yours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Well, that part isn’t my fault.”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Just the bike stealin’ part.”

You sigh before handing him a napkin and gesturing to his lips. He dutifully wipes the chocolate off. “Listen, Liam,” you began. “I’m really sorry for stealing your bike, yeah? But I had an emergency —”

“The emergency bein’ that you ain’t wanna see me?” he asks cheekily. 

You look at him flatly. “Well, no. I —”

He nodded. “Saw that I had your letters and had to run,” he continued your sentence for you. 

He kept hitting the nail on the head. But he didn’t have to know that. “What letters?” you deny, a bit stupidly in a bid for control over the situation. 

Liam is unimpressed, he leans his forearms onto the counter to be closer to you and raises a thick brow. “You expect me to believe that?”

You swallow thickly before nodding. “Yeah, Liam. I dunno what you’re talking about. Really, I just had an emergency that I needed to get to.”

He blinked before nodding, reclining back into his seat and slurping his chocolate milkshake loudly. You let him drink in silence, turning to do some work in the counter and to serve a few customers milling about. It isn’t until nearly fifteen minutes later when Liam speaks again, “Dearest, Noel. The first time I saw you, I was pretty sure my heart fully stopped. I had liked other guys before —”

You shriek and all but clamber over the counter to cover Liam’s mouth with your hand. “Jesus!” you hiss, pressing down on his smug smile. “Why do you have it memorized?” you bite.

The vibration of his laugh under your palm is unmistakable. You let go with warm cheeks and stare him down. “Got a fine memory,” he said, tapping his temple. “Hammer to the head can’t do damage on this baby.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms defensively in front of you. “Why do you even have the letters in the first place?”

He snorts. “You sent it, yeah?”

You huff. “Technically, I wasn’t the one who sent it,” you corrected. “My sister went snooping around my room and decided to play matchmaker.”

He shrugs. “Well, either way, it was sent to my gaff.”

“But it isn’t for you,” you grit out.

He grins. “Yeah, I got that bit, lover girl. Saw the swirly glitter pen on the envelope sayin’ Noel Gallagher and everythin’.”

“Then why did you open it?” you whisper shriek. 

Liam was having way too much fun with the situation. “Was bored,” he said simply. “And Noel ain’t home.”

“What?” you ask blankly. 

“Noel ain’t home,” he repeats. “He’s off with that magic carpet band of his. Won’t be back for another two weeks.”

“Inspiral Carpets,” you correct absently before shaking your head as if to clear it. “Wait, I’m sorry. So, Noel doesn’t know about the letters.”

Liam shakes his head and bites his straw. “Nah,” he said.

Your grin widens as you begin to giggle. It was a modern day miracle! “Great!” you say through a laugh. “That’s great! Oh, I’m so relieved.”

Liam’s thick brows knit together in confusion. “Uh,” he mumbles. “How is that a good thing?”

You sigh. “I didn’t want those letters sent out, okay?” you explain. “I don’t want Noel reading them, or finding out how much I like him, or that I even wrote him letters in the first place.”

Liam pouts in confusion, head cocked to the side. “But,” he begins. “Those letters were class. Proper fuckin’ love letters they were. Was almost jealous that Noel’s got seven of ‘em.”

You chuckle. “Well, Noel doesn’t need to know, alright?” you say. “Please, Liam. Can you promise me that you won’t tell?” You bat your lashes, helplessly trying to get Liam to side with you on this one. 

Liam barely stops himself from laughing in your face as he plucks the cherry garnish of the milkshake from the dregs of his cup and pops it in his mouth. Stem and all. “Well,” he begins, mouth full. “I have an interestin’ proposition for you, lover girl.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

He continues on as if you hadn’t interrupted. “What if I set you up with Noel? Give you the juicy goss on how to woo him? Ain’t that a dream?”

You wrinkle your nose. “And why would you wanna do that?”

He pops the cherry stem out of his mouth. “You’re a kind bird. I always kinda liked you. Wouldn’t mind my brother havin’ you.”

“I’m not something to have, Liam,” you explain, patience dwindling. “And you expect me to believe that you’re just doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”

He reacts as if he’s been shot, hand to his chest and an overexaggerated groan leaving his pink lips. “You don’t think I can be a kind lad?”

You sigh. “You’re deliberately being thick,” you tell him, flatly. “Of course you’re a kind lad. But I have trouble believing that there isn’t something in it for you.”

Liam hangs his head and pushes the milkshake glass your way. You deftly take hold of it and bring it to the kitchen’s dishwasher. You return to find him with his head propped on his chin, watching you. You raise a prompting brow and he relents. “Fine,” he says petulantly. “I figured if my brother fell in love with some nice bird, then he’d write some nice tunes for my band.”

“You’re in a band?” you ask, shocked. 

He gives you a dry look. “You know Noel writes songs but you ain’t noticed that I’m in a band.”

You shrugged. “There’s a reason those letters say Dearest Noel instead of Dearest Liam,” you tease.

He laughs easily, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, our songs are kinda shite now and Noel alway has some good stuff. But he ain’t been writin’ as much as he used to. I figured some good ol’ lovin’ would make him pick that pen back up.”

You hummed, piecing it all together. “So you want to set me up with Noel so he’d fall in love and write songs about it?”

He nodded eagerly. “He needs a muse, yeah?”

You smile sadly at him and his excited expression. “Liam,” you say gently. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be anyone’s muse.”

He pouts, bottom lip dragging downwards. “That’s a load of shite, c’mon!”

You shake your head resolutely. “No can do, Liam. Sorry.”

He retreats into his seat, looking at you a bit lost. Like he can’t quite understand you before sighing and saying, “Noel would like you if you just gave it a shot,” he said, picking at the hem of his shirt. You open your mouth to say something before he beats you to it. “You’re smart an’ funny. You live just down the road from us which would be great whenever he wants to visit. You have a job that pays well which means that you won’t have to rely on him all the time. You’re sweet, and you’re pretty, and you’re a nice bird. I don’t get why you think you ain’t a muse.”

You blink, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know you paid enough attention to me,” you laugh stiltedly, assessing Liam in this new light. 

He shrugs as if it was no big deal. “Ain’t hard,” he says. Then, in an act that balances his sweetness out, he burps and asks you, “Now, d’you got any of those basket of chips, please?”

He doesn’t take the chips to go like you hoped he would. He sits by the counter, humming tunes to himself as he eats like supplies are running low. The thing about Liam Gallagher that you were currently learning was that he was persistent. Once he knew what he wanted, he grabbed onto it and wouldn’t let it go. Which meant that for your entire nine hour shift, Liam sat on that counter seat and waited. Not patiently, god no, never patiently. He chatted with every patron that came, played a number of Beatles tunes, went out for a smoke a total of five times, and even began charming Maria. 

“He’s a nice lad, aye?” she said to you as she passed, winking. 

You flushed. “He’s my neighbor!” you explained. 

“Mhm,” she hummed, leaving you and Liam to your own devices. 

He pouts as you. “How long is your shift,” he whines pitifully. 

You laugh, “Five more minutes then I could clock out,” you say. “You don’t have to wait up, y’know? It’s not like I agreed to your weird suggestion.”

“It ain’t weird!” he protests. 

You stick your tongue out at him as you leave to take care of your last table. 

Liam watches eagerly as you clock out and hang your apron, giving him a look that made him stand up hastily and follow you out the main entrance of the diner. You catch sight of his bike next to yours and smile. “Hey, I never thanked you for returning my bike,” you said, walking next to him. “That was very sweet of you.”

“No sweat,” he said. “Figured it was a thank you for hauling my bike up our fence. Doris said it took an age for you to do.”

You groan as he laughs loudly. “I didn’t know she watched the whole thing!”

“Said it looked like you were out there trying to catch a stroke,” he giggled. 

You sighed. “It was a heavy bike,” you grumbled. 

He smiled warmly. “Thanks for bringin’ it back, yeah?”

You take the key out of your pocket and unlock the chain, putting it in your bag as you swung your legs onto your bike. You raised a brow at Liam, “I forgot we’re going the same way.”

“Don’t get sick of me yet, lover girl!” he says, pedaling away. With a sigh, you pick up your pace and ride next to him. The ride home after your shift was always a peaceful thing. As much as you loved the diner, it could be loud nad overwhelming. Being on your bike, the wind on your face, and houses rushing past you in a haze was a way for you to finally breathe. 

Beside you, it seemed like Liam was doing the same thing. Just breathing it all in.

You thought about Liam’s proposition and you thought about Amy’s words. An opportunity seemingly landed in your lap. What better way was there to woo Noel than to find out more about him from his brother? Noel and Liam were close. They liked to pretend they weren’t, but they’ve always been thick as thieves. If you have the approval of one brother, you’ll gain that of the other. 

You looked to Liam, his hair a mess in the afternoon wind, and made up your mind. You weren’t a betting woman, but you’ll place your bets on this.

It wasn’t until you two had passed his home and had stopped at yours that either of you spoke. 

“Please think about my suggestion —”

“I’ll do it —” 

You two spoke at the same time, facing each other, still on your bikes. Liam blinked, having caught the start of your sentence, and pushed his bike off him to give you a big bear hug. “Fuckin’ class!” he cheered. “‘Ya won’t regret it, lover girl!” he said, shaking you in his joyful embrace.

You laughed and smacked his chest. “Yeah, yeah,” you said. “Better make it worth my while.”

“Oh, you’ll be Noel Gallagher’s bird in no time, babe,” he guaranteed. 

You were still smiling as you shut the door behind you, watching Liam pedal away from your house, turning to wave at you with only one hand on the handlebar. “Eyes on the road!” you warned. His laugh rang jovially down the street.

“See ‘ya tomorrow, bike thief!” he yelled loudly, heating your cheeks up as you closed the window in embarrassment and drew the curtains. 

You ignored Amy’s smug smile as you went up the stairs to your room. 

***

Liam doesn’t have the patience to stay for another round of your nine hour shift. Instead, he waits outside Sweetheart’s in your last ten minutes on the clock, and comes in to order two milkshakes to go.

“One chocolate milkshake and one of whatever your favorite flavor is,” he says, taking out his busted wallet and wiggling his brows. “My treat.”

You snort as he gives you a crumpled up bill and tell him to wait outside for you.

You have the barista whip up the creamiest milkshakes before you hang up your frilly pink apron, clock out, and leave with Liam. The milkshakes were definitely an obstacle that you didn’t foresee, one hand occupied with holding it tight while the other kept you upright on the bike. Liam, for all his swagger, kept swerving into you.

“Liam,” you warned as he bumped into you again.

“I’m tryin’” he whined. 

You huffed. “Where are we even going?” you asked, beginning to tire from biking with one hand. 

“It’s just up ahead!” he said defensively. 

“Where?” you asked curiously. 

“The chippy by the estates!”

The chip shop near your neighborhood was a staple. Gertrude had been manning the shop with her husband Michael since the seventies and had made it a cozy space to land after nights out, tiring afternoon shifts, or early mornings. You and Amy often bought from the very same chip shop on days that your family didn’t quite feel up to cooking anything. It was on those days that fish and chips felt like a meal fit for a queen. 

Gertrude greets you with a coo and a cheer, asking after your sister and your parents fondly. But she greets Liam with a gigantic hug and a motherly kiss to his cheek. “Oh, Liam! It’s nice to see you, sweetheart! You don’t come to visit here as often as you should. Haven’t seen your cherubic face in so long!”

You bite your lip to prevent a laugh from escaping, Liam sends you a look beforee taking Gertrude’s hand in his and kissing it charmingly. “Missed ‘ya, Gorgeous Gertie!” he crowed. 

That’s how you ended up with a gigantic free basket of chips. 

“You’re well loved around here,” you say, more of a statement than a question. It was true, the way Gertrude fussed over Liam, the way Michael made sure to make his fish just the way he likes it, the way that their youngest son came up to Liam to show him his new football. It was endearing, a side of Liam you didn’t know.

He shrugged, shoveling a gigantic portion of fish into his mouth. “I’m well loved everywhere, me.” He puffs up his chest and winks jokingly. 

You shake your head, eat your chips, and sip on the strawberry milkshake Liam bought for you. Liam devours his meal in the eeries way that young men often do. Which meant that as he pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket and extracted a pen from the other, you had only take five bites out of your meal. 

“Strategy time,” he says, smoothing the creases of the paper and beginning to write. You smiled at his concentration and leaned back to let him do all the talking. “So it’s gonna be like school, yeah? Gonna have one of those curriculum thingies to follow.”

You hummed and bit your straw.

“First,” he starts, writing sloppily on the paper. “Is gonna be about Noel. Everything there is to know about him; what he likes, what he dislikes, what he listens to, what he does, where to take him, how he showers, how he shits —”

“Ew!” you protest.

Liam rambles on, “Every fuckin’ thing, lover girl. That’s where we’ll start.”

The scribbles on the paper where unintelligible, but you let Liam do his own thing, too endeared to even tell him that you couldn’t read what he was frantically trying to write. 

“Next,” he says. “Is putting you in Noel’s life. Introduce you to his friends, to his family, the works.”

You frowned, suddenly nervous. “Isn’t that like … a girlfriend thing?” you say. “I mean, it would be kinda embarassing to be introduced as the girl pining after Noel to all his mates.”

Liam sighs. “You’ll be introduced as my friend, ‘ya nutter,” he grumbled, as if confused by your confusion. “Him and I have the same mates, the same mam, the same everythin’. Would be easy to introduce you to them. And trust me, they’ll like you.”

You scoff. “How are you so sure?”

Liam looks at you intently as he says, “I’m sure.”

You bite into your fish to avoid ensuing eye contact. “And next in the curriculum …?” you prompt him. 

Liam perks up, writing steadily on the paper you were sure he was gonna give to you and you were going to have to pretend to understand. “Next in the curriculum is all about you. Gettin’ you ready to see Noel again and make your move.”

You nod, trying to look determined. But your voice wavers when you ask, “When’s he back again?”

Liam steals a handful of chips off your plate. “On the fourteenth.”

“Right,” you say drily, the situation only making itself known to you right at that moment. 

“Valentine’s Day,” Liam wiggles his brows. “Day of love,” he singsongs. 

You groan and slump in the viny seat. “Perfect.”

“It is!” Liam says enthusiastically, not catching your tone. “Mam’s gonna throw a little welcome back for her boy, and you are gonna be there.”

You nod, having the sense that you’ve bitten off more than you could chew. “Okay,” you say, voice a higher pitch than normal. “That’s okay.”

It definitely was not okay.

Liam worked quick, and he worked efficiently. He spent the succeeding hour in that chippy doing a play by play of all Noel’s favorites; color, song, food, movie, which jumper he liked using, which aftershave he prefers, what ice cream he pretends not to like, which restaurant he’d always wanted to go to, his favorite spot to go smoke a joint. Liam puked up all information on Noel that you could possibly need.

You went home dizzy and overwhelmed and you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

Another thing about Liam is that he seemingly didn’t rest. The moment you woke up, you were bombarded with pebbles hitting your window. And there could truly only be one perpetrator for that. You sigh as you turn in your bed, rip the sheets off your body and march over to your window to open it with an agressive pull.

“Ow!” you yell as a pebble hits you square in the forehead. “Liam!” you hiss, looking down at Liam’s sheepish figure rubbing the back of his head. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, flashing a smile that crossed with a grimace. “Can I come up?” he asks, gesturing to the trellis of roses leading up to your window. 

You yawn and retreat from the window, but not before calling, “Help yourself.”

Liam crawled up the trellis in a startling show of athleticism. Grunting and groaning as he climbed, and landing with a heavy thump on your carpeted floor. “Whoa,” he breathed as he stepped into your room, gazing at the frilly mess of it all. You were quite proud of your room; it was like one of your scrapbooks come to life. It had polaroids of your loved ones, pieces of lacy ribbons strewn everywhere, glitters and gems on surfaces that didn’t usually have glitters or gems, vintage furniture from the charity shops, and books shoved in every surface.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say as you fix your bed. You point to a pale pink foot stool, “Take a seat?”

Liam obliged, looking abnormally large as he sat. “Nice place,” he said, still assessing the room. There wasn’t any passive aggressive or joking tone to be found in his voice. In fact, he seemed kind of awed as he turned his head this way and that. He smirks and stands up, beelining for a picture you knew he’d take notice of. “Look at the pair of ‘ye.” He taps the polaroid, booping picture-you’s nose. “The perfect couple.”

It was taken last year during your birthday. Amy had taken to surprising you with a party at Sweetheart’s, filling it with your favorite people. Noel had come, an hour late but bearing a stuffed bear that sat on a place of pride on your book case. Pictured was Noel’s arm around you as you leant into him, beaming as you held the bear up to the camera.

You blushed. “Shut up,” you mumble.

Liam just grins and sits back down, doing his best to look laidback in his seat. “So,” he drawls, rummaging in his rucksack to pull out what must have been twelve CDs, all of them clacking on their jewel cased plastic. He handed them to you. “Came here to bring ‘ya this.”

You blink and quickly take it from him. The Smiths, The La’s, The Stone Roses, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Sex Pistols, The Kinks. You looked at each cover and smiled gratefully at Liam. Even you knew how much music meant to Noel. “Thanks, Liam,” you said, truly grateful. 

He beamed. “Start with The Smiths. I don’t like ‘em, but ‘rkid thinks they’re amazin’”

You set the CDs down on the made bed turn to Liam. “You’re a bit early today,” you say, leaning on the foot of your bed. You should really start getting ready, but you very well couldn’t do it while Liam was in the room. The thought made you blush. “I thought you were gonna swing by after work?”

He shook his head, shaggy head of hair shaking. “Nah. Got a gig later, d’ya know what I mean.”

Your brows raise. “Ah. The infamous The Rain.”

“Well, don’t say it like that!” he protests with a frown. “We’re class!”

You laugh, not unkindly. “I’m sure you are.” He’s still frowning when he mumbles something under his breath. You lean in closer to hear him. Honestly, this boy. As petulant as a puppy denied a treat. “What was that?” you ask.

“I said,” he repeats loudly. You resist a snort at his tone. “You should maybe come to the gig tonight. Couldn’t hurt havin’ one more familiar face in the audience.”

“Wow,” you say wryly. “Glad to know you think so highly of me.”

He huffs, fidgeting with his hair, mussing it up. “You know I want you there,” he says, surprising you. “But this could also help with introducing you to Noel’s mates. They’re gonna be there tonight.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “Oh.”

Liam gave you a look. “C’mon. They ain’t gonna bite.”

You frowned. “I’m not gonna know anyone there, Liam. All I’ll know is you and you’ll be up onstage doing god knows what!”

“I sing,” he corrected easily.

“You’ll be up onstage singing!” you continue, distressed. The thought of being at a place as lively as a gig, knowing no one in the crowd was intimidating. Knowing you need to make a good impression on top of that was even more intimidating. “Maybe Amy’s free tonight,” you mused.

Liam’s look sharpened. “Hey,” he scolded. “We both know that if ‘yer sister’s there, you’ll just end up clinging to her. You need to broaden your horizons, lover girl.”

“Don’t call me that,” you respond automatically. 

“C’mon,” Liam coaxed, his eyes a shining pool of blue. 

You sighed gruffly. “I’ll think about it.”

Liam’s smile began to grow. “Really?”

“I’m still not sure, Liam,” you try to say but Liam’s already whooping with joy, gathering you in his arms and rendering you unbalanced enough to fall into his lap.

It was then that Amy wrenched open your bedroom door. To the odd scene of you in Liam Gallagher’s lap as he thanked you profusely. She raises a brow.

“Hello!” Liam greets jovially, you still seated firmly on his lap.

Amused but trying not to show it, Amy says, “Hello?” 

“I’m Liam,” he introduces uselessly, seeing as he and Amy have known each other for more than a decade.

“I know,” she says. “Say, Liam. D’ya mind unhanding my sister and letting her get ready for work? We’re gonna be late.”

It’s only then that Liam lets go.

And it’s only after Liam clambers joyfully out the open window where he came, crying a See ‘ya tonight! to you with an ear splitting grin that Amy turns to you with a baffled look.

“Now what the fuck’s all that about?”

The rest of the day passes by in a haze, your palms unbearably sweaty, the Peter Pan collar of your dress too tight, and your leg twitching for the entirety of your shift. 

You ignored Amy’s badgering on the way to work, steadfastly explaining the situation and refusing to bite at every sly joke she makes. 

You spend the rest of the day with your mind preoccupied, nervous for tonight. Because you knew that even if you told Liam that you’d think about it, that meant that you’d actually be there. It would be a disservice to you not to, and it’d be a mild disappointment on Liam’s end. You owed it to yourself to try, even though the thought scared you shitless.

“Your boy ain’t here?” Maria says, bumping your hip with his. 

You huff. “Not my boy,” you correct. “And he’s got a gig tonight.”

“Oh,” she says, brows flying to her hairline. “He’s in a band?”

You nod. “I hear they’re pretty great. Liam’s the singer and everything.”

She smiles. “That sounds lovely. Enjoy tonight, hon. I remember goin’ to my boyfriend’s gigs at that age. What a time!”

Before you could protest, Maria sidles away to tend to a customer. You don’t have much time to mull over what she said as a man asks for a refill of his coffee.

Before you know it, the clock ticks to five o’clock and you’re waving goodbye to Maria who hugs you goodbye and kindly asks Is that what you’re wearing to the gig? Which you interpreted to mean Don’t wear that to a rock gig.

So you add Go home to change on your agenda and cycle home with a racing mind. What if Noel’s friends don’t like you? What if you spend the night miserable and in one corner? What if you realize that you’d rather be anywhere than at The Boardwalk listening to local bands? What if it’s too tight, too crowded, too amped up, too loud — You nearly miss the turn to the estates and have to double back to get on the right track. 

The evening is spent rushing. You wash the grime of the day with a quick shower, you put your usual make up on, you curl your hair prettily, and you spend an age picking out something to wear. “Amy!” you screech, though she was just in the room beside yours. “Amy! C’mere!”

She drags herself to your room, dead eyed and unimpressed as you show her your pick of at least seven outfits. “Are you going to be doing a quick change every set?” she bites.

You frown. “Help me!” you plead.

She rolls her eyes and enters your room. With efficiency, she throws out three of your outfits (Too school girl, too posh, trying too hard to be a rockstar). You’re left with four, all laid out neatly on your bed as you and Amy stand side by side to look at it from every angle. 

“I think the red one’s chic,” you blurted out after moments of deliberation. “Simple enough but still cool.”

Amy shoots you a look. “Then wear that.”

You drag out a breath. “But what if it’s not good?”

“As long as it’s good with you, then it’s perfect,” she says. “I can’t believe I have to tell you that. Just be yourself tonight, yeah? Don’t go actin’ like someone you’re not. They’ll all love you. See, Liam likes you, and his and Noel’s mates are just like ‘im. You’ll be a star!”

You nod jerkily, bundling up the outfit in your arms. “Okay,” you breathe. “Be myself, okay,” you mumble to yourself, not unlike a mantra.

Amy pats your shoulder. “Atta girl,” she says before moving to leave. “Have fun tonight. Don’t be late for curfew. And move a bit quicker because you’re late.”

That lights a fire under your ass. You get dressed quickly, do one last check of your outfit before grabbing your essentials. You yell a quick goodbye to Amy as you slam the front door closed and start your trek to the bus stop. Biking there could very much kill you and render you an hour late. The bus would still make you late, but at least you won’t be panting and sweating on it. 

To your delight, the bus arrives early, and you greet the driver with an enthusiastic hello! that he chuckled at. You sat close to the door and watched the world pass by in colors as the bus sped away. 

You rocked your foot nervously, tapping an uneven rhythm that had the old lady across from you handing you a sweet to ease your nerves. You smile grateful at her and put the caramel toffee in your mouth, eager to have something to occupy you. 

You were only eighteen minutes late when you got to The Boardwalk. But with the way Liam was scanning the crowd from the bar, he didn’t even think you were gonna make it. You smile as you catch sight of him, brows knit as he searched the faces in the space, hand cradling a cold lager, and his lips forming a small frown. 

You grin and raise your hand high in the air to wave. “Oi!” you shout, catching his attention. He brightens immediately, his frown turning up into a fond grin as he catches sight of you.

“Lover girl!” he cries out, arms spread wide as he welcomes you with a tight hug. You reciprocate, winding your amrs around his middle and swaying a bit as Liam rocks you back and forth. He lets go and all the warmth goes with him. “Thought ‘ya wouldn’t make it?”

“You thought I’d chicken out?” you said with a raised brow. 

He raises his glass to you and grins cheekily. “Bawk bawk!” he clucks, imitating a chicken. You laugh and smack his arm to which he dodged easily. “Aye, don’t hit the talent. I’m on in a few minutes!”

You smile up at him. “Oh, good luck! Can’t wait to hear this class band of yours.”

He matches your smile. “And speakin’ of a class band,” he says, winding an arm around your shoulder and facing you in the direction of his mates who were all sporting amused grins at Liam. “These are mine and Noel’s mates!”

You smiled sheepishly at them and give a wave. “Hello,” you say. “Nice to meet you all.”

Liam points to various people. “That over there is Bonehead, lead guitar and pain in the arse. Over there is Guigs, if ‘ya need any ganja, ask him for some. And then we have Tony on the drums, class act,” he says. “And over there, just millin’ about are our mates.” Liam jostles you in his grip then addresses the group. “Now, you lot take care of ‘er while me and the band are up there, aye. She’s funny, this one, so make sure to get that out of her.”

A few people roll their eyes but they all rush to meet you, offering you a drink. You accept and go up to the bar, but not before shooting Liam a smile as he disentangles from you and heads to the stage. “Thanks,” you say quietly.

“No problem,” he answers. ‘Now, wish me luck.”

You grin, giddy. “Luck!”

All your worries melt away as the lights dim, Liam’s mates make earnest conversation about how the two of you met, and to be quite frank, when the drinks enter your system. Someone asks you if you were the one to steal Liam’s bike and you have the time of your life rehashing that whirlwind of a story. 

It wasn’t long until you were laughing along with them that the band finally took the stage. There wasn’t much conversation after Liam started rasping into the mic.

Watching him up there, all swagger and confidence, you could see just how much he was meant to be a rockstar. He looked so at home on that stage, not a single amount of trepidation in his body as he looked over onto the gathered crowd and made them dance to songs that they didn’t even know the lyrics to. He was a magnetic force, drawing in the attention of every person in the room. You knew then that he was destined for greater things. 

Drunk on a a number of gin and juice, you tell him so at the back alley of The Boardwalk, leaning against the brick wall as him and his mates smoked. He grins, wide and boyish when you tell him this, as if he’d just found the secret to eternal happiness. “Really?” he says, eager and sincere all at the same time. 

You nod, tilting your head up to meet his gaze as he draws another breath from the cigarette. He outstretches one to you, brow raised, but you shake your head. He shrugs and makes no comment. “Manchester’s next big thing,” you muse.

He smiles, more subdued, only half listening to Bonehead’s drunken rambling beside him. “Add Noel in the mix and we’ll be the entire world’s next big thing.”

Noel. Right, you haven’t even thought of him all night. “Yeah,” you say. “I’ve never heard him play live but I bet he’d be amazing.”

Liam tilts his head at your comment but shakes it off instead of blurting out something. He takes a drag of his cigarette and leans his head back on the brick wall. You watch the column of his throat bob and swallow thickly. 

“Listen, Liam,” you begin, but then sigh instead. “I gotta go.”

Liam blinks, looking at you a bit wounded. “Now?” he asks incredulously, which catches the attention of his mates. 

You smile at all of them and wave, clinging onto your jacket. “Sorry, lads and ladies,” you say jokingly as some of them begin to protest. “Gotta run soon. I’ve got a curfew and everything. If I get home even a minute late, you won’t be seeing my face for another decade.”

Liam pushes himself off the wall and stubs out his cigarette with no hesitation. “Well then,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You blink at him and ignore the wolf whistling from the group. “You’re walking me home?”

He rolls his eyes and keeps you close with an arm across your shoulder. “Takin’ the bus,” he corrects pedantically. “And yeah. Your parents would kill me. Or Amy would first. Either way, I’m dyin’.”

You huff in amusement and pat his chest. “Then let’s go, rockstar. We got a bus to catch.”

You say goodbye to the group, exchanging numbers and addresses, laughing with held hands, making plans for the next few weeks, and trading a few new inside jokes. Liam raises a brow at you as you finally separate from his mates and make your way to the bus stop. 

“Look at Ms. Popularity over here,” he crows. “Told ‘ya not to worry. They love you!”

You laugh and let Liam pull you in closer as you walk a bit criss crossed and tipsy. “I think I love them as well?”

Liam laughs loudly, a booming sound in the night. You giggle with him. “And I thought I heard you make plans with Mike and his bird? What’s that all about?”

“Oh!” you say, bright eyed with a pep in your step. “We’re gonna go to that new drive-inn thing to watch Barefoot in the Park!”

Liam chuckles and shakes his head. “Noel is so gonna love you when he gets back.”

You squeal with joy, a bit tipsy and a lot happy. You couldn’t wait to see Noel again.

***

The weekend arrives with little fanfare. Save for your frantic baking and distressed complaining of Amy, if you take a sample out of that batch, I swear I’ll combust.

The last two days were uneventful, with Liam bringing you hangover cures the morning after his gig, then dropping you off at work before heading over to rehearsals. Friday was spent with the same customers and the same routine, your body on autopilot as you served the customers with a smile. 

Saturday came and went, but not without Liam knocking on your window to tell you to get ready for tea with him and his mam the next day. He climbed down the trellis so quickly that you didn’t even get to protest.

Which is how you end up on the Gallaghers’ front porch, holding a decadent chocolate cake, apple tarts with vanilla creme, homemade donuts, and honey butter biscuits.

You don’t even wonder if you’ve gone overboard with the baked goods until Peggy opens the door, Liam at her heels like a dog gearing up to run out into the street, and exclaims loudly at your haul. 

“Goodness, dear. ‘Ye didn’t have to go through all the trouble!” she cries, ushering you inside. You smile as you go in, eyes taking in every bit of their home. It was much of the same layout as yours, but the way they used the space made everything feel different. The pictures on the walls, the records on the shelf, the VHS tapes scattered everywhere. You smile at the warmth.

“It’s no trouble, ma’am,” you say.

“Ha!” Liam laughs. Peggy shoots him a glare. “She called you ma’am.”

Your face heats at the possible mistake and Peggy rushes to comfort you. “Oh it’s no big deal. You were just bein’ respectful unlike some people,” she says pointedly to Liam who pouts. “But you can just call me Peggy.”

You smile at her. “Yes, Peggy,” you say dutifully before sending Liam a pointed look. “D’ya mind bringing this into the kitchen with me?”

Peggy sighs as Liam rushes to take the bundle of goods out your arms. “I swear I raised the lad better than that,” she mumbles to you. “So sorry my other lads can’t be here today. I remember Noel talks quite a bit about you.”

You perk up. “He does?”

She nods, heading towards the kitchen. You follow her. “Aye. Says you always serve him his bacon butties on Fridays.”

You stifle a grin as you enter the kitchen, giddy and nearly floating off the linoleum. Liam catches sight of you from where he’s setting the plates up on the table and winks. “Her and Noel would make a grand couple, yeah, mam?”

Peggy gives him an odd look before shaking her head with a sigh. You and Liam exchange a confused look. “Never mind,” she grumbles. “Sit down, sweetheart. Liam will bring us our tea. We’ve got Spaghetti and bread sticks for tonight.”

You sit down on the seat she’s patting next to her and listen as she regales you of the tale of her sons. “Oh, dear. Did ‘ya know that my Liam used to cry and cry and cry so much as a babe that he’d throw up on himself?”

“Mam!”

You leave the Gallaghers’ with a tub full of leftovers, a full stomach, your cheeks aching with laughter, eyes satiated with baby pictures of the brothers, and Liam by your side as he dutifully walks you home. Not because my mam would clip me ‘round the ear if I don’t! he was quick to correct.

“You already fit right in,” he muses as he matches your unhurried pace down the sidewalk. 

You turn to look up at him. “Yeah?” 

He nods. “He’s gonna come back and find that you’re in his life forever. His mates like you, his mam likes you, his brother likes you.”

You raise a teasing brow. “Oh, does he now?” He rolls his eyes and moves to shove you with his body. You stand your ground and pout, “Hey! Careful or I’ll tell all your mates about the story of you in the lake when I see them again next week!”

Liam groans. “Menace,” he says before perking up. “You said you were going to be hangin’ out with me mates next week?” he asks.

“Yup,” you say. “Dunno if you’re invited, though.”

“Haha,” he says drily. “I’ll invite myself.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course.”

“Keep your schedule open for tomorrow night, though,” he says.

You frown in confusion. “Why?”

He grins wildly. “Got plans for us. You’ll see. I’ll pick ‘ya up at work tomorrow? Make sure to dress comfortably!”

The next day, Asa and Maria greet Liam with a smile and a free milkshake as he comes to pick you up. Grinning as they pinch at his cheeks and coo over him. You roll your eyes and drag him away as soon as you clock out, waving goodbye to the pair and to Mrs. Pillock watching you with a smile in a corner booth. 

On your bikes, you laugh as Liam leads you to the destination looming at the distance. After all, it wasn’t that hard to miss the ferris wheel and the rollercoaster that wasn’t usually there. 

The fair was in town just in time for Valentine’s Day. In the darkening dusk of the evening, it was idyllic; the sparkling lights, the loud roar of the rollercoaster, the ringing of bells for each carnival game. It was straight out of a movie. 

With an arm around your shoulders, Liam leads you to the heart of it all. You frown in confusion. “Are we not here to go on some rides?” you ask.

Liam chuckles. “Maybe later,” he says. “But we are here for educational purposes, d’ya know what I mean?”

“No,” you say flatly.

Liam doesn’t let your mood bother him. “The fair, lover girl,” he begins his explanation. “Is a breeding ground for single lads to pick up cute birds.”

You don’t catch on. “So?”

He shakes you a bit in his arms. “So,” he grits out in a combination of frustration and laughter. “This is where I’ll teach you to get your flirt on!”

You push away from him in horror. “No!” you shriek, he only laughs harder, nearly bent over. “That’s not in the curriculum!”

“The curriculum,” he begins through a wheeze of laughter. “Is going as planned. Learn about Noel? Check. Integrate you into his friends and family? Check. Focus on what you need to improve? Still no dice.”

You cross your arms defensively. “Need to improve?” you shriek. 

He rolls his eyes and holds his arms out in what’s supposed to be a calming motion. “Easy, girl,” he says. “I just mean that you need to get used to the whole romance and flirtin’ thing, yeah? ‘Cos so far, you’re not that confident about all’at yet.”

You grit your teeth. “And why’d you say that.”

He shrugs. “You don’t believe that you could pull my brother. You don’t think you’re half as good as you actually are. And I need you to start believing that, yeah?”

You sigh, looking pleadingly at Liam. “Do I have to?”

Liam matches your sigh and gives a soft kiss to your temple. “Sorry, lover girl. You’re gonna have to.”

“Can’t I just do it with you?” you ask desperately, twisting to see him eye to eye. 

He balks, taken aback. “What? Flirt with me?”

You scoff. “Don’t sound so disgusted.”

“I’m not —” he protests loudly before groaning, hands mussing up his hair. “That won’t work,” he says. 

You stomp your foot petulantly. “Why not!”

“Obviously I’ll be a bit biased!” he cries. “You’re my friend!”

You frown deeper. “Damn it,” you grumble before sighing heavily. “Fine. Just show me what to do.”

He gives you a high five that you reluctantly return. “Atta girl!”

Your first mark, funnily enough, was named Mark. According to Liam, he had been in Noel’s class, was recently single, and had nothing going on for him. When asked why he’d like to saddle you to such a guy, he just shrugs and claims it’s in the name of practice. You sigh and go in for the kill. Your walk is that of a newborn foal, your opening line of a drawled out yet unpracticed heyyyyy was horrendous, and your wink was just an exaggerated blink that made him think you were having a stroke. Still, you sauntered over to Liam, waving about a piece of paper with Mark’s number on it. 

“I got his number!” you yell triumphantly.

He smiles and boldly turns you over in another direction, pointing to another lad. “That one. Go.”

Through some conversation and small talk, you find out that his name was Jacob and that he was attending uni in the city. He had a deep love for Pink Floyd, which meant that you got to finally put Noel’s borrowed CDs to good use as you spoke to Jacob about it. You leave triumphantly with his number. Liam sends you a thumbs up and a goofy smile as he points to another lad down by the ring toss. 

You saunter up to him, ask him his name, and turn around quickly when you find out he has a girlfriend. You apologize and grimace, and run to Liam with a tail tucked between your legs. 

“Huh,” he says. “Didn’t know they got back together.”

He instead redirects you to a guy manning an empty game booth where you ask him about how the game works, how many people win in a night, which is his favorite carnival game. And you don’t end up with his number but he let’s you do a free game at the booth where you win a gigantic puppy dog. 

“I’m gonna name him Liam!” you tell Liam giddily as he laughs and points to another guy, this one waiting in line for some corn dogs. You hand over Dog Liam to Human Liam before confidently stepping forward.

You ask over his day, ask what is it about corndogs was appealing, have bit of banter about your food preferences, and he ends up giving you his number. You return to Liam with a pep in your step. “Easy there, heartbreaker,” he laughs, cradling the puppy in his arms as he gives you an enthusiastic high five. “Wanna take a break from being a Casanova?”

Liam ends up knowing the guy who mans the ferris wheel, having the two of you (three if you count Dog Liam) skip the line and ride the carriage immediately. You sigh and lean back as the ferris wheel begins to rise and spin. “That was nice.”

Liam smiles and digs his elbow into your ribs. “What did I tell ‘ya, lover girl?” he says smugly. 

“Liam’s right, I was wrong, this is the best night ever, and I got a cute puppy!” you said. “If this is what happens when you’re right, then I wouldn’t mind being wrong.”

He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t?” he asks skeptically.

“Oh, I so would,” you say. “I’d be pissed for about a week.”

Liam laughs loudly enough to rock the carriage, you squeak and smack him in the arm. “We ain’t gonna fall, trust me,” he says.

You chuckle drily. “Oh, I trust you. It’s these carnival ferris wheels I don’t trust.”

He shakes his head in amusement. “Don’t worry, we’ll live to see the day that Noel comes home.”

You smile and pretend that you don’t hear the traitorous pitter patter in your heart as you lay your head on his shoulder, the evening air breezing past you as the carnival lights shine like it was just for you and Liam.

***

Everything comes to a head soon enough. You couldn’t go back to just ignoring it. Your days pass by quickly, the routine of working at Sweetheart’s broken by Liam’s presence and his smile. 

You do your best impression of a girl who isn’t confused as all hell with Amy by your side as the two of you watch Casablanca on the couch in your living room. 

“So,” you say in between scenes. Quite frankly, the two of you have the entire film memorized by that point. You knew what was gonna happen before it happened. “Noel’s back tomorrow,” you say.

Your sister hums, eyes glued to the telly. You grit your teeth as she pops in a piece of popcorn in her mouth. “Have fun at his welcome back party.”

You sigh. “Yeah, I will.”

“I’m sure Liam’ll be a hoot.”

“Yup,” you say.

“He’s a good lad.”

“I know.”

Suddenly, Amy jerks and turns off the telly. You leap up to protest but she silences you with a glare. “Just admit it?”

You shrink back, already knowing what she wants to hear. But you stand your ground. “Admit what?”

She looks at you sharply before groaning in frustration. “Let’s see. There’s this boy who takes you home from work, sometimes he’d bring you there as well, he takes you on carnival dates where you win stuffed puppies and name them after him, you go to his band’s gig and become best mates with his best mates, you meet his mam, he climbs the trellis on your window like goddamn fucking Tarzan, and he’s not the guy you’ve been in love with for the past two years.”

Your eyes well with tears. “I’m sorry,” you squeak.

Amy immediately softens. “Oh, hon, no,” she breathes, gathering you into her arms. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You sigh wetly. “I know.”

“It’s just that you need to make a choice, yeah?” she says gently, hands gently cradling your skull. Just like she did when you first scraped your knee riding on her bike. “And I, for one, think it’s a very obvious choice.”

***

Noel comes home on February 14th, the afternoon bright as he steps into his home and is greeted by his friends and family. 

The sight of Noel used to send shivers down your spine, you used to think that everytime you saw him, cupid struck right to you. But as he drops his baggage down by the door and greets everyone in attendance, you only feel a prickle of fondness.

“Go get ‘im, Casanova,” Liam whispers in your ear. You shiver as he disappears to give his brother some stick. Then, he points to you and both brothers turn to look at you. Liam with a shy smile, Noel with a jovial one. You wave, and both of them wave back. 

You spend your afternoon with Noel and Liam’s mates, talking about the drive-inn you went to with Mike and Isla, Bonehead’s new bird, Guigsy’s run in with the coppers. Noel is in the middle of each conversation, the prodigal son returned, as he shoots you periodic looks of bafflement and wonder at the fact that you slot into his life so perfectly while he was gone. The bafflement increases when Peggy kisses your cheek and hands you the first slice of pie.

You don’t get a moment alone with Noel until sunset when he’s taken a moment outside to have a smoke and the air inside the house began to get too stifling for your tastes. “Oh,” you say as you catch him there.

He turns to look at you and smiles, cigarette between his lips. “Hello,” he greets quietly. “Didn’t know ‘ya smoked,” he said.

You shook your head and stood next to him by the wall. “I don’t,” you said. “But it was getting a bit rowdy inside.”

Noel snorts in amusement. “Tell me ‘bout it.”

The silence stretches on, you steel your resolve and decide that now was the time to do it, his cigarette was getting shorter with each drag and the night was beginning to grow dark around the edges. “Hey, Noel?” you ask. “Did ‘ya ever know that I liked you?”

Noel turns, his attention fully on you as his brows draw together. “You’re shittin’ me,” he breathes.

You chuckle. “Yup,” you say, amused as you shake your head. “Wrote you a bunch of love letters and everything. I’ll have you read them someday.”

“Huh,” says Noel, astonished beyond words. 

For the first time, you admit, “I don’t like you anymore, though. If that’s what you’re wonderin’. I just … used to. A lot. And it feels wrong not to tell you. I dunno, I just feel like you should know. Close this whole chapter of my life and everything.”

He nods. “Wow,” he says. “I did not see that comin’, yeah?”

You laugh. “Neither did I.”

He joins in on your laughter. “Imagine that,” he says. “My brother’s girl used to fancy me,” your heart skips a beat at that. 

“Wha— How do you —?” you stutter, trying to get the words right.

He stubs out his cigarette. “‘Rkid never shuts up about you on the phone. Been hearin’ your name for weeks. Then he introduces you to our mates, then to mam,” he shrugs. “Figured you were his girl.”

You stare at Noel, heart pounding erratically in your chest as you breathed, “Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

Noel smiles at you, begininning to head back in. He looks back at you from the stone steps and asks, “You comin’ in?”

***

It’s the second time you’ve stolen Liam Gallagher’s bike, but you think this time he’d forgive you much quicker. You find him where Noel said he’d be, sulking like a toddler in the football field, and you smile when you see him kicking the ball around like a man with nothing to his name.

“Thought you used to be quite the player?” you ask him, jolting him from his mood and making him look up at you with furrowed brows. 

“Hey,” he says softly. Softer than you’ve ever heard. It made your heart ache with something fierce as you walked closer to him. “Why’d you leave the party? We’re on a mission, yeah?”

You step closer to him, close enough to touch as he heaves a heavy breath, hair a mess and his chest rising and falling erratically. “Why’d you leave?” you snap back. “Thought you’d be by my side, yeah?”

He shakes his head with a sad chuckle. “You don’t need my help anymore.”

You look up at him earnestly before revealing, “I told Noel I fancied him,” you say, his head snaps up to meet your eyes, the blue impossibly deep. 

“And?” he prompts urgently.

You shrug casually. “He doesn’t like me back.”

Liam blinks before taking your shoulders in his palms and turning you around into the direction of the bike. “Then get back there!” he yells. “There’s no way that that fucker could ever turn you down. C’mon, I’ll knock some sense into the bastard. Honestly, rejecting you, the gall —”

“Liam,” you interrupt softly, fondness swimming in your eyes as you turn to face him, his arms still on your shoulders. “I don’t like Noel anymore.”

“Yeah?” Liam breathes, licking his lips nervously as his fingers stutter a beat on his thigh.

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling dorkily up at him. “See, he has this brother that I—”

Liam Gallagher kisses you like a million love letters poured into one simple action. You could feel the smile on his mouth as he presses your lips to his, a triumph that you were proud to call yours. 

***

My darling Liam, 

Happy Valentine’s, silly boy! If you look in the fridge, I left you a chocolate cake with a cheeky milkshake to go with it. It’s not like the ones we used to have at Sweetheart’s but it would do for our first Valentine’s away from Manchester. (And yes, I will pretend that I didn’t see the strawberry milkshake you’ve got specially ordered from Sweetheart’s. Prick. You really had to upstage me with my own Valentine’s Day gift?)

Say, I think there’s something else that’s important that’s happening today … I just can’t quite put my finger on it …

Kidding! Happy Anniversary, Liam. Four years around the sun with you. Could you believe it? We still have a whole forever to go! Can’t wait! A forever with you would be like a dream come true (Could that maybe be a lyric for the new album?)

Now, listen, I have a few more surprises in store for you today. But I think it will all have to wait until after you get out the recording studio. Unless Noel would be willing to call it a day off in the name of true love? I do worry about him sometimes, maybe I could set him up with one of my girl friends.

Anyway, there isn’t anything to say in this letter that I haven’t already said. But you know me, I’ll still say it again and again. I love you, you are my world, you are my best friend, you are my partner in crime, and because I know you’ll roll your eyes if I don’t include it; you are the most gorgeous man to walk the earth. 

See you in a minute, rockstar. Don’t forget to wipe off the glitter from this card!

Love always,

Your lover girl

P.S. Peggy called and wished us a happy anniversary

P.P.S. NOEL CALLED TO CANCEL REHEARSAL! Says he’s caught the flu but Bonehead told me it was just a hangover. What do you think of a quick trip back to Manchester?

To the prettiest loveliest fittest smartest beloved bird in all of England,

Your letter writing is cute but you really could have just said all that to my face. We share the same house, we sleep in the same bed, and I’m pretty sure this was the same letter you were scribbling away on last night when I told you to come and have a kip with me. You chose this letter over layin’ in the couch with me?

To make it up to me, I am suggesting you do a live reading of the letter right in front of me. Dream date, aye?

And don’t think you’re the only one in this relationship with a few surprises up their sleeve. (It ain’t just the milkshake in the fridge, babe)

See you later, my lover girl. Happy Valentine’s and Happy Anniversary.

Love you long time,

LG xx

P.S. I will call mam after I get to kiss my lovely girl. She’ll understand, yeah?

You married Aerion Targaryen because your parents deemed it fitting. They considered it proper that they should cast the dice to capture a dragon, so that, with its claws, you might enrich the family name. And Aerion was a dragon, of that there was no doubt — not one of the great ones that once ruled the skies of Valyria, but a hungry dragon, with eyes that burned and fangs always bared. On the day he went out to hunt, you offered yourself as sacrifice.

You weren't noble, no. Your family possessed some wealth, gold enough to clothe you well and fill your belly, but they'd no standard, no sworn swords, no tower of stone to call their own. Still, noble blood ran in your veins, though diluted like watered wine. You were descended from cadet branches that had once been Arryn and Tyrell, and your parents, in their ambition, believed this remnant of noble blood would suffice to make you fly. They believed you could give the family an important name, a name feared throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

And you fought for this with the few weapons you had. You drew close to Prince Valarr, the heir's heir, who was as generous and kind as rare (even almost none) boys in Westeros. He had you as a good friend, as a sister that the court had never truly given him — for Matarys was far younger and he couldn't have with her what he had with you — and King Daeron II, the boy's grandsire, permitted you to remain at his side. He saw in you a beneficial influence, someone capable of teaching his grandson the ways of common men, of showing him a world beyond battles and blood.

And then, on one of the days when the sun bathed the Red Keep, you saw him.

He wasn't a dragon of scales and giant teeth, he didn't spew flames nor have wings to cover the sun. But his eyes burned with a fire not of this world, and from him emanated a terror similar to what Balerion once spread across Westeros. He saw you the very instant you saw him, and in that moment, both of you knew something had changed.

Aerion had found his prey.

Some days passed since that first glance. Enough for summer to deepen over King's Landing, for the roses in the gardens to bloom in profusion, and for your mother to lose sleep counting the imaginary coins your marriage would bring.

You came to know each other better at dinners, as was proper at court. He watched you over his goblet of wine, his violet eyes darkened by something you preferred not to discover. You spoke of the unusual heat, the court gossip, the dances planned for the next tourney. But behind the words, there was another conversation — one of carnal interest, made of glances, of the way his fingers brushed yours when passing the bread.

Then, one night when the stars seemed more distant than usual, he led you to his chambers. Aerion could be seductive when it suited him, and you let yourself be carried away by his charm after a few goblets of wine with Valarr.

The door closed behind you, and he drew near, so close you could feel the heat of his body, the smell of ashes and something sweet that always accompanied him.

"Stay this night," he murmured. It wasn't a request.

You stepped back one pace… only one.

"Why would I stay, my prince?"

His eyes narrowed, surprised. Maekar's son wasn't accustomed to being questioned.

"I'm not asking for this," he said, with the calm of one who'd never needed to ask for anything. "It's my will, and my wishes are usually granted."

"Of course, my prince…" you interrupted him, letting the ghost of a smile escape. "What do you think I am? A whore to warm your bed at your convenience?"

"I didn't say that."

"You said it with the way you look at me, as if I were the same as the women you send for when the night grows too long for you."

Aerion frowned, visibly disconcerted. He wasn't used to resistance, much less from someone he desired.

"Then why did you come with me?"

"Because I wished to be desired by a man who doesn't flee from what he feels, or so I thought you were. I want a husband, not a lover who'd have me this night and tomorrow scarcely know my name."

"I'd still remember your name, darling." He laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. "But you must know what you're asking of me, and you must know you've no such claim upon me."

"Well, my prince, I ask for what every woman should have the right to ask for." You held his gaze. "And if you're not man enough to give me that, I'll wait for someone who is. Perhaps your cousin, Valarr, understands the meaning of honour better than one who calls himself a dragon."

Aerion stared at you for a long moment, and for the first time, you saw something beyond the fire in his eyes; as if he were relishing the provocation, as if he now had respect for you, or something close to it.

"You're more dangerous than you appear," he said at last. "Brave… or completely senseless. I've not yet decided which of the two disturbs me more."

He stepped forward. Then another. The space between you closed further, leaving only the warm air of his breath against your neck when he leaned in, smelling you and tucking away a lock of your hair that had come loose after the dance with Matarys.

"Mind your tongue, darling," he whispered in your ear, his fingers trailing down your collarbone to the silver necklace at your throat. A gift from your family.

"Don't call me darling." You retorted, your eyes meeting his.

"Of course, sweetling." He smiled cruelly when your brows drew together in displeasure. "There are men in this realm who lose their heads for less."

"Then you'll have to put mine on the walls as well, my prince," you riposted, lifting your chin as your eyes descended to his lips. "I'd rather face death than live as a shadow of your will."

For an instant, you thought he'd touch you, would pull you to him, or worse, would order you removed from there when his hand slowly closed, as if containing an impulse too difficult to tame. However, he tilted his head, looking at every detail of your face, drawing near your lips, but not touching them, merely leaving the ghost of a kiss there.

"They all want something from me," he said, his lips brushing yours as his violet eyes slowly rose to meet yours. "Power, name, blood, but none of those women would dare speak to me as you do."

"Because none of them believe they're worth more than a whim."

"Men of my house don't survive by being gentle."

"A pity."

The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but neither was it anger.

"Do you know what happens to women like you?" he asked, drawing back slightly to look at your whole face. The heat of his body made your heart leap in your chest, above your neckline.

"I know what happens to those who kneel," you answered. "And I shan't be one of them."

For a moment, you thought he'd advance, would crush your resistance as he did with everything else. Instead, Aerion brought his hand to your chin, lifting your face with two firm fingers. It wasn't brutal, and, strangely, that unsettled you even more.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You obeyed. His eyes were living fire, but now they held a pure desire, something he rarely allowed himself.

"You ask me to marry you," he said slowly. "Yet you speak to me as if you were already my equal."

"Because I'd only lie with a man who saw me as such."

His fingers tightened for a second longer than necessary. Pride, fury and desire seemed to war within him.

"If I wanted you only for a night," he said, his voice hoarse, "you'd already be in my bed."

"And if I wanted only a night," you retorted, "I wouldn't be here now."

He released your chin slowly, as if the gesture required effort.

"Be careful," he warned. "You're playing with something you don't know how to control."

Aerion turned and walked to the window, as if he needed distance to think.

"The gods are cruel," he murmured. "Just when I thought the whole world belonged to me, a woman appears who dares to deny me…"

"The world may belong to you, but I do not," was all you said.

He stood there, thinking on your words, and didn't look at you again, not even when he walked to the door and left. Something seemed to have disturbed him, perhaps the fact that you weren't what he thought you were, perhaps because he found it would be easier than he intended.

The next morning, he went to speak with your father. He took Maekar as witness to the promise he made to your father, to protect you, to care for you, to make you part of him, and then he asked for your hand in marriage, without Maekar himself expecting it, he knelt and asked your father, and there was only a nod, permitting him to make you truly his. And even if your father didn't permit the union, Aerion would marry you. He hadn't knelt to beg for your hand, but to ask the gods that your father might forgive him if he'd to act otherwise.

The wedding was small by court standards, almost discreet for those accustomed to excess and rumour. Still, it seemed too grand for someone like you who'd never dreamed of setting foot in the halls of the Red Keep without lowering their eyes. You dressed in the colours of your new house: red and black. The heavy fabric flowed over your body, marking more than was usual (because it had been Aerion's demand to eliminate any remnant of purity in you). Upon your hair, the crown of silver flowers rested too delicately for the family you now belonged to, as fragile as the fortune that had led you there.

When they placed you before him, you felt his gaze first before even raising your eyes. Aerion wasn't smiling. He watched you as he'd done that night; as if he were still deciding whether this was a conquest… or whether you were still challenging him. His hands touched yours, there was an instant when the hall seemed to disappear. The touch wasn't tender, nor was it cruel. It was possessive. Warm. A warning that this marriage wouldn't be made of your wills, but of Aerion's.

"You're mine now," he murmured, so low that only you could hear, while the septon intoned the blessings.

"I'm your wife," you answered, also in secret. "There's a difference."

His lips curved into a delicate smile, sufficiently capable of making you respond while he held your face; you admired the dimple in his cheek showing almost imperceptibly, which for a few moments made you forget how cruel he could be, whether touching you or not.

The bedding came with sunset. The ladies led you to the chambers you were to share, and this time the doors closed with the gods' blessing upon the union. Aerion moved towards you with the same confidence as always, but something was different now, you had become his territory, and that dragon had always been fierce in defending what was his. And for a moment you prepared yourself for the touch, for the consummation that every wife must endure after marriage.

You didn't retreat when he closed the distance, but he stopped, making you feel the ghost of his hand lowering the strap of your dress. Aerion halted, and his eyes travelled over your body as if he were grasping you, as if they could touch where he refused to go with his hands, pondering, torturing you slowly.

"Take off the dress," he commanded, wetting his lips.

It wasn't a request.

You obeyed, because that too was your choice, and he knew it. The fabric slipped over your shoulders, your waist, forming a red and black pool at your feet. You stood before him in only your skin, the warm blood rushing to your cheeks and the air seeming to fail you a little more.

Aerion said nothing, took a goblet of wine from the nearest table while leaning against it, sipping and watching you entirely as if appreciating a work of art that finally belonged to him.

"I lied when I said I didn't want you," he murmured, clenching his jaw. "My brother's the one who dreams, but it seems you're the gods' vision sent to torment me."

"Torment?"

"Yes." He set the goblet back on the table and stepped forward. Then another. The distance between you shrank until the heat of his body was almost unbearable. "Because I wanted you in that instant. I wanted to take you right there, before the septon, before my father, before everyone. I wanted to tear that dress off with my teeth and show every one of them that you were mine."

His hand rose, finally. His fingers brushed your shoulder, so light they seemed a question.

"In a short while, you'll forget how we should be," your voice came out hoarse.

"I know, but now…" He traced the path from shoulder to wrist, slowly, studying each of your reactions. "Now I wonder if you know what you've done."

"I married you."

"You gave yourself to me." His fingers tightened on your wrist. "There's a difference."

He pulled your wrist, drawing your body against his. His breath warmed your face, those violet eyes burning into you.

"I'm going to fuck you tonight," he said, and the words were such a shock you lost your breath. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name. Until you forget there was a world out there, before me."

"Aerion…"

"No." His free hand covered your mouth, gently, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm going to fuck you tonight, and tomorrow, and every night after that. Not because the law allows it, not because a septon blessed it, but because I want to and because you want to. Say you want to."

He removed his hand from your mouth, but held your gaze.

"I'm too good for you."

"And that makes me need you even more." He slid his lips along your jaw. "I'll never be gentle enough for you, but tell me you want me too."

"I want to," you whispered.

"You want to what?" he provoked, his mouth so close to yours they almost touched. "Say it. Say exactly what you want. You want me to fuck you? You want me to devour you? You want me to fill you until there's room for nothing else?"

"I want you to fuck me," you repeated, and the words came out firmer than you expected. "I want…"

You hesitated, but his eyes didn't let you escape.

"You want what?"

"I want your child."

Aerion smiled against your neck, that seemed to excite and amuse him because the hand that held your wrist rose to your nape, pulling you into a kiss that wasn't a kiss. His mouth pressed to yours with a hunger that seemed accumulated over years, not weeks. His tongue invaded, took, claimed, and you clung to his shoulders as if you were drowning.

When he drew back, both of you were gasping.

"A child of mine won't be like other children," his voice was torn, unrecognisable. "He'll be… like me."

"You think I'm afraid of that?" you answered, and your hand travelled from his shoulder to his chest, to his womb, to his belt buckle. "It's precisely why I ask."

"My grandsire told me about you before I saw you that day, he said: the boys never tire of her, nor of her sweetness. And I didn't know why, until I saw that 'fuck me' look in your eyes."

He guided you to the bed without ceremony, your back meeting the sheets with a push that drew a smile from you. Aerion hovered over you, his arms on either side of your head, his pupils dilated with desire.

"I'm going to fill you," he promised, his voice a growl. "I'm going to fill you with me, night after night, until there's no doubt in your mind, in the mind of the entire court, that you're mine. That what grows here" His hand descended, fingers spread over your bare womb. "Is mine. Is ours."

"Then do it," you challenged, lifting your hips to meet his. "Show me the dragon you claim to be."

The smile he gave you was the most dangerous thing you'd ever seen.

He leaned in to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin, while his hands worked to rid himself of what he still wore. And when finally you were skin against skin, warmth against warmth, he paused for an instant.

"Say you're in love with my body," you murmured against his ear. "and that's why you're fucking it."

"Sweetling, if it feels good then it can't be bad," he answered in a half-sigh. "I'm something they all want, but only you can have."

His hand descended slowly, tracing in the air the contour of your neck, your shoulders, descending to the curve of your waist without touching. And each imaginary movement drew from you a shiver that he saw, that he knew he provoked. Aerion stepped back again, one pace, then another, and you stood there, still, feeling the emptiness where his warmth had been before, not understanding.

"But you'll wait," he said, fastening his belt while displaying his abdomen with some scars. "You'll wait and desire and imagine. You'll lie in this bed every night thinking of how it would be and when I finally take you, if ever I do take you, it'll be because I decided it, not because you demanded it."

"You want to fuck me now, Aerion. You want to see me on my knees. You need to consummate this marriage for us to be truly wed," you said, taking a step towards him. "The gods decide these things," you answered, bringing your hand to your womb.

"The gods have nothing to do with it, sweetling."

So he left the chamber and left you alone on your wedding night, as should not have been.

The months that followed were a constant lesson. You learned Aerion's humours as one learns to read the signs of an approaching storm; by the scents in the air, by the tension in his shoulders, by the cruelty that took his eyes when something displeased him. There was sweetness in him, yes, but it was a treacherous sweetness.

There were nights when he sought you with an urgency bordering on desperation, nights when his hands trembled touching you and his mouth whispered things you'd never repeat to anyone. And there were days when he scarce looked at you, building walls so high that not even your love — if that was what you felt — could scale them.

The court watched. The court always watched.

"Be careful of him," his mother, Dyanna Dayne, once advised in a rare moment when you found yourselves alone. "My son has too much fire in his veins."

"I'm his wife," you repeated, as if that explained everything.

She smiled, a sad smile that made you shrink inside.

"Being a dragon's wife is not the same as taming one, child."

You didn't understand then, but you would, in time.

Aerion remained by your side at dinners, at walks through the gardens, at court obligations. His eyes always found yours. He'd draw closer than necessary, his warm breath brushing your nape, his hand hovering over yours as it had once hovered over your body.

"Did you dream of me last night?" he asked one morning, with a smile that knew exactly what it provoked.

You denied it, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed you.

"I dreamed…" he confessed, leaning in to whisper in your ear. "I dreamed I finally touched you. That I heard your moans, that I felt your nails in my back. I woke hard and furious that it was only a dream."

He drew back before you could answer, leaving you with your heart racing and your legs weak. Thus he tortured you. With words, with glances, with the eternally delayed promise of a touch that never came. And you, fool that you were, discovered that desire can be as painful as any wound. Your body burned for him in ways you'd never imagined, and he knew. He knew and delighted in your torment.

"Why do you do this?" you asked one night, when he'd accompanied you to your chamber door and remained there, so close you could feel the warmth of his body, yet so far you could do nothing.

"Because I can," he answered simply. "Because it's the only thing you still don't have of me. You've had my name, you've had my oath, you've had my respect, but my body is still mine. And until it's your choice, not my gift, you won't have it."

The next morning, he left for Lys.

There was no farewell or explanation, only a servant who came for his clothes, a ship that departed the harbour, and you remained in the Red Keep, with your belly empty and your hands trembling because you still hadn't had him, because the marriage was called ill-starred for not having been consummated.

The months that followed were long as winters. The letters you sent went unanswered. The rumours that arrived from Lys spoke of feasts, of women with silver hair and dark eyes, of whole nights awash with wine and forbidden pleasures. And you imagined, and imagined, and each imagining was a knife he drove into your chest without being present.

The court whispered, the ladies looked at you with ill-disguised pity. Your parents wrote increasingly desperate letters, asking after heirs, after assurances, after anything that might justify the sacrifice they'd made in giving you to a dragon.

And you had no answers.

Until, one autumn morning, the news that Maekar had summoned his son back echoed through the corridors. It wasn't a request, but a command. Dragon's blood or no, Aerion was still a son, still a subject, still owed obedience to his father.

And he obeyed.

The ship docked at King's Landing's harbour beneath a grey sky threatening rain. You stood on the quay, because pride forbade you waiting in your chambers like a patient wife. You stood on the quay so he'd see you, so he'd know you hadn't bent, hadn't withered.

When he disembarked, you saw the months in Lys had done him good — or ill, depending on perspective. His face was more lined, his eyes darker, his mouth crueller. He wore silks of vibrant colours, and round his neck hung a golden collar you'd never seen before.

"Wife," he greeted, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "How good to be received by such a fair sight."

"Husband," you answered, and your voice came out as cold as you'd wished. "It's good to have you here."

He drew close, and for the first time in moons, you felt his true warmth, not merely the memory of it. So close you might touch him, if you dared.

"Did you miss me?" he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

"I missed a husband I never had."

"You've still got a tongue, I see. Good. It'd be a shame if the months had tamed it."

He drew back before you could answer, and offered you his arm with a courtesy so perfect it almost hurt.

"Come, my father awaits me. And afterwards… afterwards we've much to discuss."

You took his arm because there was no choice, and as you walked through the streets of King's Landing, with the people bowing at the prince's passing — not from respect, but from fear — you felt his gaze upon you.

The rumour reached her ears through a trusted handmaiden, a whisper that made her blood boil and freeze all at once. King Maekar, in conversation with his son, had supposedly said that she'd grown weary of the local lands and customs, and would soon be returning home. But it was Aerion's reaction that set the court tongues wagging — the dragon had flown into a rage, bellowing at his father that she belonged to him. Not to another kingdom, not to another life — to him. Maekar, pragmatic and generous as he was, had supposedly just shrugged and reminded his son that she wasn't his. Not until the marriage was consummated. And it wasn't.

Aerion fell silent then, because in that moment, he understood; even married to her, even with her name inscribed beside his in the parchments of the Seven Kingdoms, she still wasn't his. Not the way he wanted. Not completely.

And you? You desired him. You desired him to look at you again like he did that first night, when his eyes burned your skin before any touch. You desired him to touch you, to finally slide his hands where they'd never been, to murmur your name against your neck as the night swallowed the room. You desired him to take you. To claim you.

But Aerion was cruel. He could smell your desire like smoke. He saw the way your body changed when he entered a room, how your breath caught, how that wetness gathered between your legs where no one else could see. And he delighted in it. In your exposed hunger, in the power of keeping you on the edge, in the knowledge that you waited… waited like a virgin wife who was no longer virgin in thought.

He knew you wanted him and so, he waited for you to beg.

When he returned to the chambers, the door closed with a thud that made you startle as you brushed your hair before the window. You felt his gaze before you saw him; he watched the golden robe you wore, slipped over your shoulders and you knew it wasn't yours. You'd taken it from his clothes, from those he'd brought from Lys, and the fabric held not just his scent, but the audacity of your gesture. Provocation or necessity, you no longer knew.

He sat down. The chair creaked as he leaned back, and you stayed there, turned away, your fingers pretending to fuss with your hair. But your eyes, in the window's reflection, devoured his every movement. You saw when he took a grape, deliberately. You saw when he brought it to his lips and bit. And he admired you.

Aerion bit another grape slowly, and you heard the wet sound, imagined his tongue gathering the juice from his own fingers.

"Come here." His voice broke the silence, but it wasn't a request. It never was.

Your fingers stopped in mid-air. The comb slipped, falling on the stone floor with a clink that echoed louder than it should have. You turned, slowly, and he was still there, reclined in the chair as if all the world could wait. His legs slightly apart, his free hand resting on his thigh, his eyes devouring you from head to toe and climbing back up, slower still the second time.

Because the shift you wore was thin. Diaphanous. Almost transparent in the room's half-light, but cruelly revealing where the hearth's light danced over your body. The fabric, a thread of pale silk that barely deserved the name of clothing, clung to you like a second skin, and the orange glow of the flames outlined every curve.

Your breasts, round and full, were warm from the hearth's heat, and the flush spreading across your skin was from desire. Your nipples hardened under his gaze, marking the silk with two dark buds that seemed to beg for — no, demand — his mouth. You saw when his gaze fixed there, when his jaw tightened, when the fingers on his thigh squeezed slightly.

He said nothing. But the hand that had rested idle began a slow, almost distracted movement, his fingers tracing circles on the cloth of his breeches. Beneath the dark fabric, something stirred. Hardened. And he made no effort to hide it, to disguise it — on the contrary, he shifted in the chair, his legs opening a little more, as if offering you the view, as if to say: do you see what you do to me? Do you see what you want?

You swallowed hard. Saliva scratched down your throat, because your mouth was dry, because your whole body was a single point of heat concentrated between your legs. The shift, too thin, hid nothing and you knew he saw. Saw the dark of your nipples, saw the tremor of your breath, saw likely the contour of your hips, your belly, and further down, where the triangle began to show beneath the silk, because the shift was short, because the fabric rode up when you moved, because he had commanded you to come and you had come to him and now you stood there, exposed, offered, devoured.

His eyes travelled down. Slowly. Following the line of your neck, the valley between your breasts, the curve of your waist, the parting of your legs — because you, without realising, had slightly spread your feet, as if your body already knew what your mouth dared not ask.

"I won't ask again," he said, his voice like velvet rasping over goosebumped skin.

You took a step. Then another. The distance between you shrank, and now you could see his eyes up close, their violet almost melted by the darkness of his dilated pupils. You could see his hand, still on his thigh, his fingers so close to the bulge pushing against his breeches.

"Closer."

One more step and you were between his legs now. His breath warmed the silk over your belly, and you could smell him, that strange perfume from Lys still on his clothes, the heat of his body, the almost solid desire that emanated from him like smoke.

Aerion raised his hand and his fingers touched the hem of your shift, brushing the bare skin of your thigh, and you trembled, but he didn't move higher. He stayed there, tracing slow circles on the inside of your thigh, each circle closer, each circle higher, until his fingers were a hair's breadth from where the silk was damp, where the heat seemed most intense.

"You're wet," he said. It wasn't a question.

You closed your eyes. Shame and desire twisted in your chest in a knot so tight it hurt.

"Look at me."

You looked.

"Say it."

"Yes," you whispered. "I am."

He smiled again, but the smile died quickly, replaced by something deeper, darker. His fingers finally moved higher, pushed the silk aside, found the wet heat of your cunt, the soft, open flesh, and you moaned — a small, hoarse sound that seemed to come from somewhere very deep.

He didn't touch you as you expected, just ran one finger, slowly, gathering the moisture, bringing it to his mouth afterwards, his eyes fixed on yours as he tasted.

"Sweet," he murmured. "Mine."

His fingers, still gleaming with your wetness and the saliva from his mouth, closed slowly, as if saving for later the taste his mouth had already known.

"Do you want something?" The question came sweet, almost mocking, and you knew he already knew the answer.

You swallowed hard.

"Yes."

He smiled, not with his whole mouth, just one corner, a half-smile that made your belly clench.

"What do you want?"

Bastard. He knew. He knew and wanted to hear, wanted you to confess, to humiliate yourself in your own need. You wanted him to take you. To fill you. To do what no words on marriage parchments could... mark you inside, fill you with his seed, make you his in a way no king could undo.

"I want you to touch me," you whispered.

He laughed softly, a sound that vibrated in his chest and echoed in your belly.

"I've already touched you... you want more."

It wasn't a question, it was an accusation, a provocation, the taut rope between what you dared ask and what he demanded to hear.

"Yes," the word escaped like a moan. "I want more."

His hand moved then, not to your body, but to his own lap. His fingers slid over his breeches, over the bulge that grew there, hard, hot, almost aggressive beneath the dark cloth. He squeezed, slowly, and you saw his jaw tighten, saw his head tilt back for an instant, his eyes closed.

"Do you see what you do?" he murmured, his eyes opening again, locking onto yours. "Do you see what you do to me, little whore?"

The name pierced you and you shuddered, your hands clenching at your sides, your nipples so hard they hurt against the thin silk.

"I see," you whispered.

"And do you want it?"

"I want to feel it inside me. I want to feel every vein, every pulse, every drop that comes from there. I want you to fuck me until I forget my own name, until I only know how to say yours," you replied, your knuckles white, trying to strip yourself of all dignity.

He stood then — the chair scraped back, pushed away — and suddenly he was before you, his free hand gripping your nape, pulling you close until your face was a handspan from his.

"Is that really what you want? For me to fuck you like a bitch? To mount you until you're completely wrecked, full of me, dripping my seed wherever you walk?"

"Yes," you answered without hesitation, your eyes fixed on his. "I want that and more. I want you to fill me so much I get pregnant the first time. I want to walk through this castle with your seed inside me, with your get in my womb."

His hand tightened on your nape, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Then beg. Beg as you should. Beg like the whore you are, who spends the night soaking the silk for me, who wears my clothes, who burns in my absence."

His hand moved down, found the thin strap of your shift on your shoulder, pushed it down. The silk gave way, slid, freeing one breast, the red, hard nipple meeting the cool air of the room. He looked, lingered, but didn't touch.

His hand moved down, found the thin strap of your shift on your shoulder, pushed it down. The silk gave way, slid, freeing one breast, the red, hard nipple meeting the cool air of the room. He looked, lingered, but didn't touch.

"Beg."

You opened your mouth and the words were there, all of them, dirty and sweet and desperate.

"I want you to fuck me. To claim me. To fill me with your seed until it runs down my legs, until there's no doubt in anyone's mind who I belong to, who possessed me, who made me his."

His eyes burned, burned so much you could almost feel the heat in his pupils.

"I'm going to fuck you against these walls until you can't stand. I'm going to fill you so much you'll dream of my seed. And tomorrow night I'll want you again. And again. And again. Until I'm certain it's done."

"Then do it," you challenged, your hands moving down, finding his breeches, undoing his belt with agile, impatient fingers. "Do it. Fill me. Put your heir in me. Show this whole damn kingdom that I'm yours and you're mine."

He pushed you against the wall — you felt the cold stone on your back, his heat in front — and then his breeches fell and he was naked, hard, enormous, the tip of his cock already wet, brushing your thigh.

"Look," he commanded.

And you looked down. You saw his cock, thick, long, the tip red and glistening, veins pulsing beneath stretched skin. You saw and your mouth watered, your hands moving down, wanting to touch, wanting to feel.

"It's beautiful," you murmured. "It's mine."

His hand found your cunt, his fingers parted your lips, felt the heat, the wetness, the opening that dripped, begging for him, throbbing indecently.

"This is how you beg," Aerion murmured, and finally his mouth descended on your breast.

The shock of wet heat against sensitive skin made your legs weaken. He bit, pulled, sucked with a hunger that seemed to come from somewhere very deep, while his hands tore at the thin silk, pushed away what remained of your shift, left you naked before him, before the hearth, before everything.

When his mouth released your breast, the nipple was red, throbbing, marked by his teeth. He looked, satisfied, and then his hands gripped your hips, pulled you against his body, and you felt his hard cock pressing against your belly.

"I won't be gentle," he warned, whispering in your ear. "I won't be sweet. I'll fuck you until you forget your own name, until you only know how to say mine. I'll fill you so much you'll feel my seed inside you for days. You'll walk through this Keep with your legs apart, dripping, and everyone will know."

You moaned, a loud, lost sound, as his hands turned you, pushed you against the nearest wall. Aerion brought his cock near your cunt and you saw; your whole body responded, a spasm that made more fluids run, that made your cunt open, empty, starving.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes," you moaned. "Fill me, make me yours, fuck me until I can't walk..."

He lifted one of your legs, aligned his cockhead with your soaked cunt and pushed.

The moan that came from you was primal, animalistic, because he was big, because he filled you, because every inch that entered seemed to open a path to somewhere no one had ever been. He pushed more, more, until his hips met yours, until he was completely inside, so deep you felt your heart beating in your throat, in your eyes, in every pore.

"Deeper," you begged, whimpering. "Fill me completely. I want to feel you in my throat."

He buried himself deeper, his hips flush against yours. You wanted him to move, to fuck you, to fill you, to fulfil every damn word he'd spoken.

"Move," you begged. "Please, Aerion, move, fuck me, I want to feel..."

He moved with a slow, deep thrust that made lights explode behind your eyes. Then another. Then faster, harder, his hips slapping against yours, the wet sound of bodies meeting filling the room along with moans, curses, the filthy words he murmured in your ear.

"You're mine, sweetling. Mine. This cunt is mine, this arse is mine, this womb is mine. And I'll fill it. I'll fill you so much you'll get pregnant tonight, you'll have my child inside you, you'll walk around heavy, full of me, and everyone will know it was you who managed to tame the dragon, and when this one's born, I'll fuck you as many more times just to carry other children, isn't that what you want?"

"Y... yes," you moaned, your eyes rolling back.

The thrusts were fast now, desperate. You felt his cock sinking into your cunt, every inch, every time he buried himself to the hilt and seemed to touch your soul. Your legs faltered, but his hands held you, supported you, fucked you against the wall like you were a doll, like your body's only purpose was to receive that cock, that seed, that essence.

"I'm going to come," he warned, his voice a snarl. "I'm going to come and I want you to feel everything. I want every drop to go inside you, to swim, to find your egg and fertilise it. I want to see your belly grow. I want to see you birth my children. I want you to be the mother of my dragons."

"Yes," you screamed. "Yes, fill me, Aerion, make me yours, give me your seed, I want it all..."

He thrust one last time, deep, so deep it hurt, and then you felt it. You felt the first spurt, hot, thick, jetting inside you as if it would never end. Then another. Another. He trembled all over, roaring against your neck, while his seed spilled, filled, overflowed at the edges where your bodies met.

And you came too. Your whole body a spasm, your nails raking his back, your mouth open in a silent scream as your inner walls clenched, gripped, sucked every drop of that hot seed inside, deeper, to the very place where life began.

When he stopped spurting, he stayed inside you, still hard, still trembling. And you smiled, exhausted, empty, full, as you felt his seed running down your leg and his cock hardening again inside you.

"How long have you waited for this?" he asked, brushing your entrance. "How many moons have you knelt before me?"

"Many," you whispered, pushing back the hair that stuck to your face. "Many moons. Many nights."

"And what do you want, wife? Tell me again."

"I want your child," the words escaped in a single breath, as if you said it all at once. "I want to be the mother of your children, Aerion."

"You will be. I'll plant my heir in your womb and then I'll plant another, and another, until your body can no longer hide what we've done."

His hands found your face, and he grabbed you.

"You want to be the mother of my children? You want everyone at court to see your belly grow and know it was me who filled you?"

"Yes," you answered, and the word was a moan. "Yes, my prince."

Aerion kept moving inside you, prolonging your pleasure, taking you to higher and higher peaks.

"Now," he said when he felt you were ready again. "Now I'll fill you again. I'll give you everything you asked for."

His thrusts grew deeper, more urgent. And when you felt another spurt of his seed inside you, when you felt the heat spread through your entrails, a new orgasm took you, even more intense than the first.

He kept spilling inside you for a long time, each pulse a promise kept. And when he finally quieted, when his weight on you was a blessing instead of a burden, he kissed your forehead with a tenderness you didn't know existed in him.

"This is only the beginning," he murmured, still inside you. "Tonight I'll fill you as many times as I can. And tomorrow we'll do it again. And the day after. Until there's no doubt."

And he kept his word.

That night, he took you more times than you could count. In every position you'd imagined, in every way you'd dreamed. And each time, when he reached his end, he spilled inside you with a moan that echoed your own pleasure.

"I want to see you heavy with my child," he said the fourth time, when he had you on all fours, buried deep inside you. "I want to see your breasts swell, your belly grow. I want to feel your body change because of me."

"You will," you promised, arching back against him. "I'll give you many children. As many as you want."

"All of them," he agreed, quickening his pace. "I'll fill you so many times you'll lose count. You'll be the most fertile wife in the Seven Kingdoms."

His hands found your face, and he slapped you — a sharp, dry crack that made your head turn and your skin sting, but you smiled. His smile widened when he saw the gleam in your eyes, the way you tilted your face back, offering the other cheek.

"You want to be the mother of my dragons?" he repeated, and his hand came again, harder, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "You want everyone at court to see your belly swell and know it was me who filled you?"

"Yes," you answered, and the word was a moan, your eyes brimming but fixed on his. "Yes, my prince. I want everyone to know I'm your whore, your wife, the mother of your dragons."

He spat in your face and the warm liquid ran down your cheek, mixing with the tears that had already begun to fall, and you moaned, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer.

"You're a bitch in heat," he murmured, his voice thick, his hips beginning a slow, deep movement that made his seed spill even more, that soaked the bed beneath you. "A bitch who only wants cock, only wants seed, only wants to be mounted by a dragon until she can't take any more."

"I am," you confessed, your voice breaking between sobs and moans. "Ride me like a dragon, make me drip..."

He spat again, and then his hands found your breasts, squeezing, twisting your nipples until they tore a scream from you — pain and pleasure mingled, confused, you no longer knew where one began and the other ended.

"Quiet!" he ordered, and his hand came again, another slap, and another, and you felt your face sting, the hot tears falling, but you didn't shut up, you didn't want to be silent, you wanted everyone to hear, everyone to know.

"I can't," you whimpered, your voice loud, uncontrolled. "I can't be silent when you fuck me like this, when you're so deep, when you're so big..."

He covered your mouth with his hand, his fingers pressing, almost suffocating, while his thrusts grew stronger, more brutal, the bed banging against the wall in a rhythm that must have been echoing through every corridor.

"You want them to hear?" he snarled in your ear, his hand still covering your mouth. "You want the whole bloody court to hear how the princess moans? How the princess cries? How the princess begs for more cock?"

You nodded, your eyes wide, tears and spit running down your face, and he laughed, a cruel, delighted sound.

"Then scream," he said, removing his hand. "Scream like the whore you are. Scream so everyone hears who you belong to."

And you screamed. When he thrust deep again, when you felt his cock pulse inside your cunt, ready to spurt again, you screamed his name, loud, desperate, a sound that wasn't human, that was pure instinct, pure hunger, pure need.

"Aerion! Aerion, fuck me, fill me, give it to me, give it to me, give—"

The spurt came before you finished the sentence. Hot, violent, jetting as if he were breathing fire inside you. Then another. Another. And you came with him, your body arched, your nails raking his back, your mouth open in a scream that must have woken half the castle.

He kept pumping, each thrust making his seed run, spread, soak your thighs, the sheets, everything. And when he finally stopped, when he lay still inside you, gasping, you felt the hot seed running, dripping, forming a puddle beneath you.

But he didn't pull out. He stayed there, still hard, pulsing inside you.

"More," you whispered, your voice hoarse from screaming. "More, Aerion."

He looked at you and saw your face swollen from crying, the marks from his slaps, the dried spit, your eyes red but bright with desire. And he smiled.

"You'll have it," he promised, and began to move again. "You'll have it until dawn. Until you can't take any more. Until you only know how to say my name."

He took you more times than you could count, in every position you'd imagined, in every way you'd dreamed. On your belly, your face buried in the pillows while he fucked you from behind and pulled your hair, wrenching screams from you that you muffled in the bedclothes. Riding him, his hands on your hips guiding the rhythm, squeezing until they left purple marks. Against the wall, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies slipping with sweat and seed that covered you like a second skin.

Each time, when he reached his end, he spilled himself inside you with a groan that echoed your own pleasure. And each time, you begged for more, wept for more, screamed for more.

"I want to see you heavy with my son," he said, when he had you on all fours, buried deep inside you, one hand tangled in your hair pulling your head back while the other slapped your arse, leaving the skin red and hot. "I want to see your breasts swell, your belly grow."

Aerion smiled, quickening his pace, his thrusts so strong you no longer had strength to hold yourself up — you collapsed onto the bed and he continued, mounted on you, fucking you like an animal. By the seventh time, you could no longer speak, only hoarse moans, silent tears, your body aching but hungry, always hungry. He laid you on your side, lifted your leg and entered again, slow, deep, and you felt every pulse.

"Do you feel it?" he murmured, his mouth at your ear. "Do you feel how hard I still am? How I still have seed to give you?"

You nodded, a sob caught in your throat.

"I'm going to come again," he warned.

"Please," you whispered, your voice thick with want. "Please, my prince, fill me again. Please don't stop. Never stop."

He groaned and thrust deep, one final time, and the seed spilled, hot, abundant, filling you once more, overflowing, running down your legs, mingling with everything already there. And when he finally quietened, when his body settled on yours like a dead weight, you still felt hunger. You still wanted more.

"Tomorrow," you murmured, your eyes closing, consciousness slipping. "Tomorrow I want more."

He laughed, tired, and kissed the nape of your neck.

"Tomorrow," he promised. "And the day after."

The next morning, you woke wrapped in his arms, with his cock still inside you — he'd stayed there all night, as if afraid the child might escape if he parted from you.

"You're still empty," he murmured, moving slowly inside you when he noticed you were awake. "I still need to fill you more."

And he filled you. And filled you. And filled you.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of pleasure and exhaustion. Aerion rarely left you, and when he did, it was only to fetch food or wine, to strengthen you for the next attempt. Your body ached in ways you'd never imagined, but each ache was a reminder of what you were doing, what you were creating.

"You're fuller today," he observed on the third day, his hand resting on your still-flat belly. "Or is it my imagination?"

"It can't be that quick," you laughed, but your heart leaped at the possibility.

"It can. We're dragon's blood… we do everything quicker."

On the fifth night, as he took you against the bedroom wall, your legs locked around his waist and your moans echoing off the stones, something changed. He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide.

"Do you feel it?" he asked, and his voice sounded strange.

"What?"

His hand moved down to your belly, pressing gently.

"There's something different."

You looked down, to where his hand touched, and for the first time you noticed a small protuberance, almost imperceptible, but there. A curve where there'd been flatness before.

"It can't be," you whispered. "It's too soon."

"I told you," he murmured, and there was triumph in his voice. "Dragon's blood."

He withdrew from you carefully and carried you to the bed, laying you on your back. His eyes never left your belly, his hand settling again on that small curve.

"My son," he murmured. "My heir... my seed growing inside you."

"Our son," you corrected, as you had so many moons ago.

This time, he didn't argue. This time, he simply nodded.

"That should have solved the problem," he said with a light laugh, his hand rubbing your belly gently. "Now you already have a child of mine."

You nodded, smiling, exhausted. He'd fucked the life into you trying to put one inside you, and they'd been the best nights of your life — nights that would soon repeat themselves.

Set between Rocky III and IV

A damn ingrate, you thought bitterly.

Rocky had given you both everything. Safety, love, a home far beyond the streets of South Philly where you grew up. And yet, Paulie still found a way to make you feel small. His room was far away, in the guesthouse, thank God, but that didn’t stop his bitterness from spilling into every corner of the mansion like smoke.

You were the quiet one, the suffer-in-silence type. Paulie thrived on venting his insecurities onto anyone nearby.

Rocky never interfered,

until now.

Downstairs, Paulie’s voice carried, thick with self-pity and anger as Rocky walked through the front door, dropping his gym bag to the corner.


“Your wife’s actin’ up again, Rock! She won’t come outta your room. I’m sick of her cryin’ all the damn time.”

Rocky’s jaw clenched. Freshly bandaged hands tightening. His eyes lifted, dark and steady, a look that could freeze a man in the ring.

“You know why you ain’t married, Paulie?”

Paulie froze halfway up the stairs.

“Why, Rock?”

“’Cause you’re an ass who don’t respect women, Paul.”

Before Paulie could answer, Rocky sprinted up the stairs, not without shoulder checking him, broad shoulders brushing the walls, heart pounding to reach you.

You heard the key, the special one only he carried turning in the lock. He’d made those locks himself after the attempted break-in last year, told you to always keep the door locked when you were alone.

“Baby?” His voice was soft but urgent.

You didn’t answer yet, still trembling under the covers, but the sight of him at the door filled you with relief.

Rocky entered, bruised from training, a cut red under his eye, fresh soap from the gym shower and leather scent of his jacket mixing in the room. His gaze softened when it found you.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

You ran into his arms, burying your face in his chest. His solid body was warm, his arms wrapping around you with protective strength. After a moment, he tilted your chin up with calloused bandaged fingers.


“You okay? Tell me what happened. You want me to kick him out, you just say the word and I will ya know .”

You sniffled, half-laughing. “You’re always protecting me.”

He smiled faintly, wiping your tears. “Someone’s gotta.”

You giggled, and he returned it with that crooked, lopsided grin.

“I’m okay now, baby. I promise.”

He searched your eyes, always needing the truth.
“I don’t like him makin’ my girl cry,” he murmured, voice breaking slightly.

You reached for his hands. “You make it better, honey. You always do.”

He kissed you then, slow, deep, steady. You felt the world tilt as he pressed you back toward the bed, tracing your jaw, your throat, your shoulders. The man who threw punches for a living touched you like you were sacred.

Buttons came undone, breath by breath, the sound of fabric sliding away mixing with the low hum of his voice.

But even in that rush, your heart was still heavy.

“Wait baby.. can we talk?”

Instantly, Rocky froze, worry flooding his face.

“Did I hurt you, sweetheart?”

“No,” you whispered, cupping his cheek. “I just… I’ve got something to tell you. And I really don’t know if it’s good or bad.”

He held your hands, eyes searching.


“Alright. I’m listenin’ baby.”

You swallowed hard.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Time stopped. Rocky blinked once, twice. Then his breath hitched, a low, startled sound that became a laugh.

“Really? You sure?”

You nodded. “Follow me.”

You led him into the bathroom, where the tests sat on the counter. He picked one up carefully, as if it might break.


“Plus means positive, right?”

“Yeah, baby.”

He stared at it, trembling.

“Rocky?” you whispered. “Baby say something… you’re scarin’ me.”

He finally looked up, tears in his eyes. “Why you scared, sweetheart? This… this is the best thing I ever heard in my whole damn life!”

You squealed, laughing through your tears as he lifted you, spinning you around in the massive bathroom. You clung to him, both of you crying and laughing all at once.

“I love you so much,” he said, voice thick with emotion. He set you down gently. “You thought I’d be mad? Why?”

“Because we never talked about it,” you said softly. “Not since before your career took off. I didn’t wanna hold you back.”

He shook his head, eyes fierce yet tender.

“Boxing’s what I do. But you, y/n m/n … you’re who I am. Everything I got, every fight, every win, it’s because of you.”

You kissed him again, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air.

And as his thumbs stroked your cheeks, your mind drifted to the day it all began.

Flashback — St. Rita’s Church, South Philly

The air smelled of lilies and candle wax. Sunlight filtered through beautiful stained glass, painting the wooden pews in blues and golds.

Rocky stood at the altar, nervous, tugging at his only suit. Mickey sat in the pews, pretending not to cry. Paulie looked stiff, pale.

The doors opened.

You walked down the aisle, veil trembling, white dress and lace sleeves clinging to your frame, rosary beads clutched in hand.

Rocky’s heart nearly stopped. He hadn’t been this nervous since he asked you to be his girlfriend.

When you reached him, he took your hands, voice low, trembling.


“y/n… tu sei la mia forza, la mia vita. Vuoi passare ogni giorno con me, promettendo di stare al mio fianco?”
(y/n… you are my strength, my life. Will you spend every day with me, promising to stay by my side?)

Tears shone in your eyes.

“Rocky… tu sei il mio destino, il mio cuore. Prometto di amarti per sempre, di camminare con te, qualsiasi cosa succeda.”
(Rocky… you are my destiny, my heart. I promise to love you forever, to walk with you, no matter what happens.)

He held your manicured hands tighter, glossy eyes never breaking contact with yours.

“Io ti proteggerò sempre, y/n. E sarò il tuo rifugio, anche quando il mondo sarà contro di noi.”
(I will always protect you, y/n. I will be your shelter, even when the world is against us.)

You smiled, breathless, tears streaming down your face now from under your thin veil

“E io sarò la tua forza, Rocky. Con te, sono completa.”
(And I will be your strength, Rocky. With you, I am complete.)

Rings were exchanged. The priest spoke softly, the congregation quiet. When Rocky carefully lifted your veil and kissed you, it was a promise, a bond sealed in love, sweat, and heart. The bells of St. Rita’s rang over the streets of Philadelphia, echoing into the future.

Rocky rested his forehead against yours in the present, tears glinting. “You remember the church bells?” he whispered.

“They never stopped ringing, Rocky,” you smiled. “Not for me.”

He kissed you, deep, full of devotion, protective and worshipful.

“Then let’s give ’em somethin’ to ring about again.”

And in that kiss, in the mix of exhaustion, joy, and love, you knew: whatever came next, fights, fame, fears, you and Rocky would face it together.

Because this wasn’t just a victory.
It was the beginning of a new round.

———————————————————————