Untitled

also photos by me hehehe

Ongoing:

One Photo (Van x reader) Safe Hands (Benji x reader) Cmon Love, You're Upset (Van x reader)

One shots:

Van x reader

Emoji meanings:

Ever since that night, Van had been distant.

It had been two weeks since you guys saw or even spoke to each other. You tried to reach out. Calls, texts, even a stupid meme you thought might make him laugh, but nothing. Maybe it was really business for him and sleeping with him just was you being another girl to him.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t heard his name throughout this period. You’d see posts online about Van being spotted going in and out of shops, buying flowers but then chucking them in the bin straight after.

You told yourself you didn’t care. Told yourself it was for the better this way. Less complicated. It was just for publicity after all. However, that didn’t’t stop you from wondering if he’d thought about it at all. About you.

Your phone bleep. It was from your agent.

Don’t forget about the. Brit Awards this weekend. Van’s driver will be picking you up so make sure you’re ready by 3pm. You’ll be arriving together. The cameras will love it.

The Brit awards. The day you had been dreading.

You laughed to yourself. If only they knew.

————————————————

The day came faster than you’d expected. Hair, makeup, fittings; all blur of stylists, perfume, and bright lights. You kept busy because thinking meant remembering, and that gave you an anxious feeling in your stomach.

By the time the clock read 3, your apartment looked like a hurricane of dresses had passed through. Hair pins on the floor and about 50 pairs of high heels. You’d barely finished picking out what earrings to wear when your phone buzzed again.

He’s outside.

You froze. Fuck. Your heart gave that annoying little kick, the one you swore you’d trained yourself out of. You caught your own reflection in the hallway mirror. You looked at yourself one last time and took a deep breath.

The sound of a car engine drifted through your open window. You forced a smile, grabbed your clutch, and opened the door.

Outside, Van sat in the backseat of the limo, pretending to scroll through his phone. But, the moment he saw you through the tinted glass, the air leaving his lungs. He blinked once. Twice. Like he wasn’t sure you were real.

As you were walking down the steps to the pavement, you saw van’s door open. He stepped out. The February air hit him, but he’d barely noticed His pulse hammered in his throat.

You reached the last step, clutch in hand, and looked up. There he was. Standing besides the car in his black suit and tie which he was playing with whilst watching you walk down the stairs, staring at you like he’d never seen anything do beautiful in his life.

For a moment, no one moved. The driver looked away politely and somewhere behind you, a nosey neighbour’s door clicked shut. It was like you were the only two people on this planet.

Van swallowed hard. His jaw tensed, eyes darting down your dress. The black lace, paired with your pearl necklace.

“Hey..” Van broke the silence. His voice quivered a little, almost like he was nervous to see you.

Your lips smile at him, but your eyes gave him a look he didn’t quite understand.

He moved out the way to let you get into the limo first, placing a hand on your lower back as you go in front of him, sending shivers down your spine. He shut the door behind you, walked around, and slid in beside you.

Neither of you spoke as the car pulled away, London blurring past. The space between you felt electric. Too charged for words, too fragile for silence. You could feel the warmth of hi beside you, even though neither of you were touching.

Van cleared his throat softly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You look…” he trailed off, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You look really good.” He looked you up and down. “You look beautiful y/n.”

You turned your head just enough to catch his reflection in the window. The way his jaw flexed as he spoke, like saying it out loud cost him something.

“Thanks,” you said, voice steady. “You too.”

He gave a small nod, hands fidgeting in his lap. For a man who could command a stage, he suddenly look nervous. It was almost endearing, and you hated that it was.

Minutes passed. The closer you got to the arena, the thicker the air felt. Your heart was somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Van kept sneaking glances at you, each one lingering a second too long.

When the driver finally announced, “we’re here,” you both exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the entire ride.

Outside, camera flashes painted the sky. You could already hear the crowd chanting names, his name, over the barriers.

Van looked over at you, eyes softer now, almost apologetic.

“You ready?”

“No,” you admitted, voice barely above the hum of the car.

He smiled, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Tough luck, love.”

Shouting, flashes, chaos; the door opened and the noise hit you instantly. You froze for half a second, glided by the lights. But then Van’s hand was there, reaching for yours. Steady. Warm.

You took it.

He led you out, the crowd erupting as you stepped onto the red carpet together. It was like a movie scene. The world narrowing to just you and him. Cameras flashed, fans screamed, your name was shouted alongside his.

Then, without warning, Van turned to you. His eyes locked on yours. Deep, unreadable, but something flickered behind them. Before you could even process it, his hand slid to your waist and he kissed you.

It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t careful. It was real.

He’d missed you.

In that instant, every out, every sleepless night, every ‘what if’ vanished. The world melted away. All you should feel was him. His mouth on yours, firm and desperate, as if he was trying to tell you everything he hasn’t said for the past 2 weeks.

It was like his lips were made for yours.

When he pulled back, your heart was racing so hard you thought the cameras might catch it. The crowd roared, flashes binding you both.

He smiled. That dangerous smile. He leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the chaos.

“I’m sorry.”

The words hit you harder than the camera flashes. You blinked, trying to find something to say, but before you should, he straightened up again. His hand still on your waist.

You forced yourself to smile for the cameras. You were meant to be the perfect couple. That was your job. It’s what they want.

Van guided you along the carpet, hand never leaving your back. Every time a flash went off, he leaned in closer, whispering little things that didn’t match his expression.

“You’re shaking.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are.” His tone softened. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

And he was. Every step, every fake wave, every tight smile for the cameras. There he was. Close enough that you could feel the ghost of that kiss still tingling on your lips.

Inside, the noise dulled to a low hum. You were ushered through corridors of people in gowns and tuxedos, managers barking orders, champagne glasses clinking. Van walked beside you nodding to a few people he knew, but his attention kept flicking back to you like he couldn’t help himself.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” You murmured once you were clear of the press.

He raised an eyebro. “What? Kiss you?”

You gave him a sharp look.

He signed, running a hand through his hair, the same way he always did when he was trying not to lose it. “Yeah. I know. But… I couldn’t not.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, folding your arms.

He smirked, stepping closer. “You’re the one who looks like that and expects me to stay sane.”

That did it. The fragile calm between you snapped.

You took a step back, voice low but sharp. “Oh, don’t start with that, Van.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Where the hell have you been for the past two weeks?” You demanded, keeping your tone quiett enough not to draw attention but edged enough to make him flinch. “You disappear, ignore my calls, texts, act like I don’t exist, and then you just, what? Kiss me in front of every bloody camera in London like nothing happened?”

He ran a hadn’t through his hair, exhaling hard. “Y/N..”

“No,” you cut in. “Don’t. Because I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to figur out what I did wrong. I told myself it was fine. That it was just business. That maybe that night meant nothing. But at least say something instead of vanishing.”

He stopped closer, voice rough now. “It’’s not that simple.”

“It is,” you shot back, throat tight. “We spent one night together, Van. It was supposed to be a bit of fun, a publicity stunt. It didn’t have to mean anything.”

For a moment, he just stared at you. Then, quietly, he said, “but it did.”

You froze.

“It meant something,” he continued, his voice trembling slightly as he forced the words out. “To me, it did. And that’s why I’ve been ignoring you, okay? Because usually I don’t… I don’t feel this way after spending a night with someone. I’ve done this before. The fake dating, the PR shit, the hookups. But, with you, it’s different.”

He shook his head, trying to steady his breathing. “It wasn’t supposed to be. It was meant to be simple. I was meant to smile for cameras, kiss you once or twice, move on. But every time I close my eyes, it’s you. I get this,” he gestured to his stomach, laughing under his breath. “This fucking knot that won’t go away. I thought if I stayed away, it would fade”

You stared at him, heart pounding, caught between anger and disbelief. “So, what about the flowers?”

He looked up, eyes flicking to yours. “They were for you.”

“What?”

“The flowers,” he said again, softer this time. “Every time I tried to forget about you, id end up in some shop, buying flowers. And then id think, what am I doing? She doesn’t care, it was one night, and I’d throw them away before I got to your door.”

“I tried calling you,” you blurted, the words sharper than you intended. “Messaging you. What makes you think I didn’t care?”

Van eyes widened, his whole posture faltering. “You…what?”

“I reached out, Van. More than once. And every time I got nothing back. Radio silence.” You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping. “Do you know how small that made me? I thought I was just another name on your list.”

He took a hesitant step closer. “Y/N, I swear…”

“No,” you interrupted =, voice breaking slightly. “You don’t get to disappear for two weeks and then kiss me like that in front of everyone. You don’t get to act like you care now.”

Van’s jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t been losing my mind these past two weeks? You think it was easy for me to stay away?” His voice cracked mid-sentence, raw and unguarded. “I didn’t answer becuase I thought you didn’t want me to. I thought I’d just ruin it. You made me feel like…” he stopped, shaking his head. “I don’t even know. Different. Scared.”

You scared at him, your pulse pounding. “Scared of what?”

He laughed, quiet and hollow. “Of how much I wanted to see you again. Of how much it actually mattered.”

The silence between you stretched thin. Somewhere down the corridor, you could still hear the muffled noise of the awards show; music, laughter, life continuing without you. But in this moment, it was just him.”

You swallowed, your voice trembling when you finally spoke. “Then why didn’t you just say that?”

He looked at you helplessly. “Because I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

For a moment, neither if you breathed. The noise of the ceremony carried faintly from behind the door. The music, laughter, the rest of the world spinning on, but in here, nothing. It was just the two of you. His confession hung between you like static, close enough to touch, too fragile to name.

Before you could say anything, someone called from the other end of the corridor.

“Van, they’re announcing your category, cmon mate!”

He blinked, like he’d forgotten there was a whole world outside this hallway. He tore his eyes from yours, running a hand through his hair. “Right,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then, softer, “you coming?”

You nodded, barely trusting your voice.

The two of you walked side by side down the corridor, close but not touching. Every few steps, your hands would almost brush. Neither of you said a word.

When you reached the Ian room, the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into applause. The screen above the stage flashed the nominations.

Breakthrough Artist of the Year

His band’s nae lit up in bold white.

Van glanced at you once more before the spotlight hit him.

“And this year’s breakthrough artist is…”

A pause.

“Catfish and the Bottlemen!”

The crowd exploded. Cameras swung in every direction, his bandmates shouted, hugging him, pushing him toward the stage. He hesitated, just for a second, looking back at you. That same look from earlier, the one that said everything words couldn’t.

You smiled, small and shaky, mouthing, congratulations.

You watched him climb the steps, heart pounding, lights flashing off his suit. He took the mic, grinning, breathless, pretending like this was just another night. But when the cheers faded and the room fell quiet, his smile softened.

“Uh…wow,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t think I’d actually be standing up here tonight.” The audience laughed, a warm ripple through the hall.

He looked down for a moment, his voice lower when he spoke again. “There’s someone I need to thank. Someone who…probably doesn’t even know what she means to me.”

You froze. The cameras panned at you, you could feel it, but Van didn’t care. He won’t even looking at the crowd. His eyes were on you.

“She knows who she is,” he said, smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The crowd cheered, loud and wild, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

“This one’s for Y/N. I love you”

He gave one last grin, said a quick “thank you,” and handed the mic back, stepping away as the music swelled again. But before leaving the stage, he looked for you in the crowd, found you, and just smiled.

——————————————

The rest of the night felt like a dream you couldn’t quite wake up from. The applause, the flashing lights, the champagne. Everything blurred together. People clapped Van on the back, congratulated him, shoved cameras in his face, but your ears were still ringing from what he said on stage.

“This one’s for Y/N. I love you.”

It was supposed to be pretend. You were supposed to pretend. Now you couldn’t tell where the act ended and the truth began.

When the ceremony wrapped, you followed the crowd into the afterparty, every step feeling heavier than the last. Van was somewhere behind you, caught in a sea of press and publicists, his award glinting under the flashing bulbs. You didn’t;t look back. You couldn’t.

The club they rented out was loud and stifling, all gold lights and smoke machines, but it still felt cold somehow. You stood by the car, half listening to someone from your PR team ramble about brand collaborations, when you saw him walk in.

His shirt was slightly undone, hair a mess from hardcore fans grabbing him. And yet somehow, he looked like the only person in the room who wasn’t acting.

He caught your eye across the crowd, and the noise faded. It was like everyone else blurred out, and it was just the two of you again. Same as when the cameras stopped flashing earlier, and he’d looked at you like he didn’t know where to put all the feelings spilling out of him.

You turned away first, slipping outside for air.

The London night hit cool and sharp against your skin. You leaned against a railing, your clutch dancing from your hand. The silence was a relief, until you heard the door open again.

“Y/N.”

You turned, pulse catching. Van was there, holding the brit Award in one hand, another shoved in his pocked.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” you said softly. “People will wonder where you are.”

“Let them,” he said, stepping closer. “I needed a minute.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “To rehearse your next speech?”

His lips twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. “You didn’t like what I said?”

You scoffed. “You think I liked being blindsided on live television? You saying you love me? Van, that wasn’t part of the plan.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I know.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because…” he exhaled, voice low. “Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like acting.”

You stared at him, heat flooding your chest. “Oh, come on. Don’t do that.”

“Im serious,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I wasn’t supposed to me.”

You shook your head, trying to laugh it off, but it came out brittle. “You don’t get to say that after everything. You don’t get to disappear for two weeks, ignore me, and then stand on stage saying you love me. Even if it’s just pretend.”

“I didn’t pan it,” he said. “It just came out.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.” He ran his thumb over the edge of the award, eyes flicking away. “But when I saw you sitting there, I just couldn’t think of anything else. Not the cameras, to the crowd. Just you.”

Your stomach twisted. “Stop.”

He took another step forward. “I can’t. I’ve been trying to stop thinking about you for weeks, and it’s not working. You’re everywhere. Every song I write turns into you.”

You let out a shaky exhale, your back hitting the cold brick wall behind you. “You’re only saying this because of tonight. Because of the adrenaline, the cameras-…”

“No,” he cut in, his voice cracking. “I’m saying it because it’s true. I love you, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

You blinked at him, stunned silent. The city hummed around you. Cars, laughter, the muffled bass from inside. But it all faded under the weight of his words.

He swallowed, the confidence from the stage gone completely now. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were supposed to be my fake girlfriend, my PR cover. We’d smile, take the photos, sell the story. Easy. Fuck I knew you for quite a day.” His laugh was low, humourless. “But then you went and ruined it.”

“Ruined it?” you echoed, voice trembling.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Because now I can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s for show.”

You stared at him, your pulse roaring in your ears. “You think you’re the only one confused?” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You think I haven’t spent the last two weeks wondering if I imagined everything? If my sex was really that bad?”

“It meant everything,” he said instantly, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That’s why I panicked. That’s why I stayed away.”

“Then why now?” you whispered. “Why say it now, when everyone’s watching?”

He stepped closer again, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of smoke and cologne on him. “Because I was tired of pretending I didn’t care.”

The space between you shrank to nothing. His hand hovered near yours. Not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat. His eyes searched yours, like he was asking for permission to close the distance.

But before you could answer, a voice called from the doorway.

“Van! Mate, they want you back inside for press photos!”

You both froze.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right,” he muttered. Then, softer, to you, “Come with me?”

You hesitated, still catching your breath. “I can’t. Not like this.”

“Then how?” he asked, desperate now. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

You took a step toward him this time. His eyes softened the second you did.

“Come over,” you said quietly. “After all this. When it’s quiet. We can… talk it out. Get all the weird out of the way.”

He blinked, almost like he didn’t believe what he’d heard. “You mean that?”

You nodded. “Yeah. We’ll start again.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips. Small, relieved, a little disbelieving. “Start again,” he repeated.

“Exactly,” you said. “Just… don’t be late.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes still on you. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And as he turned to walk back toward the flashing lights, he looked over his shoulder one last time, that same look from the limo, from the red carpet, the one that made your heart ache in the best and worst way.

You didn’t know what would happen next.

The first thing you notice is the sound. Low, muffled, almost swallowed by the thick quiet of the hotel room, but steady. A voice. His voice.

For a few seconds you hover on the edge of sleep, caught between dream and reality, and you let yourself believe it's part of a dream but then you roll onto your side, and the empty space in the bed confirms what you already know: Van’s not there

The room is dim, curtains drawn halfway against the pale light creeping in from outside. The sheets are tangled around you, warm with the imprint of sleep, but the quiet other, than his voice, feels too awake. You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes, the hum of the air conditioning brushing against your skin as you strain to listen.

He's talking in a low voice. The way he always does when it's something that matters. Not the careless, laughing Van you hear backstage, nor the sunny frontman on stage, but the version that surfaces in rare moments: serious, intent, carrying a gravity that makes you wonder what's spinning in his head.

Your bare feet hit the carpet softly as you slip out of bed, tugging the hotel blanket around your shoulders like a shield against the chill. The sound is clearer now. It's coming from the sliding glass door cracked open onto the balcony.

You hesitate at first, standing in the doorway, the faint morning breeze brushing against your face. And then you see him.

Van is leaning against the railing, a white long-sleeved top covering his torso, his hair falling untamed, still mussed from the night. He's got a cigarette in one hand, the other holding his phone to his ear. In the filtered morning light, he looks almost like he doesn't belong to the world you know, like he's stepped out of a film, frozen in monochrome. The kind of scene you'd pause just to hold onto.

You watch him for a moment. Your chest tightens with something you can’t quite put your tongue on. Maybe it's the quiet intimacy of seeing him like this, stripped of noise and spotlight. Maybe it's the fragile feeling that you've stumbled into a version of him few people get to see.

The balcony floor is cool against your skin as you step out. The air smells faintly of damp earth and coffee grounds drifting from inside. Van lowers his phone from his ear, just for a moment, long enough to lean in and brush his lips against yours. Warm. Quick. Fleeting. But it leaves you breathless all the same.

"Fresh pot of coffee's on," he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. "Help yourself."

And then he's back on the call, his tone shifting again, that measured focus settling over him like a second skin.

You slip back inside, the blanket trailing behind you, and follow the smell of coffee to the small counter tucked against the wall. The machine is still warm, steam rising from the pot. You pour a cup, the liquid dark and steady, and wrap your hands around it, savoring the heat against your palms.

When you return to the balcony, Van's still talking, his voice weaving through the morning. You settle into the chair across from him, curling the blanket tighter around your shoulders, and take a slow sip.

The coffee is strong, bitter in a way that makes you wince, but it feels like him somehow. Grounding. Honest. Real.

Van's pacing now, one hand gesturing as if whoever's on the other end can see it. His brow furrows slightly, then smooths, then furrows again. You watch him quietly, every detail etching itself into you. The slope of his shoulders beneath the sweater, the restless way his fingers tap the railing, the light in his eyes that sharpens whenever he speaks with conviction.

The world around you is barely awake. Palm trees shift lazily in the breeze. A bird cuts across the sky. Somewhere below, a car engine stirs to life. But here, on this balcony, it feels like time has slowed just for you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, sipping your coffee, letting the steam curl against your face while you watch him. He’s magnetic even like this. There’s no crowd, no spotlight, no stage to hold him up. Just Van.

Eventually, he ends the call. He lowers the phone, staring at it for a moment like the words he just heard are still echoing inside him. Then, with a small sigh, he slips it into his pocket and turns to you fully.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice softer now, touched with something apologetic. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “It’s fine. Better than an alarm.”

That earns you a smile. A real one this time, small but warm, the kind that tugs at the corners of his mouth like it can’t help itself. He walks over, leaning down to steal another kiss. Longer this time, slow and tasting faintly of mint and sleep.

When he pulls back, he nods toward your cup. “Strong enough for you?”

You laugh softly, cradling it between your hands. “It’s practically jet fuel.”

“Good. That’s the only way.” He drags over a chair and drops into it beside you, stretching his legs out, ankles crossing. For the first time since you woke up, he looks relaxed, shoulders unclenching, gaze softening.

For a while, you both just sit there, the quiet settling around you like a second blanket. You sip your coffee. He leans back, head tilted toward the sky, eyes half-lidded as if he’s still halfway in a dream.

It’s peaceful. Unfamiliar, almost, considering the last few nights have been a blur of venues and late-night drives, music bleeding into laughter, exhaustion masked by adrenaline. To have this stillness feels like stumbling onto something rare.

“You’ve got that look,” Van says suddenly, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, brows lifting. “What look?”

He turns his head to study you, a lazy smile playing on his lips. “Like you’re watching me more than the view.”

Caught, you roll your eyes, though heat creeps up the back of your neck. “Maybe the view just isn’t that impressive.”

He chuckles, low and rough, the sound threading into your chest. “Cheeky.” He leans closer, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Don’t stop, though. Kinda like being watched by you.”

Your heart stutters at that, but you try to play it off with another sip of coffee, your gaze drifting out toward the trees. It doesn’t work. You can feel him watching you now, that unrelenting focus of his, like you’re the only thing worth noticing.

After a moment, you set the mug down on the railing, turning to face him. “Who was on the phone?”

He exhales through his nose, looking away briefly. “Manager. Sorting stuff for tonight’s show. Boring shit, really.” Then his eyes flick back to yours, more earnest now. “Didn’t mean to start the day with all that noise.”

“It wasn’t noise,” you say softly. “It’s just… you. I like hearing you.”

The words slip out before you can second-guess them, but you don’t regret it. Because it’s true. You like hearing him in all his variations; laughing, serious, thoughtful, careless. Each one feels like a different note in a song only you get to hear up close.

Something shifts in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His smile fades into something more serious, more searching. He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours where they rest on the arm of the chair.

“Y’know,” he says quietly, “sometimes I forget how mad this all is. Constant movement. People pulling at me. Feels like I never really stop. But then…” His thumb strokes lightly against your hand. “Then I get mornings like this.”

Your throat tightens, and you squeeze his hand gently. “Mornings like this are the best part.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The air hums with it. The weight of the words left unsaid, the comfort of the ones that don’t need to be.

Finally, Van leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks out at the trees swaying in the distance. “You know I don’t always say it,” he murmurs, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

The simplicity of it nearly undoes you. Not grand declarations, not dramatic confessions. just that quiet honesty that slips through in unguarded moments.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He shifts instinctively, pressing a kiss to the top of your hair, his hand finding yours again. The top is soft beneath your cheek, carrying the faint scent of him: cigarettes, coffee, faint smell of his cologne

It feels like the two of you are suspended in your own little bubble.

The balcony has gone quiet again, save for the faint hum of traffic far below and the clink of your mug as you set it back down. Van hasn’t moved much but, you can feel his attention on you, even when his eyes are on the horizon.

You shift closer, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, until your knee brushes his. He glances sideways, lips tugging into the kind of smile that says he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Cold?” he asks, though there’s no real question in his voice.

“A little,” you admit.

He doesn’t hesitate. One arm slips around your waist, tugging you closer until you’re practically in his lap, your legs brushing against his thighs. The blanket falls open a little with the movement, baring the thin strap of your top. His fingers find it immediately, tracing along the line of fabric, lazy and deliberate.

“You’re warm now,” he murmurs, and the way his breath ghosts across your skin makes you shiver for an entirely different reason.

“Convenient,” you tease, but your voice is thinner than you mean it to be.

He grins, eyes glinting. “Don’t sound very convinced.”

The hand at your waist drifts lower, fingers splayed against your hip. He doesn’t push, doesn’t take it further, just rests there, casual, like he could stay this way forever. But the weight of it makes your pulse quicken anyway.

“You like watching me, yeah?” he says suddenly, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. “Back there… thought I didn’t notice.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again, heat crawling up your neck. “You weren’t supposed to.”

“Didn’t mind,” he says, his thumb brushing idly along your hipbone. His gaze flicks down to your lips, then back up. “Felt good, actually. Being seen like that.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he counters, leaning in until his nose nearly brushes yours, “are blushing.”

You can’t deny it. Not with his eyes on you like that, stripping away any chance of hiding. You bite your lip, and his breath catches at the movement.

For a moment, the air between you thickens, charged with the possibility of what could happen if you just leaned that last inch. But Van only smirks, pulling back just slightly, like he’s deliberately drawing it out.

“Coffee’s not the only thing keeping me awake this morning,” he says, almost too casual, though the tension in his jaw betrays him.

You roll your eyes, but your laugh is shaky. “Subtle.”

“Never claimed to be.” He presses his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

The choice hangs there, heavy but electric. And instead of answering, you tilt your head, catching his mouth with yours.

The kiss is nothing like the quick ones from before. This one is slow but deep, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you against him. His hand tightens at your hip, pulling you flush against him, while the other comes up to cradle the back of your neck.

You melt into it, fingers curling into his sweater, the knit soft under your hands as you cling to him. Every shift of his lips against yours sends sparks racing down your spine, every small sound from him unraveling you a little more.

When you finally break apart, breathless, his smile is wrecked in the best way. It’s messy, lopsided, boyish but hungry.

“Fuck,” he mutters, resting his head against your shoulder for a moment, laughter shaking through him. “You ruin me, you know that?”

You press a kiss to the top of his head, your heart still racing. “Likewise.”

He looks up again, eyes brighter now, and kisses you once more quick, almost playful this time. “Still think the view’s not that impressive?”

You grin, leaning in close enough that your lips brush his ear as you whisper: “Depends on which one I’m looking at.”

The sound he makes at that, half laugh, half groan, is enough to tell you the teasing has worked. His grip on you tightens, and for a moment you think he might lose the careful restraint he’s holding onto.

But instead, he just kisses you again, slow and lingering, like he’s savoring the taste of the morning, of you, of everything in between.

Van’s lips trail away from yours, but he doesn’t move far. He’s grinning again, boyish and mischievous, the kind of smile that always means trouble is coming. His thumb strokes lazy circles against your hip, like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t be.

“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, his grin spreading. “Just… thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He chuckles, tilting his head back against the chair. “Was just wondering…” He pauses, biting back a laugh before leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “How bad would it be if I asked for a ya know before breakfast?”

You choke on a laugh, swatting at his chest through the sweater. “Van!”

“What?!” He throws up his free hand in mock innocence, though his eyes are sparkling. “I’m only asking! Coffee’s great and all, but there are… other ways to start the day.”

You can’t stop laughing, shaking your head as you bury your face in his shoulder for a second. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, but you love me for it.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple, smug. “So… yes?”

You pull back, giving him your most mock-serious expression. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He arches a brow.

“Yeah,” you say, sipping the last of your coffee just to draw it out. “Depending on how good of a show you put on tonight.”

That wipes the smugness right off his face. His mouth drops open a little, and then he laughs, the sound bubbling up so genuine it makes your chest ache. He leans back, dragging a hand down his face, still shaking his head.

“You’re evil,” he says through a grin.

“Motivated,” you correct, enjoying the way he looks at you now like you’ve just thrown down a challenge he’s desperate to rise to.

He leans closer again, his hand sliding up your thigh under the blanket, slow and deliberate. “So if I give the crowd my all, scream my lungs out, sweat buckets-”

“-basically your job,” you interrupt, smirking.

“-then,” he continues, ignoring you, “I get my reward?”

“Maybe,” you repeat, drawing the word out.

He groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck dramatically. “You’re killing me.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.” His lips brush against your skin, lingering just a second longer than casual. “Guess I’ll just have to make it the best fucking show of my life, then.”

You laugh, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “Good. I’ll be watching.”

His eyes catch yours again, and for a moment the teasing fades into something softer, heavier. There’s a flicker there. Want, yes, but also affection so raw it makes your heart skip. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he needs the anchor.

“Always watching,” he murmurs, and you know he’s not just talking about the show.

The rest of the morning drifts by in that suspended bubble, quiet laughter, lazy kisses, shared warmth under the blanket. The noise of the world grows louder below, but up here, it’s just you and him, coffee gone cold on the railing, promises hanging in the air like something sacred.

The morning stretches, slow and unhurried, until the coffee’s gone cold and the world outside has fully woken. Van disappears inside for a moment, rummaging around the hotel room, humming absently under his breath. You stay where you are, curled up in the chair on the balcony, the blanket pulled close around you.

The air is warmer now, sunlight spilling over the railing, catching in your hair. From here, you can see him moving through the room barefoot, still in that white top, pacing like he always does when his thoughts are too quick to sit still.

He tosses his phone onto the bed, runs a hand through his messy hair, and then crouches to dig through his bag for something. It’s ordinary, even a little clumsy, but you can’t look away.

Your heart does that thing again, that quiet, stubborn ache you’ve learned to stop fighting. Because there’s something about moments like this, stripped of lights and noise, that hits harder than any concert, any whirlwind night on tour. Just him, unguarded, moving through a hotel room like it’s the most natural thing in the world to let you see him like this.

He glances up, catches you watching, and grins. He mouths something what? exaggerated and teasing.

You shake your head, smiling back, and he rolls his eyes before returning to his search.

And still, you watch.

You watch the way he hums without realising, the way he talks to himself when he thinks no one’s listening, the way his body carries the exhaustion of constant movement but somehow still burns with restless energy. You watch him, and it hits you again like it always does: how stupidly, terrifyingly, beautifully in love you are with him.

You don’t need the grand gestures. You don’t need the chaos of the stage or the thrill of the crowd. It’s this. Coffee cooling on the balcony, sunlight soft against your skin, Van in the middle of a messy hotel room, glancing up every so often just to make sure you’re still there.

And you are.

You’re here. You’re happy. You’re his, in all the ways that matter.

Part 3

Today was the day of the interview. You’d known about it for weeks, had it on your calendar in big red letters, circled twice for good measure. Not because you were particularly excited about it, more because you knew it was going to be a long morning of making sure the boys didn’t say anything too reckless. The journalist coming in was from a bigger magazine, the kind that could put them back in their prime. If the band were their usual selves, blunt, careless, sometimes too cheeky for their own good, it could all backfire.

Your role wasn’t glamorous. You weren’t there to answer questions, or even to be in the spotlight. You were there to keep the peace, to make sure they didn’t veer into dangerous territory. To nudge them back when they strayed, to defuse awkward silences. A glorified babysitter, essentially. Except Van made sure it never felt simple for you.

The band was spread across the battered sofa in the studio’s lounge, cups of coffee balanced precariously on amps, an ashtray already filling up on the table despite the sign that read no smoking indoors. You were perched on the arm of a chair, notebook closed in your lap, not taking notes, just pretending you had something to busy yourself with.

The interviewer, a woman in her late twenties with glossy hair and a neat stack of questions, had just set up her recorder on the table. She smiled brightly, trying to put the boys at ease, though her eyes flicked nervously between them, as if she already sensed the chaos simmering under the surface.

And then there was Van.

From the moment she pressed record, he was turned on. Not in the crude way, but in that way he got when an audience was in front of him. He leaned forward, elbows balanced on his knees, grin lazy and sharp all at once. He made the first joke before she even asked a question, and his bandmates groaned but laughed anyway.

You felt it instantly, the way the interviewer stiffened, the way her polite laugh tripped over itself. Van wasn’t just charming her, he was pushing, testing.

“So,” she asked, clearing her throat, “what do you think sets you apart from other bands breaking through right now?”

Van smirked, tilting his head. “Oh, you know...we’re better looking. Better songs. Better personalities. Basically better everything.”

The boys laughed, the interviewer smiled tightly, and you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Van,” you muttered under your breath, but he ignored you, already watching for her reaction.

She tried again, scribbling something down. “Right. And lyrically, you-”

He cut her off, leaning in. “Actually, hang on. Did you write those questions yourself? Or did someone hand them to you?”

Her pen faltered. “Um-well, I-”

Van smiled wider, wolfish. “Just asking. Feels like you’re too clever to be reading someone else’s list, that’s all.”

You sat up straighter. He wasn’t being outwardly rude, but you could see the way her cheeks flushed, the way she shifted in her chair. He was toeing that line, playful, but invasive. He was doing that thing again, the thing he did when he was bored, or restless, or just wanted to see how far he could push someone.

You caught his eye across the table, gave him a look you hoped read as knock it off. He only grinned at you, like he’d been waiting for you to react.

The rest of the band tried to smooth things over, chiming in with proper answers, but Van wasn’t done. He turned half his body toward the interviewer, lowering his voice in that conspiratorial way of his, like he was letting her in on some secret only she was clever enough to understand. You saw her laugh nervously again. She glanced at you like she wasn’t sure how to handle it.

That was it.

You pushed off the armrest and stood. “Van. Can I borrow you for a second?”

The other boys looked up, confused. Van’s grin only widened. “Oh? I’m in trouble already?”

“Now,” you said firmly, already moving toward the door.

He stood slowly, stretching his arms over his head, dragging it out. “Don’t start without me,” he tossed back to the band, and followed you into the hallway.

The first empty space you found was a storage room just off the corridor. Small, windowless, stacked with spare mic stands and cables coiled on hooks. You slipped inside, flicked the light on, and turned to face him as he shut the door behind you.

The room was barely big enough for the two of you. You had to stand close just to fit, the air thick with dust and tension. His shoulder nearly brushed yours as he leaned against the door, folding his arms, waiting.

“What the hell are you doing?” you hissed.

He raised his eyebrows, acting innocent. “Talking.”

“You’re making her uncomfortable.”

He tilted his head. “Am I? Or are you just jealous?”

Your jaw tightened. “Van.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, the grin softening but not fading entirely. “I was being nice. Flattering her.”

“You were flirting. And it wasn’t charming, it was-” you exhaled sharply, “-awkward.”

He shifted, the space so small his sleeve brushed against yours. “Awkward for her? Or awkward for you watching?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to put distance between you, but there was nowhere to go. His arm brushed yours again as you crossed them over your chest. He noticed. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped, by the twitch of his mouth.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“Don’t what?” His voice dipped, lower, slower.

“Whatever game you think you’re playing.”

His smile sharpened again, but quieter this time. He reached up suddenly, fingers brushing against your temple, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The move was gentle, but his knuckles lingered, grazing your cheek. You froze, every nerve in your body buzzing, though you forced your face to stay impassive.

“You’re wound up,” he murmured. “Maybe I just like seeing you like this.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated yourself for it. You stepped back half a pace, bumping into a stack of folded chairs. “We’re going back in. You’re going to behave. Stop making her uncomfortable”

He straightened, hands raised in mock surrender, but his eyes gleamed. “Whatever you say, boss.”

When you went back into the lounge, every head turned. The interviewer looked up, relieved maybe, and the rest of the band snickered at whatever joke had filled the silence while you were gone.

Van dropped back onto the sofa, spreading his arms across the backrest like nothing had happened. “Sorry about that,” he said casually. Then, with a pointed glance in your direction, he added, “Had to be told off. Won’t happen again.”

The words were shaped like an apology, but the tone was dripping with sarcasm. You pressed your lips together, fighting the urge to respond, and sank back into your chair.

The interviewer hit play on her recorder again, trying to pick up where she’d left off. Van leaned back, smiling to himself. You felt the weight of his smirk on you more than you heard a single answer he gave.

The journalist adjusted her glasses, flicking through her notes. “So! Big news just this week. You’ve been nominated for a BRIT Award. Congratulations, by the way.”

The boys all glanced at one another, grins spreading around the sofa. Even Benji, usually the quiet one, let out a low whistle.

“Yeah, mad innit?” Kai leaned back, running a hand through his hair like he couldn’t believe it himself.

“Will you be attending the ceremony?” she pressed, recorder tilted forward.

“Too right,” James said instantly. “Free bar, can’t say no to that.”

The room chuckled. Van smirked and tipped his head toward you, voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Our lovely assistant here’s making sure we turn up looking presentable. She’s already picked out what tie matches my eyes.”

The others laughed. You just gave him a look which showed you were fed up with his antics.

—————————————————————————

As the interview was wrapping up, the interviewer clicked her pen closed and stacked her notes, recorder light blinking red before she finally switched it off. The air in the room seemed to loosen all at once, the lads slumping deeper into the sofa cushions like schoolboys who’d just survived detention.

“Thank you so much for your time,” she said, offering a professional smile as she stood, slipping her papers into a neat folder. “I think we’ve got everything we need. The feature should be out in a few weeks. just in time to tie in with the BRITs.”

James let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face. “God, don’t remind me. Shitting bricks.”

The sofa erupted in laughter. Even Benji cracked a grin, shaking his head.

You stood, smoothing your palms down your jeans, already mentally calculating how to usher them all out before they could light another cigarette inside.

Then, of course, Van stretched lazily, arms wide across the backrest of the sofa, taking up more space than should’ve been possible. His eyes flicked to you, that same grin tugging at his mouth. “Well, I’d say we were perfectly charming. Wouldn’t you, love?”

You didn’t rise to it. Not with the interviewer still in the room. Instead, you busied yourself with gathering the mugs off the table, ignoring the way your ears burned under his gaze.

“Honestly,” the interviewer said politely, though her laugh was a touch strained, “you lot were…refreshing.”

“See?” Van leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still on you. “Refreshing. That’s practically angelic.”

The others groaned. James threw a balled-up napkin at him. “Angel, my arse.”

You shot Van one last warning look, sharp enough to cut, before heading toward the door with the empty mugs clinking in your hands. But his voice followed you, smooth and mocking, pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Behaved myself in the end, didn’t I, boss?”

A ripple of laughter spread across the room. You didn’t bother turning around because you knew if you did, you’d find him leaning back with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face, like the whole thing had been for your benefit.