Daddy-Issues-Galore

Noel finally sat up, his hair a magnificent mess of "just rolled out of bed" rockstar chic as he let out a tired groan. He slipped his arm over your shoulders and pulled you into his side, kissing the top of your head. "So," he said, pulling you back down into the duvet. "46. Halfway to 92. I reckon I’ve got at least another forty years of annoying you left in me."

"Only forty?" You laughed, resting your head on his chest and slipped your arm around his waist. "I was hoping for fifty."

"Let's not get greedy, love. My knees are already starting to click when I stand up."

A frantic scratching sounded at the bedroom door.

Noel sighed, a look of mock-betrayal on his face. "And here comes the real star of the show. Let the ginger menace in, will ya?"

You hopped out of bed, not fazed by your lack of clothing and opened the door. Ziggy charged in, skidding across the hardwood before leaping onto the bed and landing directly on Noel’s stomach.

"Oof! Bloody hell, Ziggy! I'm an old man today, have some respect!" Noel wheezed, though he was already scratching the kitten behind the ears.

You walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a small, flat box wrapped in silver paper. "This is from me. And Ziggy helped pick it out. Mostly by trying to eat the ribbon."

Noel took the box, his expression shifting from playful to genuinely touched. He opened it slowly, revealing a vintage, leather-bound notebook with the initials N.G. embossed in gold on the corner. Inside the front cover, you’d tucked a Polaroid of the three of you that had been taken on the day you got engaged.

Noel stared at the photo for a long time. He didn't say anything, but he cleared his throat twice.

"For the new songs," you said softly. "The ones for the next chapter."

Noel looked up at you, his eyes unusually bright. He reached out, snagging your waist and pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of sleep and soulmates. "It’s perfect," he murmured against your lips. “Thanks, love.”

"Come on then, birthday boy," you said, swatting his arm playfully. "Get dressed. Anais is coming over for lunch, and she’s apparently made you a card that involves a lot of glitter and some very questionable poetry."

"Glitter? In this house? We’ll be finding it in the sofa cushions until 2015.” Noel groaned, falling back onto the pillows dramatically making you giggle.

“Better than your sweaty socks.” You muttered as you attempted to get up from the bed, but Noel quickly pulled you back onto the bed making you laugh even more.

“Cheeky sod.” He chuckled as he wacked you with a pillow.

By 2 PM, the kitchen island looked like a craft shop had exploded. Anais sat proudly across from her dad, who was currently nursing a glass of wine while sporting a singular, large piece of pink glitter stuck to the end of his nose.

“You’re supposed to read the poem out loud, Dad,” Anais insisted, leaning on her elbows. “It’s art.”

Noel cleared his throat as he held the card (which was more glue than paper) at arm’s length. “Right. Here we go. ‘Roses are red, your hair is quite grey... you’re the best dad in the world, even if you’re ancient today.’” He looked up, deadpan. “Ancient? I’ve seen 80-year-olds in better shape than you on a Monday morning, kid.”

“It rhymes!” she defended, giggling.

“It’s a masterpiece,” you chimed in, leaning over Noel’s shoulder to drop a plate of sandwiches onto the island. You couldn't resist; you reached out and flicked the glitter off his nose. “Very festive, love.”

“I’m surrounded by comedians,” Noel muttered, though he pulled Anais into a one-armed side hug, kissing the top of her head.

The "vultures" outside had thinned out, bored of waiting for a rockstar to do something rockstar-ish on his birthday. When you asked Noel what he wanted to do for his birthday, he said something that involved peace and quiet. So, the rest of the afternoon was surprisingly domestic. The three of you sat in the lounge watching a film with a cuppa and some birthday cake that you and Anais had baked. It was uneven, dripping with buttercream and jam, Victoria Sponge that had far too much icing sugar on one side, but Noel thought it tasted delicious and had two generous slices.

Once Anais had been picked up by Meg, after a series of dramatic hugs and a final warning from Noel to "keep the glitter contained at your mam's house", the house fell into a quiet, warm lull. Ziggy was fast asleep on the back of the sofa, exhausted from a day of chasing ribbons and stealing ham from sandwiches. It was time for the adults to celebrate the birthday boy’s special day.

You headed upstairs to find Noel staring at a row of shirts in the wardrobe, looking uncharacteristically indecisive.

"Do I look old for my age, love?” he mused, pulling out a dark navy button-down.

"You know you don’t.” you said, stepping up behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. You caught your reflection in the mirror, your engagement ring catching the late afternoon light. "You look gorgeous. And like you said this morning, you’re like a vintage Gibson. Built to last, always sounds amazing and feels good in my hands.” You whispered teasingly as you ran your hand over his crotch with a giggle.

Noel let out a dry, short breath, not quite a laugh, more like a nervous exhale, turning in your arms to face you. He rested his hands on your hips as he looked past you, squinting at his own reflection in the mirror, tracing the lines around his eyes that seemed a little deeper in the unforgiving afternoon sun.

"I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror earlier," he said, his voice dropping into that rare, quiet register he only used when it was just the two of you. "Next to you, in your leather jacket and that 'don't-give-a-toss' look... I looked like I’d been through the wars, love. Grey hair, lines everywhere. I’m 46 today. You’re... well, you’re in your prime." He looked back at you, his hands tightening slightly on your hips. "You sure you aren't gonna wake up in five years, look over at the snoring old Manc next to you, and wonder where the rock star went?"

You felt a sharp pang of affection in your chest. The "Chief" was always so bulletproof in public, so sure of his own legend, that seeing this flicker of human doubt was like seeing the raw demo of a perfect song.

"Noel Thomas David Gallagher, look at me," you said, pulling your hands from his waist to cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "First of all, the 'rock star' isn't in the hair colour or the lack of wrinkles. It's in the way you walk into a room like you own the floorboards. It's in that brilliant, stubborn mind of yours."

You ran your thumb over the line at the corner of his eye.

"I don't see an 'old man.' I see the man who I flashed my tits to at an Oasis gig. The man who took me to a record shop where we first met, got down on one knee and told me he loved me. I see the man who defended me against his own family. I see the man that makes me feel more loved than I have ever felt, every single day we spend together. And for the record," You gave him a playful, wicked little smirk. "The 'wear and tear' looks incredibly good on you. You've got that rugged, 'I’ve-seen-it-all' thing going on. It’s a lot sexier than a boy who’s never had a story to tell."

Noel’s tension seemed to bleed out of him. A slow, genuine grin started to tug at the corners of his mouth, the one that made his eyes crinkle in exactly the way you loved to photograph.

"Rugged, eh?" he mused, his confidence returning like a physical tide. "So, what you’re saying is, I’m like a vintage Jaguar. A bit of trouble to start in the morning, but once I’m going, I’m the best ride in London?"

You laughed, "Exactly," You leaned up to press a firm kiss to his lips. "Now put the navy shirt on. You look sophisticated, dangerous, and precisely like the man I’m going to marry."

Noel chuckled, snagging the shirt and pulling you back in for one more lingering kiss. "I can work with that."

The two of you began getting ready for your night out at The Firehouse where you had booked a table for a special birthday dinner.

Noel wore the navy shirt with dark denim jeans, and polished black boots with a leather jacket. He looked sharp and sexy. You slipped into sleek black silk slip dress that fit you like a second skin, a tailored blazer over your shoulders, a pair of strappy black heels, paired with the "Diamond Shield". You truly felt like you belonged on Noel’s arm, and his reassuring “Fuckin’ ‘ell, love,” really helped.

As he checked his collar in the mirror, he caught your eye through the glass and winked, the same wink he’d given you in the wings of the Albert Hall. The doubt was gone. The Chief was back, but as you headed down the stairs to the waiting car, you knew he was carrying that little leather-bound notebook in his pocket, ready for the next forty years of lyrics.

The drive to ChilternFirehouse was quick. Noel seemed unusually chatty, mostly talking about the new demos he’d been working on in the notebook you gave him. When Alan pulled up to the entrance, the usual handful of photographers were there, but Noel handled it with a quick, practiced wave as he ushered you inside.

The hostess greeted you with a knowing smile. "Right this way, Mr. Gallagher. Your table is ready in the back gallery."

As you walked through the bustling restaurant, Noel kept his hand firmly around yours and close to his side. When the hostess pulled back the heavy velvet curtain to the private dining area, you felt Noel's grip tighten slightly.

"SURPRISE!"

The room erupted. You saw the familiar, grinning faces of the High-Flying Birds, along with a handful of Noel’s closest friends and long-time crew members. There were streamers handing from the light fittings, a few "Happy Birthday" balloons floating around and enough booze on the table to launch a small ship.

Noel froze, his jaw dropping for a split second before a massive, genuine grin broke across his face. "You set of bastards!" he shouted over the cheers. "I told her I wanted a quiet one!"

"Don't look at me!" you laughed, holding your hands up. "I just followed orders."

"Happy Birthday, Chief!" Mike yelled, thrusting a glass of something fizzy into Noel's hand and clapping him on the back.

The evening turned into a riot of laughter, tour stories and the women gushing over the engagement ring and the story of how Noel asked you. There was no talk of charts or press, just the people who actually knew the man behind the headlines and the number ones. Between courses of oysters and ribeye, the lads kept toasting to "The Old Man" and "The Future Mrs. G."

At one point, Noel leaned over to you, his face flushed with wine and happiness, and whispered into your ear, "You knew about this the whole time, didn't you?"

"It’s a possibility," you teased, sipping your wine.

Noel shook his head, looking around at the room full of people who genuinely loved him. He looked back at you, his eyes soft. "Suppose we’ll have to have this lot on the wedding guest list won’t we.”

"Definitely," you agreed, clinking your glass against his. "Happy Birthday, love."

"Best one yet," he said and kissed you. For once, the man who was famous for having something to say was perfectly content to keep his mouth shut, sit back and enjoy the music of the people around him.

The night at the Firehouse roared on, a chaotic symphony of banter, clinking glasses, and the kind of laughter that only comes from decades of shared road stories. Noel was in his element, leaning back in his chair, a cigarette (strictly "off the record," given the indoor setting) tucked behind his ear, holding court with a sharp-witted anecdote about a lost tour bus in 1994 with his left hand firmly placed at the base of your neck.

By midnight, the table was a graveyard of empty bottles and discarded party poppers. The High-Flying Birds were debating the merits of various 70s synth-pop bands, and Noel was looking at you with that glazed, heavy-lidded expression that told you he was officially "done" with being forty-six for the day.

"Right," he announced, standing up a bit unsteadily and slapping the table. "Before Mike starts singing 'Wonderwall' in a high-pitched voice, we’re making a move. Thanks for the booze, you lot. Try not to get arrested on the way home."

A chorus of "Happy Birthday, Chief!" followed you both out into the crisp London air. The drive home was quiet, your head resting on his shoulder while he hummed a melody under his breath, likely one of the new ones he’d been working on.

Back at the house, the silence was a welcome relief. Ziggy didn't even wake up as you crept inside; he was just a ginger ball of fur tucked into the corner of the sofa.

Noel shed his leather jacket, tossing it over the banister, and immediately began unbuttoning his navy shirt. He stopped halfway, looking at you as you kicked off your heels with a sigh of relief.

"You really pulled that off, didn't you?" he murmured, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom. "The surprise. The lads. I honestly thought we were just going for a boring pasta and a moan about my back."

"I have my ways, Gallagher," you said, stepping toward him and sliding your hands inside his open shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin. "I wanted you to see that getting older isn't so bad when you've got the right people around you."

Noel wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He looked down at you, your engagement ring sparkling in the dim hallway light, and for a second, the cocky rockstar was nowhere to be seen. It was just your Noelie.

"I’ve spent a lot of birthdays in a lot of different places, love," he said softly, his voice thick with sincerity. "Backstages, hotels, planes... usually surrounded by a thousand people I didn't actually like. But this?" He kissed your forehead, then your nose. "Waking up with you, the messy cake with the kid, and then seeing that lot tonight... fuckin’ perfect."

He leaned down, captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of the expensive red wine and the promise of that private, quiet wedding you'd discussed earlier.

The air between you was thick, charged with the lingering adrenaline of the party and the deep, possessive intimacy that had been building all day.

Noel didn’t move as you pulled back from the kiss, his eyes dark and heavy as he watched you. You didn't say a word; you simply reached up and slid the silk straps of your dress off your shoulders. The black fabric slithered down your body, pooling at your hips before you stepped out of it completely, leaving you in nothing but your lace thong.

Noel’s breath hitched, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fucking hell, love… you’re trying to kill me on my birthday, aren’t you?”

Instead of answering, you slowly sank to your knees on the plush carpet. You looked up at him through your lashes, the "Diamond Shield" on your finger catching the dim lamp light as you reached for the belt of his jeans. Noel let out a low, jagged groan, his head falling back against the doorframe as you unzipped him.

With practiced ease, you reached inside his underwear, your warm palm closing around the rigid length of his cock. He was pulsing, already leaking a bead of cum that you smeared over the head with your thumb. You leaned forward, the tip of your tongue flicking over the velvety head of him.

“Y/n…,” he rasped, his fingers tangling in your hair, not to pull you away, but to anchor himself as you took him into your mouth.

You swirled your tongue around the head of him before wrapping your lips around him and taking him deep, your eyes fixed on his as you worked him with a slow, rhythmic suction. Noel’s hips jerked instinctively, his breath hitching into short, sharp pants. The sound of him, the raw, unfiltered vulnerability of a man who usually had a comeback for everything, turned you on more than any song he’d ever written.

You used your left hand to stroke the base while your mouth focused on the tip, pushing him to the very edge. You could feel the muscles in his thighs tensioning underneath your other hand, his fingers tightening in your hair as he neared the point of no return.

“Wait. Wait, love,” he choked out, his voice a broken whisper. “I want to see you. Stop.”

You pulled back off him with a pop, a thin string of saliva connecting you for a second before you sat back on your heels. You reached for the waistband of your thong and tights, shimming them down until you were completely bare. Then, you arched your back, pushing your chest forward and cupping your plump breasts, offering them up to him. Your nipples were dark, pebble-hard in the cool air.

“Watch me, Noel,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire.

Noel looked down at you, his chest heaving. “Fuck.” He looked wrecked, his hair dishevelled and his blue eyes burning with an intense, frantic hunger. He wrapped his hand around his cock, his knuckles white as he began to stroke himself in a fast, desperate rhythm, his gaze locked onto your chest.

You moaned as you pinched one of your nipples with your right hand. You slipped your left hand down between your legs. You moaned as you gave your clit a few strokes, your eyes fixed on Noel’s hand moving up and down his thick cock.

“That’s it, baby… look at me… watch your fiancé, Noel.”

He didn't need telling twice. He picked up the pace, his breath coming in ragged, guttural hitches. You watched the play of muscles in his forearm, the way his jaw was clenched so tight the bone stood out. He was close, you could see it in the way his eyes began to roll back.

“I’m gonna, fuck, Y/n. I’m gonna cum!”

He gave three more frantic, heavy tugs of his hand, his body racking with a sudden, violent shudder. A low, primal roar ripped from his throat as he erupted. The first thick ropes of heat hit your collarbone before splattering across your pale, rounded breasts. He didn't stop, his hand working through the climax until you were painted in his warmth, the white cream stark against your skin.

Noel stood there for a moment, his hand falling limp at his side, his head bowed as he tried to find his breath. The room was silent except for his ragged gasping. Slowly, he dropped to his knees in front of you, his forehead resting against yours.

“Happy birthday, Noelie,” you breathed, reaching out to stroke his damp hair.

He let out a weak, shaky chuckle, his eyes opening to look at the mess he’d made on you. He reached up and with his thumb he wiped up a stray drop of his cum from the curve of your breast before looking up at you with a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. He held his thumb up and let out a breathy groan as you wrapped your lips around his thumb and sucked it clean.

Your legs slowly unwound from his waist, sliding down the smooth, metallic curve of the Jaguar’s wing until your bare feet touched the cold concrete floor. The contrast was a sharp, grounding reminder of reality, but you didn't want to move out of his space just yet. You let out a weak, breathy laugh, your hands slipping down from his shoulders to rest against his chest.

"You've got a bit of..." You reached up, your thumb gently wiping at the dark streak of engine grease on his cheekbone, only succeeding in smudging it slightly further across his skin. "Never mind. It suits you. Very rock 'n' roll."

Noel caught your hand, catching your fingers in his and pressing a brief, warm kiss to your palm. His eyes were still dark, heavy-lidded, and intensely focused on you. "Fucking hell, Y/N," he muttered, shaking his head with a slow, disbelieving smile. "I don't think I’ve ever had a morning quite like this one. Go from getting ready to murder the press to having my favourite car fixed and getting absolutely ruined on the bonnet of it."

You felt yourself blush at his words. “That makes the two of us then.” You let out a soft, nervous laugh. “I don’t usually allow myself to be charmed into bed, or on to the bonnet of a jag, so easily.” You blushed even more making Noel’s grin stretch.

"Is that right?" Noel asked, his voice dropping into that teasing, gravelly purr. He didn't let go of your hand; instead, he used his grip to gently tug you back into his chest, completely unbothered by the fact that you were standing bare-legged on his garage floor in nothing but his sweater. "Well, darlin’, I’d say the bonnet of a Jag counts as an exceptional circumstance. Standard rules don't apply when you're busy rewriting the future of the British music press."

He looked past you for a second, his eyes tracking the long, elegant lines of the now-purring machine beneath you. He tapped his knuckles against the green paintwork. "Besides, she hadn't sung like that in ten years. You performed a bloody miracle. I'd say you earned a bit of a celebration." He smiled before he leaned in a gave you a soft peck, "Come on you," he said, nodding toward the heavy timber door that led back into the house. "Before we both freeze to death out here.” He said giving your bare backside a playful pat making you yelp. “And you look like you need a proper scrub, grease monkey."

The house was warm the moment you stepped into the hallway. Noel led you upstairs to his massive, slate-tiled bathroom that featured a rainfall shower large enough to park the Jaguar in. Without a word, he turned the brass handles, and the room instantly filled with a thick, comforting steam.

Shedding the sweater, you stepped under the cascading hot water, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as the tension of the last twenty-four hours finally washed away. Noel joined you a moment later. There was no frantic urgency this time; it was quiet and intimate. He took the bar of soap, working up a thick lather between his calloused palms before gently scrubbing the stubborn engine grease from your shoulders and the small of your back. You leaned into his chest as the water sluiced down your bodies, carrying the scent of petrol, scotch, and sweat down the drain.

When you finally stepped out, wrapped in impossibly plush towels, Noel disappeared into his dressing room and returned with a bundle of fresh clothes.

"Best I can do, darlin'," he chuckled, handing them over.

It was a soft, vintage black polo shirt and a pair of dark denim jeans that you had to cinch tightly at the waist with one of his leather belts, rolling the cuffs up three times so they didn't drag. It was ridiculous, but as you looked at yourself in the mirror, wearing Noel Gallagher’s wardrobe with your hair damp and your skin flushed, you didn't care. You felt indestructible.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the atmosphere was domestic and easy.

“I can manage eggs on toast without burning the kitchen down, love. If you want anything fancy, you’re on your own.” Noel offered as he pulled the bread out of the bread bin.

You shook your head with a giggle and grabbed the carton of eggs from the side. “In that case, shall I make breakfast?”

Noel chuckled, “Be my guest, love. I’ll pop the bread in the toaster.”

A few minutes later, the smell of burning toast and brewing coffee filled the air as you took charge of the stove, expertly flipping eggs in a copper skillet while Noel leaned against the counter as he watched you with a look of quiet contentment.

"You're not bad with a spatula, y’know," he noted, a teasing glint in his eye. "Is there anything you can't fix?"

"Your brother's attitude, probably," you shot back, plating up the eggs.

Noel laughed as he grabbed the burnt toast and handed it to you to butter. “No one can fix that.” Noel mumbled as he stood behind you and caged you in against the countertop as you set about buttering the toast. Noel rested his chin on your shoulder and breathed in his own scent that was now covering you. “You smell good, love.”

Yous smiled. “I smell like you.”

Noel grinned, his hands moving to rest on your hips as he pressed his face against your neck. “Exactly.” He pressed a small kiss to your skin then another one further up your neck making you giggle.

“You’re a menace, Mr Gallagher. Breakfast is going to be cold if you carry on.” You let your head fall back against his shoulder as he kept kissing your neck and his hands began to slowly wonder.

"Cold breakfast is a small price to pay for my undivided attention, darlin'," Noel murmured against your ear, his hands sliding up under the hem of the vintage polo shirt, his thumbs tracing the line of your hip bones.

You let out a soft laugh, leaning back into his solid chest as you tried to focus on slicing the eggs. "I'm beginning to think 'The Chief' is just a title you use to boss people around in the studio. In reality, you're just a massive distraction."

"I am the boss," he corrected playfully, his teeth nipping gently at your earlobe, sending a familiar thrill straight down your spine. "And right now, I'm ordering you to stop worrying about the bloody toast and—"

The heavy, rattling thud of the front door being violently kicked open shattered the quiet domesticity of the room like a brick through a window.

"Noel! You fat, balding bastard, wake up!" a loud, unmistakable Manchester drawl barked from the hallway. Heavy, stomping footsteps echoed on the stone floor, accompanied by the rustle of a massive plastic bag. "You better have some fucking tea on, man, I've been in a car for an hour and—"

Noel instantly froze, his hands dropping from your waist as his head snapped toward the doorway. "What the fucking hell is he doing here?" he muttered, his posture instantly shifting from relaxed lover to defensive older brother.

Liam Gallagher swaggered into the kitchen holding a massive plastic bag filled to the top with newspapers. He stopped dead in his tracks the second his eyes landed on the scene by the stove.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His jaw slowly went slack, his gaze traveling from Noel who was still standing entirely too close to you, down to the oversized black polo shirt you were wearing, the cinched leather belt, and the rolled-up denim jeans. Finally, his eyes snapped up to your face, recognizing the "bird from the back" who had completely dismantled the press room the night before.

"Fucking hell," Liam breathed, a look of genuine, unadulterated shock crossing his features. He looked like he’d just watched someone turn water into lager. "Shut up. No way."

"What do you want, Liam?" Noel snapped, stepping forward to partially shield you, his face darkening.

Liam didn't even look at his brother. He was staring at you, a slow, bewildered realization dawning on him. "You... you're here? In his house? Wearing his fucking gear?" He let out a sharp, jagged laugh, tossing the heavy bundle of morning newspapers onto the kitchen island. "I don't fucking believe it. I thought for sure you’d have come to my room last night after that show! I was waiting for a knock, man! And you’re out here with him? The boring one?"

"She's got taste, Liam. Clearly," Noel shot back, his voice dripping with venom. "Now piss off."

"Hold your horses, potato head," Liam scoffed, finally tearing his eyes away from you to glare at Noel, though a massive, chaotic grin was still plastered across his face. "I came here to show you the papers, innit. The whole fucking world is talking about her!"

He slapped the top newspaper on the pile. It was a major tabloid, and right there on the sidebar was a blurry photo of you walking out of the press conference, accompanied by the headline: OASIS PRESS CONFERENCE COLLAPSES AS FREELANCE "TEA GIRL" GOES ROGUE.

"Look at this!" Liam crowed, pacing around the kitchen island like a caged tiger, full of frantic morning energy. "They're calling it a 'psychotic break'! They’re saying you’ve lost your marbles!" He stopped, leaning over the counter to look you dead in the eye. "But I think it took massive, iron bollocks, mate. Seriously. You’re a fucking legend."

Before you could answer, a sharp, electronic buzzing cut through the tension. It wasn't your phone, yours was still firmly switched off. It was Noel’s. He pulled it from his pocket, his brow furrowing as he looked at the screen.

"It’s Marcus," Noel muttered, referencing the Oasis manager. He pressed the button, putting it on speaker as he set it on the counter. "Marcus. What’s the damage?"

"Noel, thank God," the manager's frantic voice echoed through the kitchen. "Your phone's been ringing out. Listen, that editor from The Champion—Carter? He’s been calling the office non-stop since six AM. He’s absolutely panicking, trying to claim the girl has had a complete mental collapse, saying the magazine isn’t responsible for anything she says or does. He’s basically sucking up, begging us not to pull our press access for the rest of the tour."

Noel let out a cold, dismissive snort. "Tell Carter to go perform an unnatural act on himself. The girl doesn't work for him anymore anyway."

"Wait, there's more," Marcus sighed. "The Guardian arts editor contacted our PR team an hour ago. Noel... did you encourage her to send them an article?"

You felt a sudden bolt of ice in your stomach, your fingers tightening around the handle of the spatula.

Noel’s expression went completely serious. "Yeah. I did. I told him to run it. It’s a belter of a piece."

There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. "They’re not going to publish it, Noel. The legal team flagged it. Because she names Miller and explicitly accuses him of... well, marital indiscretions, and because she completely eviscerates the established press pack, The Guardian’s lawyers are terrified of a defamation suit. They pulled it from the morning layout. It's dead in the water."

The silence that followed was heavy. Noel’s jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white as he leaned against the counter. "Cowards," he hissed. "Fucking corporate, spineless cowards."

"Right, what’s all this then?" Liam interrupted, his loud voice cutting through the gloom. He looked between the two of you, his curiosity piqued. "What did she write? What are you lot on about?"

Noel didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the floor in a dark, brooding simmer. But you had decided last night that you were done being a ghost. You walked over to the kitchen island, picked up Noel’s laptop which he had brought up from the study earlier and spun it around to face Liam.

"Read it yourself," you said, your voice remarkably steady.

Liam squinted at the screen, shifting his weight as he began to read your raw, unedited words. Noel watched him out of the corner of his eye, clearly expecting his brother to explode the moment he hit the paragraph about his failing vocal cords.

Instead, the kitchen went entirely quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the stove clock. Liam’s eyes scanned the text, his head tilting side to side. Slowly, the chaotic smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a strange, focused intensity.

"Fucking hell," Liam muttered under his breath. He hit the paragraph about himself, the part where you called him a note-missing cunt but begged him to find the bright-eyed lad’s rock 'n' roll gruff again. He stopped. He read it twice.

Noel braced himself, stepping half an inch closer to you, ready for a blowout.

But Liam just looked up, a completely genuine, stunned expression in his eyes. "She’s right," he said softly, looking at Noel.

Noel blinked, utterly floored. "What?"

"She’s bloody right, man!" Liam yelled, his voice bouncing off the tiled walls. "I have been hiding behind the big dick energy! My throat’s been killing me since the stadium rehearsals, and I've just been shouting over the top of it because the songs are too fucking high!" He turned back to the laptop, tapping the screen with a blunt finger. "And this bit about the old blokes? The vultures? I’ve been saying the exact same thing for bloody ages, Noel! They don't care about the tunes! They just want us to punch each other so they can sell papers!"

Noel stared at his brother like he’d just started speaking fluent Japanese. "You... you agree with her? I've been telling you to look after your voice for three years and you told me to go stick a guitar up my arse!"

"Yeah, well, you're a miserable old bastard, aren't you?" Liam shot back with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I’m not gonna listen to you, am I? But I'll listen to a pretty bird who actually knows what a syncopated rhythm is."

Liam turned his full attention back to you. The aggressive, posturing frontman vanished for a brief second, replaced by something resembling a gentleman or at least, as close to a gentleman as a Gallagher could get.

"Listen, love," Liam said, his voice dropping into a rare, quiet sincerity. "Am sorry about yesterday. In the room. I was just playing up to the crowd, innit. Didn't mean to make you feel small. You’ve got proper class."

You felt a genuine smile break across your face, the residual anger from the press room finally evaporating. "Thank you, Liam. I appreciate that."

"Right, well, don't get too choked up about it," Liam instantly grinned, the trademark chaotic twinkle returning to his eyes as he threw his shoulders back. "I still think you’ve got great tits, though. Absolute belters. Even better in his shirt." He gave you a massive, exaggerated wink.

"Oi! You disrespectful prick!" Noel roared, instantly grabbing a heavy, wooden rolling pin from the counter and hurling it straight at his brother's head.

Liam ducked with a raucous, barking laugh, the rolling pin clattering harmlessly against the far wall.

Completely unbothered by his brother’s murderous glare, Liam swaggered around the counter, dragged a high stool over, and sat himself down directly in front of your breakfasts.

Without asking, he snatched up a fork, dragged the plate containing Noel’s carefully buttered, slightly charred toast and perfectly flipped eggs toward himself, and dug in with the frantic appetite of a man who had spent the early morning hours recovering from a heavy session.

"Fucking starvin', me," Liam mumbled around a mouthful of egg. "And you can't cook for shit, Noel. Eggs are alright though, love. Proper greasy. Just how I like 'em."

Noel stood with his arms crossed, his chest heaving as he watched his breakfast disappear into his brother's cavernous mouth. "You've got five minutes, Liam. Eat the food, take your bag of fucking trash tabloids, and get out of my house before I find something heavier than a rolling pin."

"Calm your noodles, potato head," Liam scoffed, pointing his fork toward the laptop screen where your unedited article was still proudly displayed. He swallowed hard, washed it down with a swig of Noel’s lukewarm coffee straight from the pot, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "We’ve got a proper crisis on our hands here. If The Guardian’s legal team is full of spineless, suit-wearing melts, then what’s the plan? What are you gonna do now, Y/N? If they won't publish you, none of the other big rags will. They’re all part of the same little circle-jerk, aren't they? All terrified of getting sued by each other."

You leaned back against the counter, your fingers tracing the hem of Noel’s oversized black polo shirt. The sudden rush of adrenaline from the phone call with Marcus had left a lingering, cold weight in your stomach. "I don't know," you admitted honestly, looking between the two brothers. "If The Guardian is passing on it because of the legal risks, Mojo or Q won't touch it either. Carter's probably already poisoned the well with every editor in London by now, telling them I'm a loose cannon. I'm officially blacklisted before I've even had my first proper byline."

Noel didn't hesitate. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his eyes narrowing into that sharp, clinical focus that usually preceded a massive financial or creative decision.

"Then I'll buy a fucking magazine," Noel said, his voice entirely flat, devoid of any hyperbole. "Or a newspaper. I'll buy a printing press and hire a distribution team myself. We'll set up a new monthly publication, call it whatever the fuck you want, and you can be the Editor-in-Chief. You can hire whoever you want, write whatever you want, and if Miller or Carter want to sue us, they can talk to my lawyers. I’ve got enough money to tie them up in court until they’re living in a cardboard box under Euston station."

You let out a sudden, startled laugh, waiting for the punchline, but Noel’s expression didn't change. He wasn't smiling. He was staring at you with a deadly, unsentimental seriousness that made your breath catch.

"Noel, stop it," you said, reaching out to press a hand against his chest, feeling the solid, steady thud of his heart beneath his shirt. "You cannot be serious. You are not buying a national publication just because a bunch of corporate lawyers wouldn't run a forty-five-hundred-word rant about Liam's throat and a tabloid editor's wife. Do not be so bloody daft."

"I'm not being daft," Noel countered, his hand coming up to cover yours, his fingers pressing firmly into your skin. "I'm telling you how the world works when you've got the leverage. Why should you have to play by their rules? They're fossils, Y/N. The whole system is rotten, and you just proved you're the only person with the guts to call it out. If the platform doesn't exist for a proper writer, then I'll build the fucking platform."

"He's not joking, love," Liam interjected, pointing his fork at Noel while chewing on another piece of toast. "He’s a control freak, innit. Buys houses he don't live in, buys guitars he don't play. If he buys a magazine, he'll just spend all day arguing with the printers about the font size. But he’s right about one thing—you’re the first proper music writer we've seen in years. Everyone else just writes these polite little press releases or tries to guess what kind of shoes I'm wearing. You actually listened to the tune. You talked about the architecture of the bloody track, man."

Liam set his fork down with a loud clack against the plate, his chaotic energy shifting into something much more grounded as he leaned over the kitchen island, his blue eyes locked onto yours.

"So you ain't figuring this out by yourself, mate," Liam said firmly, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone that commanded a stadium. "You're with us now. Like it or lump it. If the big papers are too scared to run the truth, then we'll make them look like the absolute frauds they are. We'll put it out ourselves. We don't need their permission to change the way people listen."

The grey morning rain continued to beat a steady rhythm against the wide kitchen windows, but inside, the kitchen the pressure felt like it was about to erupt. You stood between Noel and Liam, wearing Noel’s clothes, holding Liam’s attention and for the first time since you walked out of that public library at twelve years old, you realized that the calling wasn't about finding a place in the old world. It was about having the courage to let the old world burn so you could build something real from the ashes.

You looked at the two of them, completely overwhelmed by the surreal trajectory your morning had taken. One brother was offering to purchase a national printing press on a whim, and the other was casually nodding along while polishing off your breakfast.

"Let’s just calm down for a second, alright?" you said, letting out a soft chuckle as you rubbed the back of your neck. "We don't need to trigger a hostile takeover of the British media landscape before midday. It's 2005. People are starting to put things online now. I could just start a blog or something. I’ll publish the unedited piece there, link it on the music forums, and try to build an audience from the ground up. If it gets enough traction, a proper editor with some actual backbone might eventually see it and pick it up."

Noel scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning his weight back against the counter. "A blog? What, so you can be read by three spotty teenagers in their bedrooms and a bloke in Sheffield who thinks we haven't made a good record since 1994? Don't think small, Y/N. That's what Carter and Thompson want you to do. They want you to hide away in some dark corner of the internet where you can't hurt them."

He went quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against his forearm as that sharp, calculating mind of his began to spin a new angle. A slow, wicked grin began to spread across his face, his eyes lighting up with that trademark Gallagher brilliance.

"Hold on," Noel murmured, leaning forward. "Why don't we give them something they physically cannot ignore? The Guardian won't run a piece that's just you throwing grenades at the press pack. Fine. But what if you write a proper, definitive feature? An exclusive. You interview the whole band. Me, Liam, Gem, Andy. The full works. We give you total, unfettered access. No soundbites, no PR babysitters, no bullshit. Just the music, the mechanics, and the actual reality of the band."

Liam paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes widening as the genius of the plan hit him. He let out a sharp, raucous bark of a laugh, slapping his hand down on the kitchen island so hard the empty coffee pot rattled.

"Fucking hell, Noel, you’ve actually had a good idea for once in your miserable life!" Liam crowed, pointing his fork excitedly between you and his brother. "That’s it! That’s brilliant! We can put out an official statement from management saying we’ve barred every single tabloid hack from the venues, and we've personally hired you to write the definitive tour profile. We tell 'em we asked you to do it because you’re a proper music critic who actually understands the tunes, not like those fat, lazy bastards who just want to ask about my knickers."

Liam leaned over the counter, his blue eyes flashing with pure, chaotic delight as he gave you a massive, conspiratorial grin. "Plus, it makes us look like absolute geniuses, innit? Standing up for the real writers. And let’s be honest, darlin', I’ve always loved a psycho. You’ve got that proper, dangerous edge. The papers will absolutely lose their minds when they realize they've been locked out and the 'tea girl' is the only one sitting on the tour bus."

Noel looked over at his brother, a rare, genuine expression of agreement softening his sharp features before he turned his gaze back to you. The intensity in his eyes was heavy, warm, and entirely grounding.

"Think about it, Y/N," Noel said softly, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive register that felt like a private conversation just for the two of you, even with Liam sitting right there. "An exclusive Oasis feature, written by the girl who dismantled the press room. If we hand that to The Guardian or Mojo on a silver platter, their legal teams won't be able to say a word. The demand will be too massive. They'll have to run it, and they'll have to put your name on the front cover to get it."

He stepped closer, his hand coming up to gently rest on your hip over the coarse denim of his own jeans you were wearing, his thumb brushing against the fabric in a slow, reassuring motion.

"You wanted to change the way a generation listens," Noel whispered, a proud, crooked smile playing on his lips. "This is how you start the fire. What do you say, grease monkey? You ready to come on the road with us?"

"On the road?" you repeated, your voice a breathless octave higher than normal as you gaped at him. "For the tour?"

You looked between the two brothers, the sheer absurdity of the situation finally crystallizing into something tangible. On one side stood Liam, grinning like a schoolboy who’d just successfully smuggled a firework into the school assembly; on the other was Noel, his hand a warm, grounding anchor on your hip, watching you with an intensity that made the rest of the world vanish.

"Not just the tour, darlin'," Noel corrected softly, his voice a low vibration that seemed to buzz right through the denim of his jeans and against your skin. "The whole fucking circus. The lead-up, the warm-up gigs, the lot. And we're shooting the video for 'Lyla' next week. I want you on set for that, too. You’ll see how the whole machine works from the first spark to the final explosion. By the time you're done typing, you won't just have an article; you'll have the blueprint of this entire era."

“Fucking ‘ell, you must be good in the sack if you’re getting the, all access treatment.” Liam winked at you with a smirk making you blush.

"Shut your fucking mouth, Liam!" Noel snapped, his hand tightening on your hip for a split second as his head whipped around to glare at his brother. The domestic warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, protective heat. "One more comment like that and I’ll smack you in the gob before we even hit the road. I'm not joking, you disrespectful prick."

"Alright, alright, keep your wig on, potato head!" Liam threw his hands up in mock surrender, though the massive, shit-eating grin never left his face. He hopped off the high stool, snagging one last piece of crust from the plate and tossing it into his mouth. "Just paying a compliment, innit. She’s got the Chief acting like a lovesick teenager. It’s beautiful, man. Proper rock 'n' roll romance." He swaggered toward the kitchen door, slinging his arms wide as if he were already walking out onto the stage at Hampden Park. "I’m off to the studio to yell at the microphone until my throat bleeds. Sort out the paperwork with Marcus, Noel. And you," Liam stopped, pointing a blunt finger at you, his eyes locking onto yours with that chaotic, undeniable charisma. "Pack a bloody bag, darlin’. The bus leaves when we say it leaves. Don't let him bore you to death before next week."

With a sharp, barking laugh that echoed through the high ceilings of the house, Liam vanished down the hallway. A moment later, the heavy oak front door slammed shut, the vibration rattling the copper pans hanging above the stove.

The sudden silence in the kitchen felt heavy, thick with the residual energy of the Gallagher storm that had just passed through. The grey London rain was still drumming against the glass, but the atmosphere inside had shifted completely.

Noel let out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders dropping as he leaned his forehead against yours. The scent of him; tobacco, expensive soap, and the faint, musky heat of the bedroom, wrapped around you like a heavy blanket.

"Am sorry about him," Noel muttered, his voice a low, morning-cracked rumble. "He’s got the social grace of a fucking bulldozer. But..." He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "...I meant what I said. The tour. The video shoot next week. The whole bloody lot."

You looked down at yourself, at the oversized black polo shirt that drowned your frame, the leather belt cinched tight, and your bare feet resting on his warm stone floor. Your heart was performing a frantic, syncopated solo against your ribs. Yesterday you were a glorified tea girl, a ghost fixing the spelling of "Stratocaster" for men who hated you. Today, you were being handed the keys to the biggest rock 'n' roll machine in the country.

"Noel," you breathed, your voice trembling slightly despite the fire roaring in your chest. "This is insane. If I come on the road with you, if management bars the rest of the press pack... the tabloids won't just call me a loose cannon. They'll dismantle my entire life. They'll look into my dad's garage, they'll look into my past, they'll try to find every bit of dirt they can to prove I only got this gig because..." Your eyes drifted down, your cheeks flushing a furious, hot pink. “I’m good in the sack.”

Noel reached up, his calloused fingers catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. The lazy, teasing smirk was entirely gone. His face was set in those hard, unyielding lines that defined his entire career. "Let 'em look," Noel said fiercely, his thumb sweeping across your lower lip. "Let the bastards dig. What are they gonna find? That you know more about music than their entire editorial board combined? That you can fix a classic Jag engine in thirty seconds while 'specialists' stare at it for weeks? You’re not a groupie, Y/N. You’re not some pretty bird we're keeping around for the scenery. You're the person who's going to document the most, loudmouth band there is. And if anyone tries to say otherwise, they can answer to me."

He stepped in closer, caging you against the countertop, his chest pressing firmly against yours. The heat between you was visceral, layered with the cerebral thrill of the article you’d just sent and the raw, physical memory of the Jaguar's bonnet.

"The 'Lyla' video shoot is next Tuesday," Noel murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register that made the rest of the universe cease to exist. "It's a proper sixties-style setup. Loud, colourful, chaotic. Perfect for a girl with a mouth like a terrace hooligan and a brain like a scientist.” He smiled, “I want you there from the start of the chaos to the last wrap. You write the blueprint of the track; you write the reality of the circus. No filters. Just your voice."

You looked at him, the last remnants of your fear evaporating, replaced by a cold, dangerous confidence. You reached up, your fingers tangling into the short, thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down until his breath was mingling with yours.

"Okay… but let’s get one thing straight right now," you warned, your tone dropping an octave, dripping with absolute seriousness. "If I’m doing this, I’m doing it as a journalist. A proper critic. I’m not a PR mouthpiece, and I’m certainly not going to be a cheerleader for your egos. If you give me total access, you get the real deal. That means if the gigs are sloppy, I’m writing it. If the vocals are shot, it’s going in the piece. If you two start acting like a pair of spoiled, toxic toddlers in the dressing room, the whole world is going to read about it in meticulous detail.” You whispered against his lips, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. “I won't go easy on either of you. Not for a single second."

Noel tapped the screen one last time, a sharp click as he “liked” Liam’s comment. He tossed his phone onto the marble counter as if it were a live grenade.

“There. That’s the internet broken for the week. Let ‘em choke on that.” He turned to you, his eyes softening as they raked over you in his oversized knitwear. “Right. No more phones. No more ‘sources.’ Just us, the ginger menace, and a very large delivery of Thai food. Deal?”

“Deal,” you whispered, slipping off the stool to wrap your arms around his neck.

For the next seventy-two hours, the front gates stayed locked and the kitchen in Little Venice felt like a fortified bunker of domestic bliss. Outside, the world was dissecting your ring, your past, and the sudden, seismic digital olive branch from Liam, but inside, the only thing that mattered was the temperature of the tea and whose turn it was to dangle the feather string for Ziggy. The paparazzi eventually got bored of photographing your closed curtains and migrated back to Soho, leaving you in a cocoon of hazy, post-engagement magic.

Mornings were spent tangled in your bedsheets, Noel tracing the tan lines on your shoulders and whispering “fiancée” against your skin until the word lost all meaning and just became a hum of affection. You rediscovered Noel’s massive film collection. You spent one entire afternoon watching the Beatles films. The evenings you sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by travel brochures as you bounced honeymoon ideas off one another whilst a record played.

But the idyllic stillness of a break from the road always came with a side effect: Noel’s restless, hyperactive energy. With the High-Flying Birds on hiatus, the Chief had no stadium to command, no setlists to obsess over, and no journalists to bait. Consequently, all that focused, creative intensity shifted entirely onto you. A bored Noel Gallagher was a dangerous thing, but a Noel Gallagher who had just secured the love of his life was something else entirely predatory, playful, and utterly insatiable.

The domesticity didn’t just soften him; it seemed to act as an aphrodisiac. He couldn’t walk past you without a hand sliding under your shirt or a firm grip on your hip pulling you back against him. The engagement ring on your finger caught the light coming through the kitchen windows as you tried to make coffee, only for Noel to spin you around, his mouth finding yours with a hunger that suggested he hadn’t seen you in years rather than minutes.

It became a feverish routine. You were making up for lost time. You had sex on the velvet sofa in the drawing room with the morning sun streaming through the Victorian glass; you found yourselves tangled together on the rug in your shared office, surrounded by the scent of old paper and expensive tobacco. Every room in the Little Venice house became a sanctuary for a different position, a different pace. He was discovering you all over again, marking his territory with a ferocity that left you breathless and bruised in the best possible ways.

The peak of this creative and carnal obsession happened in the one place Noel usually deemed sacred: the home studio.

“I’ve got an idea,” he’d muttered, dragging you by the hand down the stairs. You expected a new melody or a lyric about the rain, but when the heavy soundproof door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted. The room was bathed in the low, amber glow of the equipment lights.

He didn’t pick up a guitar. Instead, he reached over and hit ‘Record’ on the console, the reels beginning their silent, hypnotic spin.

“Noel, what are you doing?” you laughed, even as he backed you up against the mixing desk. The cold metal of the faders pressed into your lower back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him.

“Atmosphere, love,” he murmured, his hands already working the buttons of your jeans. “The texture of a moment. I want the sound of it. The real thing. Put a bit of soul into the track.”

The sheer audacity of it; the Chief wanting to capture the raw, unedited soundtrack of your intimacy for some future psych-rock masterpiece, sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. As he lifted you onto the desk, pushing aside lyric sheets and half-empty glasses of water, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic hum of the machinery and the quickening of your shared breath.

There, amidst the vintage pre-amps and the ghosts of a hundred hit songs, he took you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt like a prayer. You weren’t just his photographer or his fiancée; in that room, you were his muse in the most primal sense. Every gasp, every whispered “Noel,” and the frantic scratch of your nails against his shoulders was being captured by the high-fidelity mics. He watched your face with a terrifyingly focused intensity, his hand tangled in your hair, ensuring you didn’t look away.

When the “session” finally ended, you were both slumped against the gear, lungs burning, the silence of the room amplified by the tiny red ‘Recording’ light still glowing like a watchful eye.

“That,” Noel wheezed, pressing a sweat-slicked kiss to your forehead as he finally reached over to stop the tape, “is going to be the best B-side the world has ever heard. Or maybe I’ll just keep it for myself. My private anthem.”

He helped you down, his hands lingering on your waist, the boredom completely vanished, replaced by a smug, post-coital grin. The world outside could keep its rumours and its tabloid headlines. Within these walls, the Chief was home, and he had never felt (or sounded) better.

The high of the "Little Venice Lockdown" was eventually punctured by the reality of the calendar.

The quiet bubble of domestic bliss in Little Venice finally burst as the calendar flipped to the final week of March 2013. The teenage cancer trust gigs at the Royal Albert Hall were a staple in Noel’s calendar, and for the first time, you weren’t just a fly on the wall or the "new girl"—you were the woman with the diamond shield and the official title.

The transition from the soundproofed intimacy of your home studio to the echoey, grand corridors of the Royal Albert Hall was jarring. For Noel, it was a homecoming. For you, it was a professional gauntlet.

The "needy, horny fiancé" who spent all morning tangled in your legs was replaced by the "Chief" within minutes of stepping into the venue. He moved through the backstage area with a renewed purpose, but his newfound status as an engaged man changed the dynamic.

He didn't just walk into a room; he ushered you in first. He didn't just introduce you; he boasted. Every time he ran into a peer—be it Damon Albarn, Graham Coxon, or the organizers—he’d hook a possessive arm around your waist, pull you flush against his side, and beam.

"You lot met Y/N? My gorgeous fiancé. Award-winner, she is. Smashed it at the Abbey Road show. Best eyes in the business, and she's all mine."

You’d blush, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear while clutching your Leica, feeling the weight of the "Future Mrs. Gallagher" title. Noel seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the juxtaposition of your "rock star DNA" and your professional accolades. He was no longer just the legend on stage; he was the proud partner of the legend behind the lens.

Despite the social whirlwind, you had a job to do. You retreated into the shadows of the wings, the heavy bass of the rehearsals vibrating through the floorboards.

While Noel was busy curating the shows, you were capturing the grit. You shot the exhaustion in the eyes of the young musicians, the way the light hit the dust in the rafters of the Albert Hall, and the quiet moments where Noel would sit alone in the dressing room, tuning his Gibson with a focused, meditative intensity.

One moment you were the professional, dodging roadies and balancing on flight cases to get the perfect silhouette of Noel against the crimson velvet of the hall. The next, Noel would catch your eye from across the stage during a soundcheck with a wicked grin that told you exactly how much he missed the "Little Venice Lockdown."

The TCT gigs were a magnet for the industry elite and the lingering shadows of Noel's past life. At the after-show drinks in the hospitality bar, you found yourself standing your ground.

When a particularly posh music executive tried to talk over you, patronizingly asking if you were "just taking a few snaps for the scrapbook," Noel didn't even give you a chance to snap back. He leaned over, clinked his beer bottle against the man’s glass, and said coolly:

"She’s got a better portfolio than your entire roster, mate. Keep up."

He then turned to you with a wink as his hand slid across your waist and pulled you into his side.

By the final night of the residency, the "reconciliation" with Liam was still the talk of the backstage area. People were looking for cracks, for drama, but you and Noel were a united front. You had become more than just a girlfriend; you were his stabilizer.

As the final chords of "Don't Look Back in Anger" echoed through the circular hall, you stood at the side of the stage, camera raised. You captured the moment Noel looked up at the ceiling, the sweat dripping off his chin, a look of pure, unadulterated peace on his face.

He looked over at you, held up his left hand—the one without a ring—and pointed to your finger, the diamond catching the strobe lights.

The message was clear. The music was his life, but you were his home. And as the roadies began to pack away the gear, Noel caught your hand, pulled you into the shadows behind the amplifiers, and kissed you with a hunger that promised the rest of the year was going to be even louder than March.

Pinned

daddy-issues-galore

Jul 15, 2025

Masterlist of Masterlists!

Noel Gallagher - collection of oneshots/requests about Noel

Let me fly you to the moon... - When Noel wrote his debut solo album, he thought the tracks as love songs for a woman he hadn’t yet met, a premonition set to music. In 2011, that melody found its muse. What began as a chance encounter between a rock star and a fan quickly defied the "groupie" cliché, revealing a connection so profound it felt like a long-awaited reunion of soulmates.

Love is a rich man - '20+!Noel Gallagher x younger!female reader. Collection of oneshots - ​Despite the intensity of the spark, Noel and Y/n felt between them, Noel chooses the path of duty over desire, deciding to work on his marriage and leaving Y/N behind after a passionate one night stand. ​As time progresses and the cracks in his marriage become impossible to mend, he and Y/N find their way back to one another. Noel finds himself navigating the complexities of a public divorce whilst trying to keep your relationship hidden until the ink on the divorce papers dry. ​Is this a soul-deep love story born from the ashes of the past, or was it merely a fleeting fancy fueled by the thrill of the forbidden?

We need each other - Threesome; 1995/2025!Liam, Y/n and Noel. NOT GCEST! 2 STORIES - 1 SET IN '95/1 SET IN '25

Liam Gallagher - collection of oneshots/requests about Liam

Once - Working hair and make-up at one of the biggest festivals in the world wasn't the big dream you had thought it would be. Hell on Earth more like. Then you met Liam Gallagher and everything changed... 2017!Liam Gallagher meets Y/n. (Series based on these oneshots I've All I Need / And More)

"You're late," he called out, his voice sharp and clinical. "The horses for the North pasture should have been saddled an hour ago. I don't care how many degrees you're working on, Y/n, on this ranch, time is the only thing we can't afford to waste."

You didn't stop walking. You didn't even look at him. Your eyes were fixed on the stable doors, your movements mechanical, like a clockwork doll winding down. Your clothes were wrinkled, your hair was a mess of tangles, and your skin had a grey, translucent quality that made you look like a ghost wandering into the light.

"I'm going to work, John," you said, your voice a flat, hollow rasp.

John stepped into your path, his brow furrowed. He was used to your fire, your quick-witted retorts. This silence was wrong. "I'm talking to you. Look at me."

You stopped, finally lifting your gaze. Your eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with a terrifying, dry grief. "My mother died three hours ago," you said, the words falling out of your mouth like stones. "I'm going to the stables. I have work to do."

You pushed past him, your shoulder clipping his. John stood frozen for a beat, the air leaving his lungs as if he’d been kicked by a mule. He turned, watching your retreating back, before he followed you into the cool, dim shadows of the barn.

"Y/n, wait," he said, his voice dropping the authority, replaced by a rare, jagged concern. "What do you mean she's gone? What happened?"

You were at the tack room, reaching for a saddle that was too heavy for you to lift with your trembling hands. You hauled it off the rack, and it crashed to the dirt floor, the stirrups clattering. You stared at it for a second, then dropped to your knees, your fingers clawing at the leather.

"She was in pain," you whispered, the dam finally cracking. "She was screaming, John. I told him... I told Silas we needed the doctor. I told him she needed the morphine, something to stop the transition from being a goddamn torture chamber."

John moved toward you, reaching out, but you flinched back, your voice rising in a frantic, broken pitch.

"He wouldn't let me out! He told me I was a doctor now, that I should 'fix it.' He locked the door from the outside, John. He told me to make her comfortable and then he went to his study with a bottle of bourbon. My brothers... they just left. They went into town because they didn't want to hear her. They left me in there with her."

You looked up at him, tears finally spilling over, hot and thick. "I'm a vet. I can perform a C-section in a field, I can stitch a lung, but I couldn't do a single thing for her. I just held her hand and watched the light go out of her eyes while my father drank himself into a stupor downstairs. I had to wait for her to go cold before he’d even turn the key."

The rage that flickered in John’s eyes was tectonic—a silent, murderous heat directed toward the Silver Thistle. But as you collapsed forward, your forehead resting against the dusty saddle, the patriarch of the Yellowstone disappeared.

He didn't hesitate. He dropped to the dirt beside you and pulled you into his chest, his large, calloused hands wrapping around your head and shoulders, anchoring you. He held you with a fierce, protective grip that had nothing to do with neighbours and everything to do with the bond forged in the line shack.

"I've got you," he muttered into your hair, his voice thick and grounding. "Shh. You're here now. You're at the Yellowstone."

You sobbed into his shirt, the smell of tobacco and old leather finally breaking the numbness. For a few minutes, the world was just the sound of your ragged breathing and the steady, heavy beat of John’s heart. He didn't offer empty platitudes or tell you it would be okay. He simply held you in the dirt, a silent sentinel against the cruelty of the man across the fence line.

"You aren't going back there today," John said, his grip tightening as you tried to pull away. "You aren't going back there at all if I have a say in it. You stay here. You hear me? You're with us now."

The day of the funeral was a suffocating display of hypocrisy. From the window of your childhood bedroom, you watched the black SUVs and mud-splattered trucks line the drive of the Silver Thistle. Your father had made his decree the night before, his breath stinking of cheap rye and malice. "You're the reason she gave up," he’d hissed, his hand heavy on the doorframe. "You brought the smell of the morgue into this house with your books and your scalpels. You aren't fit to stand at her grave. You stay here, or you leave for good."

He didn't just ban you; he broke you. He took the one thing you had left—the right to say goodbye—and turned it into a weapon of penance.

But you weren't a girl who followed orders anymore. As the procession moved toward the family plot, you slipped out the back, cutting through the tall grass and the jagged fence line. You didn't head for the cemetery. You headed for the "Witch’s Finger," a rocky outcropping on the edge of the Yellowstone property where the wild lavender grew thick. It was the only place your mother had ever looked truly happy, away from the demands of the Thorne men.

The sky, as if sensing the rot in the valley, finally split open.

The rain wasn't a drizzle; it was a deluge, cold and relentless, turning the dirt to a slurry of grey mud. You stood at the edge of the cliff, your black silk dress clinging to your skin like a second, mourning skin. In your hands, you clutched a bouquet of wild Thistle and Larkspur, now battered and sodden, their petals bleeding colour onto your pale knuckles. You weren't just crying; you were shattering, the sound of your grief lost in the roar of the wind.

John found you there. He hadn't seen you at the service, and the moment he saw Silas Thorne’s smug, drunken face without you by his side, he knew. He’d left the mourners behind, driving his truck through the mud until the terrain grew too rough, then tracking you on foot through the storm.

"Y/n!"

His voice cut through the rain, low and commanding. He looked like a titan in the mist, his waxed canvas coat dark with water. When he reached you, he didn't ask why you were there. He saw the way you were swaying on the edge, the way your eyes were fixed on the void below.

"He wouldn't let me say goodbye, John," you choked out, the flowers slipping from your fingers and tumbling into the ravine. "He told me I killed her. He told me my hands were too dirty to touch her casket."

John’s jaw set into a hard, dangerous line. He stepped toward you, his boots heavy in the muck, and pulled you back from the ledge. His hands were warm—blisteringly warm against your frozen skin. "He’s a small man, Y/n. A small, bitter man trying to drown his shame in your tears. You don't listen to him. You hear me?"

But the logic didn't reach the part of you that was screaming. You looked up at him, your eyelashes spiked with rain and salt, and the despair in your gaze was so absolute it made his breath hitch. You didn't want comfort. You didn't want a sermon on strength. You wanted to vanish. You wanted the world to stop turning, to stop hurting, even for a second.

"Make me forget," you whispered, reaching out to grab the lapels of his coat, pulling him down toward you. "Please, John. I can't breathe. I can't... I just need to feel something else. Anything else."

"Y/n, you're grieving. You don't know what you're asking," he rasped, though his hands had already found your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft curve of your hips. He knew it was a betrayal of his friend, a betrayal of the order of things, a sin against the very dirt they stood on.

"I know exactly what I'm asking," you cried, your voice breaking against his chest. "I’m a doctor, remember? I know how much it takes to stop the heart from breaking. Help me. Please."

The look in your eyes—the raw, feral need for an escape—broke the last of his resolve. John didn't say another word. He swept you up, carrying you through the downpour to a secluded hunter’s lean-to tucked beneath a canopy of ancient, weeping hemlocks.

Inside, the world was reduced to the sound of rain hammering on the tin roof and the frantic, heavy rhythm of your breathing. There was no gentleness, no slow build. It was a collision of two people who had spent their lives holding back the tide, finally letting it pull them under.

John stripped away the wet silk of your dress with a desperate efficiency, his hands trembling with a mix of hunger and a protective rage that he couldn't voice. When he pushed you back against the rough-hewn timber of the wall, the friction of the wood and the heat of his body felt like the only real things left in the universe.

It was fast, punishing, and honest. He held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, his mouth devouring your cries of grief and turning them into something else—something sharp and vital. In the dark, with the scent of pine and rain-drenched wool filling the air, he drove the image of your mother’s cold hand and your father’s sneer out of your mind. For those minutes, there was only the weight of him, the burn of his skin, and the raw, rhythmic pulse of life that Silas Thorne couldn't touch.

When it was over, the silence that followed wasn't cold. John didn't pull away. He stayed wrapped around you, his heavy coat draped over both your shivering bodies as the storm began to lose its teeth. He held you against his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head, his heartbeat steady and slow against your ear.

"You're a Thorne by blood," he whispered into the quiet, his voice like gravel. "But you're a Dutton by spirit. And as long as I’m standing, you never have to face that man alone again. You hear me? Never again."

You didn't answer. You just closed your eyes, finally still, the heat of him acting as the only medicine that could actually reach the wound. In the aftermath of the storm, as the rain turned to a soft mist, you weren't the "neighbour’s daughter" or the "intended." You were his, forged in the mud and the grief, a secret buried deep in the soil of the Yellowstone.

The rain eventually tapered off into a rhythmic dripping from the hemlock needles, leaving the world in a state of saturated, heavy silence. The air in the lean-to was thick with the scent of damp earth and the ghost of the heat you had shared. John was the first to move, his transition back into the role of the stoic patriarch as swift and surgical as a knife twist. He didn't look at you with pity; he looked at you with a grim, shared understanding of the cost of survival.

With hands that were remarkably steady, he helped you back into the ruined silk of your black dress. He didn't fumble with the small buttons at the nape of your neck; his fingers moved with the same clinical precision you used in the clinic, cinching the fabric closed. He draped his heavy, waxed canvas coat over your shoulders to hide the mud and the tears in the hem. He didn't say a word as he led you back to his truck, the engine’s low growl the only thing disturbing the funereal quiet of the ridge.

The drive back to the Silver Thistle was a study in compartmentalization. By the time the gravel of your father's driveway crunched beneath the tires, the man who had held you with desperate ferocity was gone. In his place sat John Dutton, the neighbour, the business partner, the man with a legacy to protect.

"Dry your eyes," he said, his voice flat and gravelly, devoid of the intimacy from an hour ago. "You walked off to clear your head because the grief got too heavy. You found shelter in one of my line shacks and I happened across you while checking the fences. That’s the story. Keep it simple."

He didn't wait for your nod. He climbed out, rounded the hood, and opened your door. The mask was perfect. When your father, Silas, stumbled out onto the porch—eyes bloodshot and a fresh glass of amber liquid in his hand—John met his gaze with a terrifyingly neutral expression.

"Found her out near the Finger, Silas," John called out, his voice projecting the weary patience of a man doing a neighborly chore. "The storm caught her. She’s cold and she’s had enough of a day. I’d suggest you let her get to bed before the pneumonia sets in and wastes that tuition you’re paying."

You climbed out of the truck, the heavy coat slipping from your shoulders. John caught it before it hit the mud. For a split second, your fingers brushed his as you handed it back. It was the only moment of truth—a spark of heat that nearly burned through the facade. Then, you turned and walked past your father without a word, the "future vet" returning to her cage, while John tipped his hat and drove away.

John walked in at 3:00 AM, smelling of tobacco and cold air. He watched you skilfully navigate the math of a complicated dosage, no calculator, just raw focus and a pencil nub.

"Lee said you and your father had words again," John said, leaning against the stall door, his shadow stretching long and jagged over the straw in the dim yellow light of the barn. He wasn't looking at the sick calf; he was looking at the way you didn't flinch when the animal kicked, the way your fingers moved with a surgeon's precision even though they were stained with dirt and medicine.

"He wants me to go to finishing school in Switzerland, John," you said, your voice raspy from lack of sleep and the dry Montana dust. You didn't look up from your notebook as you scribbled the dosage. "Says it'll 'round out' my education. As if being able to identify Mozart is going to help when a heifer is breech in a blizzard."

John let out a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh if the man ever actually laughed. "Switzerland. Lot of mountains. Not enough cows."

"He told me I'm wasting my life playing 'ranch hand' for a family that isn't mine," you continued, finally capping the needle and standing up. Your back popped, a sharp sound in the quiet barn. "He says the Thistle doesn't need a vet; it needs a hostess. He told me if I want to look at blood and guts all day, I should marry a butcher." You huffed.

John pushed off the door, stepping into the pen. He reached out, taking the notebook from your hand. He didn't look at the math; he looked at the notes you'd made in the margins, observations on the calf's breathing, the clarity of its eyes, the subtle shift in its gait.

"Your father is looking at the fence line, Y/n," John said, his voice low and gravelly. "He sees a daughter he can trade for a legacy. But he's blind to what's standing right in front of him." He handed the notebook back, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the cold air feel heavier. "You go to vet school. Not because you need a degree to prove you're smart, I already know you're the smartest person in this valley but because the Yellowstone is going to need a doctor who loves the land as much as the animals. Someone who doesn't look at a ledger when a life is on the line."

"He won't pay for it," you whispered, the admission stinging. "He said if I leave for a 'man's trade,' I leave with nothing but the clothes on my back."

John adjusted his hat, the brim casting a shadow over his face, but his gaze never wavered.

"Silas Thorne might own your name, but he doesn't own your hands. And he sure as hell doesn't own your future." He paused, looking out toward the dark horizon where the Yellowstone met the sky. "You get your applications ready. You go where you need to go. I'll handle your father."

He turned to leave, but stopped at the edge of the stall, looking back over his shoulder.

"And don't worry about Lee. He'll be grumpy for a month, then he'll realize he's just glad he's got someone to call when the world starts dying around him. Now, finish that dose and go get some sleep. You've got a long way to go before you're a doctor."

You don't know when John spoke to your father or what he said to him, but by the following evening when you returned to the Silver Thistle, your father agreed to let you go and pay for your intuition. After his chat with John, Silas viewed your departure for veterinary school as a sophisticated way for a "ranch daughter" to pass the time before marriage, John Dutton saw it for exactly what it was: the sharpening of a blade.

By supporting your career, John was quietly validating your rebellion against your father's traditionalism. He gave you the permission Silas withheld.

When the time came for you to leave for veterinarian school in September of '92, your father believed it was just a faze, but when you looked at John, you saw the truth. And John made it clear: "The Yellowstone will always have a clinic waiting for you. I don't care what your father says about 'hobbies.' You get that degree, and you come home. You'll be the one who keeps this legacy standing when the rest of us are too old to climb a horse."

The transition from the wild, high-altitude freedom of the Yellowstone to the sterile, fluorescent-lit lecture halls of Colorado State University was a physical shock. You arrived in Fort Collins with calloused hands and a wardrobe that smelled faintly of wood smoke and dirt, a stark contrast to the city kids who grew up in suburban clinics smelling sterile.

The first two years were an exercise in biting your tongue. While other students recoiled at the smell of the anatomy lab or struggled to memorize the complex chambers of a ruminant stomach, you moved through the work with a grim, practiced efficiency. Your "cow sense" translated into a terrifyingly accurate diagnostic instinct. Where others saw a list of symptoms, you saw the animal's posture, the subtle tuck of a tail or the glazed look you'd seen a thousand times in a Montana blizzard. You were 500 miles away, but the Yellowstone never left you.

Every Friday night, while your peers were at the local bars, you were at the payphone.

Lee would talk for an hour about the new colts, his voice a tether to the dirt. He was your anchor even if his letters were mostly short notes about fence repairs and weather patterns. Any time you felt homesick, you'd read his letters and you'd be right back there in the dirt of Yellowstone.

John called once a month. He didn't ask about your grades. He'd describe a specific lameness in one of his prize bulls and wait. He'd always say he wasn't checking on you; he was just consulting you. When you gave the right answer, the silence on the other end felt like a coronation. He'd then say the Yellowstone was missing you.

On the rare occasion when you did call the Silver Thistle, if it wasn't your mother who answered the phone, the call would be over within five minutes. Your father asked the same question, "When will you be home?" before he handed the phone to the next person and the line went dead.

As you moved into your clinical years, the "delicate" daughter Silas Thorne tried to cultivate was buried under layers of surgical scrubs and the hardened skin of a surgeon. While your classmates specialized in small animal internal medicine, aiming for clean, suburban practices, you spent your rotations in the mud of the university's large animal clinic.

You became a legend among the professors for your "mountain hands." You could palpate a mare in a freezing barn without flinching, and your sutures were as tight and functional as a well-thrown diamond hitch.

At the Silver Thistle, the silence grew colder. Your brothers were now running the day-to-day operations under Silas, but the ranch was stagnating. They managed the land like a business ledger, not a living thing. Whenever you came home for the briefest of holidays, your father would look at your scarred knuckles and the smell of antiseptic that clung to your skin with visible distaste.

"You've proven your point, Y/n," he'd say over Christmas dinner in 1996. "You've had your fun. Come home, marry Lee, and let's put this 'doctoring' nonsense behind us."

You would roll your eyes and look across the table at your brothers, men who couldn't see a storm coming until the snow hit their hats and then you'd look out the window toward the Yellowstone lights. You weren't a mistress. You were the damn cavalry. And Lee certainly wasn't the man you were dreaming of.

1998

Late spring brought the smell of wood smoke, crisp mornings, the start of life and stagnant grief. It had been a year since Evelyn's horse went down, leaving a hole in the Yellowstone that felt like a canyon. Now, returning from your clinical rotations, you were met with a second blow: your mother's confession that her own time was measured in months, not years.

At twenty-three, you were no longer the "pea in a pod" with Lee. The girl who ran through the dirt had sharpened into a woman with a doctor's hands and a gaze that held too much understanding. When you walked into the Yellowstone main barn, John Dutton didn't see a neighbour's kid. He saw a woman who looked like the future (vibrant, capable, and devastatingly alive) while he felt like a man being erased by the past.

The guilt gnawed at him. To look at you and feel a stir of hunger, especially with Evelyn's ghost still pacing the halls and your mother's life fading next door, felt like a betrayal of the highest order.

"I need to get out of this house," John muttered, tossing a saddle blanket over his big sorrel. "You coming?"

You didn't hesitate. You rode out toward the high ridges, the silence between you heavy with the things neither of you could fix. But the sky turned bruised and purple within the hour. A "black tail" blizzard swept off the peaks, erasing the horizon in a curtain of blinding white.

"The old line shack!" John shouted over the wind. "Lean into the wind, stay on my tail!"

By the time you reached the small, cedar-plank cabin, the world was a void.

Inside, the air was lung-shakingly cold. John moved with a frantic, restless energy, grabbing an old axe to split the seasoned wood stacked in the corner. He was swinging too hard, venting a year's worth of rage on the timber. The blade glanced off a knot, slicing a jagged line across his forearm.

"Dammit," he hissed, dropping the axe as blood blossomed through his heavy coat.

"Sit down, John. Before you bleed out on the only dry floor we've got," you commanded. Your voice was steady, the vet in you taking over.

You didn't have your medical kit but you, you were able to use what you had around you. You tore a strip of clean linen from your shirt, your fingers working with a practiced, clinical grace. You had to peel back his layers, feeling the heat of his skin against the freezing air. As you cleaned the wound with a splash of high-proof whiskey from his flask, the proximity became a physical weight.

You were kneeling between his knees, your face inches from his. The fire he'd managed to start began to crackle, casting a low, amber glow over the room. The smell of cedar, wet wool, and copper blood filled the small space.

John looked down at you, his jaw tight. He saw the way your hair was damp with melted snow and the way your eyes held a grief that mirrored his own. He felt ashamed of how much he wanted to reach out, and yet, the ache of being alone was suddenly louder than the storm outside.

"You're supposed to be at school," he rasped, his voice breaking. "You're supposed to be far away from all this dying."

"I'm exactly where I need to be," you whispered.

He reached out with his uninjured hand, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. It wasn't a gentle gesture; it was desperate. You didn't pull away. You leaned into it, seeking the heat of someone who understood that the land takes as much as it gives.

The whiskey was passed between you, burning and numbing the grief that swam in your veins. When he finally leaned forward and pressed his mouth to yours, it wasn't a cinematic kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of salt and wood smoke.

Everything happened with a frantic, rough urgency. There was no grace in the way you stripped away the heavy layers of denim and wool in front of the growing fire. It was a physical exorcism. On the floorboards, with the storm howling against the logs, it was fast and punishing. It wasn't about love or the "marriage" your parents had planned for you and Lee. It was about proving you were still alive in a year that had been defined by death.

John's hands were calloused and heavy, pinning you to the moment, while you matched his intensity, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. For those frantic minutes, the grief for Evelyn and the fear for your mother were drowned out by the raw, rhythmic heat of the fire and the man holding you.

The fire in the hearth became the only sun in your world that night. Every time the embers began to fade and the Montana chill crept through the chinks in the cabin logs, another swallow of whiskey passed between you - sharp, burning, and blurring the lines of the life you were supposed to lead.

There was no tenderness in the way you moved together; it was a desperate, rhythmic combat against the silence of the valley and the ghosts of the women you were both losing. John's hands were heavy, anchoring you to the present, while you met his intensity with a ferocity that surprised even him. Every time you came together, it was an attempt to sweat out the grief. Under the flickering amber light, you weren't the "neighbour's daughter" or the "future vet" and he wasn't the patriarch. You were just two heart-sore predators hunting for heat in a frozen wasteland.

By the third time, the whiskey had done its work. The urgency slowed into something deeper, a heavy, wordless physical dialogue. You fell into a fitful, shallow sleep wrapped in a moth-eaten wool blanket, the smell of wood smoke and John's skin marking you more permanently than any degree ever could.

When the sun finally broke over the jagged white peaks of the Gallatin Range, the world was blindingly bright and terrifyingly quiet. The storm had passed, leaving three feet of untouched powder and a sky so blue it looked artificial.

Inside the cabin, the fire was cold ash. The intimacy of the night before didn't survive the dawn. As you pulled on your stiff, cold denim and laced your boots, the weight of the Yellowstone—and the Silver Thistle—settled back onto your shoulders.

John stood by the window, his silhouette dark against the snow. He looked older than he had by the firelight, the lines around his eyes etched deep by a decade of hard winters and the fresh trauma of the last year.

"We were freezing," John said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that didn't quite meet your eyes. "The whiskey and the cold... a person does what they have to do to keep their blood moving."

"I know, John," you replied, your voice steady, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "It was survival. Nothing more."

It was a lie, and you both knew it, but it was the only bridge back to the world where you were supposed to marry his son.

The trek back to the main house was a slog through deep drifts. You rode in single file, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of the horses' hooves and their heavy, steaming breath. As the ranch chimneys came into view, the reality of Lee and your dying mother hit you like a physical blow.

You stopped your horse at the tree line, just before the clearing where the bunkhouse and the main house sat.

John pulled his horse alongside yours. He didn't touch you. "You head straight to your truck," he commanded. "If anyone asks, the storm caught us at the line shack, and we spent the night keeping the horses from freezing. That's the truth of it."

You nodded; your face flushed from the wind and the secret. You didn't say goodbye to Lee. You didn't face your father's scrutiny or your mother's fading eyes. You threw your bags into your truck, the engine groaning in the cold, and drove out of the valley before the mud could even dry on your tires.

Noel climbs out behind you, adjusting his jacket and instantly sliding into his "public" persona - half-smirk, half-swagger. He places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you toward the press line where a gauntlet of microphones awaits.

A journalist from a major music mag lunged forward, her digital recorder practically touching your chin. "Over here! The woman behind the lens! You’re up for three tonight. How does it feel to be the one in the frame for once?"

You lean into the mic, your voice cool and steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "It’s a bit… weird, honestly. I’m used to being the invisible person in the pit or lurking in the shadows.” You joked making the people around you laugh. Noel squeezed your hand reassuringly with a soft smile.

"And the outfit!" another reporter shouts from the left. "Very 'Disintegration' era. Is Robert Smith the secret to your aesthetic?"

"He’s the patron saint of moody lighting," you shot back, earning a chuckle from the crowd. "If it’s not dark, atmospheric, and slightly dramatic, I’m probably not interested in shooting it."

Noel, who has been uncharacteristically quiet while letting you take the lead, can’t help but jump in when a reporter asks him if he’s worried about his "muse" becoming more famous than the musician.

He leans over your shoulder, grinning directly into a TV camera. "Look at her," he says, gesturing to your leather-clad silhouette with a flourish of his thumb. "She’s got more rock star DNA in her little finger than half the blokes in the charts right now. I’m just here to carry the equipment if she wins, aren't I? I’m the trophy boyfriend tonight, and I’m perfectly fine with the demotion." Noel winked at you as he placed a possessive hand on your waist pulling you closer to his front sending the photographers and press wild.

The flashbulbs reached a fever pitch at Noel’s "trophy boyfriend" comment, the light turning the world into a flickering, black-and-white reel. You felt the warmth of his chest against your back, his jacket pressing against yours, and for a split second, the nerves vanished. He wasn't just standing by you; he was acting as your human shield, absorbing the frantic energy of the press so you could breathe.

As you moved away from the main press line and toward the heavy oak doors of Abbey Road, the noise faded into a dull roar. The interior smelled of old wood, expensive perfume, and the faint, lingering scent of valve amps, a smell that always felt like home.

"Trophy boyfriend? That’ll be the day," you teased, tilting your head back to catch his smirk.

"Don't get used to it," he hissed playfully into your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Tomorrow I’m back to being the Chief and you’re back to complaining that I don't sit still for portraits."

You laughed and gave him a playful nudge.

"Alright, Y/N?" A familiar voice called out. You turned to see Paul Weller leaning against a pillar, a glass of scotch in hand. He gave your outfit a slow, approving nod. "Proper. None of that penguin suit bollocks. You look like you’re here to actually do something."

"I’m here to try not to trip over my own feet, Paul," you admitted, finally letting a genuine laugh escape.

"She’s terrified," Noel chimed in, snatching a champagne flute from a passing waiter and handing it to you. "Thinks if she wins, the world’s gonna end because she has to talk into a microphone for thirty seconds."

You took a restorative gulp of the champagne, the bubbles stinging your throat in the best way possible. Paul Weller let out a dry, gravelly chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Don't listen to him, Y/N," Paul said, nodding toward Noel. "He just likes the sound of his own voice so much he can't imagine someone else not wanting a go. Just get up there, say 'ta,' and get back to the bar. That’s the secret to a good awards speech."

"See? The Modfather has spoken," Noel added, sliding an arm around your waist.

You gave a wave over your shoulder to Paul as Noel pulled you into the flow of the crowd.

You and Noel sit at a small, candle-lit table near the front with the rest of the band that was there to show their support for you. They helped settle your nerves and were great at consoling you when you lost out on the first two of your categories – but after Noel’s little pep talk in the car, you weren’t really that fused about losing and the more you drunk the more you were hoping you didn’t win because you felt like you might actually let a drunken “cunt” slip out just to make Noel laugh.

As the presenter for ‘Emerging Photographer of the Year’ took to the stage, a legendary music journalist and adjusted the mic as they cleared their throat, you felt your stomach twist and your palms become sweaty once more. "The winner for Emerging Photographer of the Year... for a body of work that captures the raw, gritty intimacy of the road and the sheer power of a live performance..."

Noel leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "This is you, darling. Watch," he murmurs, his voice full of a smug certainty that only he could possess in a room full of icons.

"...the award goes to... Y/n Y/l/n!"

For a split second, your brain refuses to process the syllables. It’s like a camera shutter clicking shut, a moment of total darkness and silence before the world rushes back in.

The screen behind the podium flashes your black-and-white shot of Noel. On the giant display, the dust motes look like falling stars, and the curve of his guitar neck looks like a piece of sculpture.

The table erupts. You feel the physical vibration of the applause.

Noel doesn't just clap; he jumps up, pulling you with him into a crushing hug. He smells like expensive cologne and the beer he’d been drinking. He pulls back just enough to frame your face in his hands, his grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Go on," he shouts over the noise, "Go get your glass, you genius!"

The walk to the stage felt like navigating through a dream where the floor was made of clouds and the air was thick with the scent of old wood and success. Your boots, those “defiant” stilettos, clicked against the floor of Abbey Road, a sound usually reserved for rock royalty and for the first time, the rhythm belonged entirely to you.

You caught sight of the rest of the band out of the corner of your eye; they were whistling and hollering like they’d just seen a last-minute goal at Maine Road. But it was Noel’s face that stayed burned into your mind as you climbed the small steps to the podium: a look of pure, unadulterated “I told you so” smugness mixed with a rare, quiet pride.

As the legendary journalist handed you the heavy, polished award, the weight of it grounded you. You looked out at the sea of faces, icons, peers, and the man who’d spent the last hour whispering confidence into your ear.

You adjusted the microphone, the feedback a sharp reminder that this was real. You took a breath, the kohl-rimmed intensity of your eyes softening as you looked down at the trophy.

“I, uh… usually uh, usually hiding in the shadows whilst some gobshite of a front man is centre of attention,” You pause, and the room ripples with a sudden, knowing laughter. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Noel throw his head back, a bark of a laugh escaping him as he points a finger at you from the table, clearly loving the "gobshite" label.

Gripping the cold metal of the award, you lean back into the mic, a small, lopsided smirk playing on your lips.

“I want to thank the band who’ve let me into their private moments, who let me see the exhaustion and the adrenaline and the dirt...” You paused, a mischievous glint hitting your eyes as you remembered the car ride.

You lock eyes with Noel. He’s leaning forward now, his chin resting on his hand, looking at you with an expression that’s dangerously close to soft.

"I want to thank the ‘subject’ of these photos - the man who told me tonight that he was happy to be my 'trophy boyfriend.' Though, let's be honest, he’s far too loud to ever be a silent ornament." You say with a small smirk. “Thank you, Noel, for letting me into your space, for trusting my eye, and for being the most difficult, stubborn, and brilliant muse a photographer could ask for. You make it easy to find the magic, even when you’re just trying to find your guitar pick... and for promising to carry my equipment home if I won. Get your coat, Gallagher. You’re on roadie duty tonight.”

The room roared. Noel threw his head back, laughing and pointing at you, his “trophy boyfriend” status officially cemented in music history.

As you stepped off the stage, the adrenaline began to mellow into a warm, buzzing glow. Before you could even get back to the table, Noel met you halfway in the shadows of the side-stage. He didn’t care about the cameras now; he looped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him.

“Genius,” he muttered against your temple, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “Absolutely smashed it. And not a single ‘cunt’ in sight. I’m almost disappointed.”

“The night is young, Noel,” you whispered back, clutching the award to your chest. “There’s still the after-party.”

“That’s my girl,” he grinned, kissing you deeply as the flashes started up again, capturing the photographer finally becoming the masterpiece.

The air in Abbey Road Studios is thick with history and the expensive scent of champagne, but all you can feel is the weight of the heavy glass trophy in your hand and Noel’s hand on you.

He hasn't let go of your waist once as he paraded you around like you’ve just won a Nobel Prize, his chest puffed out under his sharp jacket.

He eventually drags you over to where your work was displayed on the studio walls. The "Emerging Photographer of the Year" plaque sits next to your black-and-white shot of him. Up close, the "dust motes" you captured look like a halo of static electricity around his guitar.

"I told you," he whispers, leaning in so his shoulder brushes yours. "The lighting, the mood... it’s better than the actual gig was, and I was the one playing it."

Before you can tease him about his ego, a familiar, melodic voice cuts through the chatter of the room.

"There she is! The woman of the hour."

You turn to see Sir Paul McCartney weaving through the crowd with a wide, genuine grin. He gives Noel a quick clap on the shoulder before turning his full attention to you and pulls you into a hug that you quickly reciprocate.

“How do you feel?” He asked.

“Sick.” You joked making both Paul and Noel laugh.

“You’ll get used to it, trust me.” He said as he put his arm around your shoulders, "That shot from the back of the venue, the one with the 'NGHFB' lettering? That’s 'The Big One', that," Paul says, gesturing to your third nomination. "It captures the scale of it all. You’ve got a real eye for the soul of a room, love. Congratulations. It’s well-deserved."

“Thank you.” You smiled as he pulled you into another hug before saying goodbye to you and Noel.

Noel nudged you beaming, looking like he might actually burst as Paul wondered off to charm someone else, "See? Even Macca knows. I’ve been saying she’s the only one who makes me look like I’ve actually got a soul." He reached out and took your hand in his, once more pressing a kiss to the back of it. “C’mon, you,” Noel lead you toward the wall where your three nominated photos were mounted.

For a second, the roar of the party fades into the background and you just stare at the photographs. You’re standing in the world’s most famous studio, looking at your own art.

“Wow.” You smile.

"Stay right there," Noel commands, pulling his phone out.

"Noel, don't-" You felt yourself blushing as Noel aimed his phone at you.

"Hush. I’m the talent, I give the orders," he quips, though his eyes are soft. "Move the trophy a bit to the left. Yeah, right next to the one where I’m aiming the guitar at the camera. Perfect."

He snaps the photo; you, glowing and slightly embarrassed, framed by your own professional triumphs.

"Going straight on the 'gram," he declares, tapping away at his screen.

Noel doesn't even look up from his screen, his thumbs flying across the glass with a focused intensity usually reserved for perfecting a bridge in a new song. You watch him, the "Chief" of rock and roll, currently hunched over like a teenager trying to find the perfect filter.

"Right, that’s it," he says, finally locking the phone and sliding it back into his pocket with a satisfied tap. "The world has been informed. The GOAT has spoken."

You feel your phone buzz in your clutch bag. Pulling it out, you see the notification pop up immediately: themightyi liked your photo and themightyi tagged you in a post.

@themightyi

![Image Description: A candid, slightly grainy photo of you standing in front of your winning exhibition at Abbey Road. You’re holding the heavy glass award to your chest, laughing mid-sentence, looking effortlessly cool in your leather jacket and The Cure tee. Behind you, the iconic black-and-white shot of Noel performing looms large.]

themightyi: Told her she’d smash it. The best photographer in the business and now she’s got the hardware to prove it. Award winner, heartbreaker, and currently my boss for the night.

I’m officially on roadie duty. If you see me carrying a tripod and looking miserable later, mind your own business.

Proud is an understatement. ❤️ 📸

#AbbeyRoad #EmergingPhotographer #TrophyBoyfriend #TheChiefIsFired

"Noel," you breathe, feeling a fresh wave of heat hit your cheeks as you read the caption. "‘Heartbreaker’? Really?"

"Absolute facts, darling," he says, snagging two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handing one to you. He clinks his glass against your trophy with a sharp ping. "Look at the comments already. Half of Twitter is melting down because I used an emoji, and the other half is wondering where they can buy that jacket."

He hooks his arm firmly around your waist, pulling you into his side so he can speak directly into your ear, his tone dropping into that gravelly, private register. "You’ve spent years making sure everyone else looks legendary through a lens, Y/N. Tonight, the legend is you. I’m just the lucky sod who gets to take you home."

He pauses, a wicked glit returning to his eyes.

"Now, since I'm officially the roadie... do I get a union-mandated break at the after-party, or are you going to make me earn my keep?"

The heavy oak doors of Studio One seem to hum with the ghosts of a thousand legendary sessions, but tonight, the only history that matters is the weight of that glass trophy in your hand. You feel a sudden, sharp release of all the tension you’d been carrying since that morning, the shaky breaths in the car, the fear of the “invisible person” remaining invisible, the imposter syndrome that usually dogs your heels in the pit.

“You alright, love? You’ve gone a bit quiet,” Noel murmurs, his hand sliding from your waist to rest supportively on the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking your jawline.

“Just... taking it in,” you admit, leaning your head against his shoulder for a brief second. “Paul McCartney just told me I have an eye for the soul of a room, Noel. I might actually retire now. It’s not getting better than that.”

“Retire? Not a chance,” he scoffed, his eyes flashing with that familiar spark. “You’ve got a tour to shoot, and I’ve got a ‘trophy boyfriend’ reputation to uphold. Besides, you still haven’t used that ‘cunt’ you were saving up. Can’t waste a good swear word.”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear over the hum of the party. “I’m saving it for the after-party. Or for when you inevitably refuse to carry my equipment bag like you promised.”

Noel holds up his hands in mock surrender, though he looks entirely too pleased with himself. “I keep my word. I’m a roadie for hire now. Pay’s terrible, but the perks are world-class.”

He pauses, his expression turning uncharacteristically sincere for a fleeting moment. He looks at your work on the wall, then back at you, the “rock star DNA” he mentioned earlier plain for everyone to see in the way you carry yourself now, shoulders back, leather jacket slightly askew, eyes bright with the realization that you belong here.

“You really did it, Y/n,” he whispers, so low only you can hear. “Nobody’s looking at me tonight. And I’ve never liked a view more.”

He reaches for two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing tray, handing one to you with a wink. “To the Emerging Photographer of the Year. Let’s go find the rest of the lads and see how much of the label’s money we can drink before they kick us out of Abbey Road.”

The after-party is a subterranean blur of velvet, cigarette smoke, and the heavy, expensive bass of a playlist curated by someone with impeccable taste and a likely grudge against the Top 40. The venue, a dimly lit, exclusive basement club in Soho was packed with the DNA of the British music scene. You’re tucked into a corner booth with Noel and the band, the ‘Emerging Photographer’ trophy sitting on the table like a centrepiece between a bucket of ice and a half-empty bottle of expensive tequila.

You’ve just managed to catch your breath when a sleek, sharp-eyed woman with a microphone bearing the logo of a global fashion-and-culture powerhouse weaves through the crowd. She looks at Noel, then at you, and her eyes lock onto the trophy.

“Y/n! A moment for The Face? We’ve been dying to talk to the woman who finally made the Gallagher scowl look like fine art.”

Noel snorts into his drink, leaning back and throwing an arm over the top of the leather booth. “Careful, she’s expensive now. Rates have gone up since about ten o’clock tonight.”

The interviewer laughs, sliding onto the edge of the seat opposite you. “I can imagine. Y/n, let’s talk about the aesthetic. You’re wearing a vintage Cure tee to Abbey Road, you’re shooting on film in a digital age, and you’ve just beaten out photographers who’ve been in the game a decade longer than you. What’s the secret? Is it the technical skill, or is it just knowing when Noel is about to do something iconic?”

You lean forward, the adrenaline of the win still buzzing in your veins. You don't feel like the "nervous wreck" from the car anymore; the weight of the award has grounded you, replaced the tremors with a cool, sharp clarity.

“It’s about the friction,” you say, your voice cutting through the thrum of the music. “I don’t want a clean shot. If I wanted a perfect, airbrushed portrait, I’d work in a studio with a ring light. I want the sweat, the spit, the way a guitar string looks when it’s about to snap. I shoot the moments where things are falling apart a little bit, because that’s where the energy is. Technically? Sure, I know my way around an f-stop, but you can’t teach someone how to feel the drop in a song and hit the shutter at the exact millisecond the lights go strobing.”

“And being the ‘subject’?” The interviewer turns to Noel. “How does it feel to be seen through her lens versus everyone else’s?”

Noel looks at you, his smirk softening into something more private, more appreciative. “Most photographers want me to ‘be Noel Gallagher.’ They want the pose, the glasses, the whole bit. Y/n doesn’t give a toss about that. She waits until I’ve forgotten she’s there. She catches the bits where I’m just... a bloke with a guitar, trying to get it right. It’s annoying, actually,” he adds with a wink. “Hard to maintain a reputation as a miserable bastard when she’s capturing me looking like I’m actually enjoying myself.”

“One last question,” the journalist says, leaning in closer. “You’re the first woman to win this specific category in five years. For the girls sitting in the photo pits tonight with their heavy gear and their elbows out, what’s the message?”

You look directly into the camera lens, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. You think of the beer-soaked floors, the ringing ears, and the countless times you were told you were ‘too small’ to handle the front-row surge.

“Don’t ask for permission to be there,” you say firmly. “The pit is a battlefield, and your camera is your weapon. If they don’t give you a seat at the table, take a photo of the table, make it look legendary, and then sell it back to them. And,” you glance at Noel, whose eyes are bright with pride, “find yourself a muse who knows when to shut up and let you do your job.”

The interviewer beams, thanking you both before disappearing back into the sea of sequins and leather.

Noel leans into your ear, his hand finding yours under the table. “’Find a muse who knows when to shut up’? I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me in public, love.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you tease, lifting your glass of tequila. “I’ve still got the equipment bag for you to carry.”

“Right. Roadie duty,” he sighs happily. “Whatever the Boss says.”

The high-octane roar of Soho feels like a lifetime ago as the heavy front door of the house clicks shut, sealing out the damp London air and the distant hum of traffic. The silence of the hallway is almost ringing in your ears after the sheer volume of Abbey Road and the bass-heavy after-party.

Noel tosses his keys onto the console table with a sharp clack, but he doesn’t move to take off his jacket yet. Instead, he just stands there for a second, watching you as you kick off those “defiant” stilettos with a sigh of pure relief. You’re still holding the trophy, the glass cool against your skin.

“Right then,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, losing the ‘public’ swagger and replacing it with something much more concentrated. “The ‘trophy boyfriend’ is officially off-duty. But I think the photographer needs one last session.”

He follows you into the bedroom, where the only light comes from the streetlamps filtering through the sheer curtains, casting long, cinematic shadows across the bed, exactly the kind of moody lighting you’d usually kill for in a shoot.

You set the award down on the dresser, but Noel steps up behind you, his hands sliding over your shoulders to unbutton the vintage leather jacket. “I’ve been watching people look at you all night,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his breath warm. “And I’ve been watching you look at that award. But I want a version of this moment that isn’t for The Face or the ‘gram.”

He peels the leather away, letting it hit the floor with a heavy thud. Then, his fingers hook into the hem of your Cure tee. He doesn’t rush; he’s taking his time, appreciating the frame he’s building.

“Everything off,” he commands softly, a playful but intense glint in his eyes. “No kohl, no denim, no ‘rock star’ armour. Just you and the hardware. My own private ‘Emerging Photographer’ spread.”

There’s something incredibly grounding about the shift. In the pit, you’re covered in gear and grit, hidden behind a viewfinder. On the red carpet, you’re shielded by fashion. Here, under his steady gaze, you’re completely exposed.

Once you’ve shed the last of the denim, you feel the cool air hit your skin. You pick up the heavy glass trophy, holding it against your chest. The weight of it is a physical reminder of the night’s triumph, but the way Noel is looking at you makes the award feel secondary.

He grabs his phone and moves back a few paces. He doesn’t ask you to pose. He knows you hate that.

“Just stand there,” he whispers, his thumb hovering over the shutter.

The moonlight catches the curve of your hip and the peak of your nipple, reflecting of the sharp, polished edges of the award leaving white shapes glittering across your skin. You look raw, exhausted, and utterly victorious.

Click.

He captures the shot: the winner in her truest form, stripped of the industry’s expectations. He looks at the screen for a long beat, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face.

“Now that, is award winning,” he says, setting his phone down and closing the gap between you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your bare skin against his shirt. “But I think I prefer the live view.” He pressed his face against the curve of your neck, his lips trailing softly kisses along your skin. “Am so fuckin’ proud of you, love.”

The trophy is forgotten, abandoned on the velvet armchair as Noel’s hands find the small of your back, his touch warm and rough-palmed against your skin. He doesn’t rush. The manic energy of the paparazzi and the loud, echoing praise of Abbey Road has bled away, replaced by a heavy, magnetic pull that is entirely private.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and focused. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the car,” he mumbles, his voice raspy and stripped of its usual stage-managed bravado. He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray smudge of kohl under your eye and dragging it softly across your cheekbone. “Just you. No cameras. No ‘Genius’ labels. Just my girl.”

He manoeuvres you toward the bed, the cool linen a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off him. As you sink into the mattress, Noel follows, hovering over you. He finally sheds his own clothes, his movements deliberate. When he settles between your thighs, the friction of skin on skin feels like the only real thing in a night full of smoke and mirrors, making you moan softly.

He kisses you then, not the quick peck for the cameras, but a deep, territorial hum of a kiss that tastes like the expensive tequila and the sheer relief of being home. His hands roam, mapping out the curves, but this time, he’s touching the art instead of just framing it.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers against your lips, his fingers intertwining with yours and pinning them gently to the pillow.

“Adrenaline,” you breathe out, your heart hammering against your ribs. “And you.”

He gives you a slow, wicked smirk, the kind that usually precedes a hit record, but it’s softened by a rare tenderness. “Good. Stay right there. I’m gonna take my time with this one.”

Everything slows down. The world outside the bedroom window, the reviews, the industry gossip, the fame - it all feels miles away. There’s a rhythmic, melodic cadence to the way he moves against you, a steady build-up that reminds you of a long, distorted guitar solo that finally finds its resolution. It’s raw and unhurried, a quiet conversation held in the dark.

The bedroom is silent save for the heavy, rhythmic sound of your breathing and the rustle of the sheets. Noel is a man who thrives on noise, on the roar of a crowd and the feedback of an amp, but in this moment, he is entirely focused on the quiet, visceral reactions of your body.

He starts at your jaw, his lips grazing the skin with a feather-light touch before moving down the sensitive column of your throat. He finds that one spot right above your collarbone, sucking the skin into his mouth until you let out a sharp, hitching breath that vibrates through his chest.

"See?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "Told you. The best view in London."

His mouth travels lower, tracing the line of your chest until he reaches your breasts. He circles one nipple with his tongue, teasing the peak until it's aching and hard, before drawing it deep into his mouth. The tugging heat of his mouth combined with the rough scrape of his slight stubble sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. You arch your back, your fingers digging into his hair, pulling him closer as a low moan escapes you. He moves to the other side, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft dip of your hips as he licks and nips at you with a slow, agonizing deliberation.

He’s a man who knows how to build a crescendo, and he’s doing exactly that with you.

He doesn't stop there. He kisses his way down the centre of your stomach, his tongue tracing the line of your navel, making your muscles quiver and retract under his touch.

“Fuck, Noel.” You gasped.

His hands follow the curve of your hips, his palms warm and possessive, as he pushes your knees further apart. He lingers at the crease where your thigh meets your hip, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there, his breath hot against your sensitized skin.

You’re writhing now, your head tossing back against the pillow as the anticipation becomes almost unbearable. "Noel... please," you gasp, your voice thin and desperate.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with a mix of worship and mischief. He knows exactly what you want, but he isn't ready to give it to you yet. He slides his hand between your thighs, not to enter you, but to let his fingers dance over your wetness. He strokes the length of your folds, spreading the slick heat of you with a slow, agonizingly steady rhythm. Every time his fingertip brushes your clitoris, your hips jerk upward, seeking the pressure he’s teasingly withholding.

"You're making a right mess of these sheets, darling," he chuckles darkly, his voice thick with his own desire. He continues the torture, his fingers slick and nimble, working you until you’re sobbing his name into the quiet room.

Finally, he can’t hold back any longer. He moves back up, his body a heavy, solid weight over yours. He braces himself on his forearms, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels more intimate than any photograph you’ve ever taken of him.

"Look at me," he commands softly.

As you meet his gaze, he shifts, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses for a heartbeat, savouring the friction, before sinking into you in one long, smooth thrust.

The air leaves your lungs in a rush, a sound that is half-gasp, half-sob. He fills you completely, the stretch and the heat of him finally anchoring you after a night of floating on adrenaline. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.

"There you are," he whispers.

Then he begins to move. It’s not the frantic, fast-paced rhythm of a rock song; it’s a slow, deep, and deliberate grind. Every thrust is a statement, a way of reclaiming the private version of you that the world doesn't get to see. He watches your face as he moves, his expression softening every time your eyes flutter shut or your lips part in a silent plea.

The friction builds, the heat between you rising until it feels like the air in the room is glowing. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your internal muscles clenching around him with every rhythmic pulse. He groans, a raw, unedited sound of surrender, and increases the pace. The bedframe knocks rhythmically against the wall, a steady beat to the symphony of your joined breaths.

As the moonlight shifts across the room, illuminating the discarded trophy in the corner, Noel’s pace quickens.

You’re right on the edge, the world narrowing down to the point where his skin meets yours, and when the climax finally hits, it’s like a flashbulb going off behind your eyelids; blinding, white, and all-consuming.

“That’s it, baby… cum for me.” Noel moaned against your throat as he delivered a final harsh snap of his hips.

You cry out, your body shuddering underneath him, and a second later, Noel stiffens, his head burying in the crook of your neck as he follows you over the edge, his body trembling with the force of his own release.

As the quiet returns to the room, he doesn't pull away. He collapses onto you, his heart hammering against yours, his skin slick with sweat. He rolls to the side, taking you with him so you’re tucked firmly against his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“Best night of my life,” he mutters, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “And I didn’t even have to play a note.”

You sighed softly, "Barry’s my boss outside of Glastonbury too. He’ll sack me.”

The mention of Barry seemed to pull the oxygen out of the room for a split second. Liam stiffened beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulder not in a romantic way, but with a sudden, protective rigidity. He propped himself up on one elbow, the duvet slipping down to his waist, his blue eyes narrowing in the dim light of the master suite.

“Barry?” he repeated, the name sounding like a bad taste in his mouth. “The spit-shouting prick from earlier? That’s your full-time boss?”

You nodded against the pillow, feeling the weight of reality crashing back into the luxury of the Winnebago. “I’m one of his lead hair and make-up artists. It’s a good gig on paper. High profile, consistent work. But yeah, he’s… difficult. If I don't show up for the morning shift to prep for the headliners’ and that, I’m done. He doesn't do 'excused absences' for rock star flings.”

Liam let out a disgruntled hum, “Listen to me,” he said, his voice dropping into that serious, authoritative tone he used when he wasn't playing the clown. “Life’s too short to work for cunts. Especially cunts who spit when they talk. You’ve got talent, yeah? You’ve got 'the eye.' I saw you backstage - you weren't just working; you were managing the madness.” He leaned over, brushing a stray hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness. “Tell Barry to go suck a lemon. You’re with me now. My team always needs people who actually know what they’re doing and don't collapse under a bit of pressure.”

You looked up at him, caught between the thrill of his offer and the terrifying pragmatism of your career. “Liam, I can’t just quit my life because of one incredible night in a Winnebago.”

“Why not?” he countered, a wicked, defiant grin spreading across his face. “That’s exactly how the best stories start. Besides,” he added, pulling you back down so your head rested on his chest, “I’ve already decided you’re my lucky charm. And I always get what I want.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. After a pause Liam spoke again, “So, you staying?”

You smiled against his chest. “Your mad.You don’t know anything about me, Liam?”

Liam rolled his eyes despite you not being able to see him, “Fine then…” Liam untangled his arm from you and turned over onto his side to face you, resting his head on his bent arm. “Where’s home for you?”

You smiled as you shook your head at him, “Really?”

“Deadly serious,” Liam countered, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. The cheeky rock star persona had softened into something genuine, though the intensity in his eyes remained. “I’m an open book, aren't I? Everything I do is in the tabs or on the telly. You’re the mystery here. And mam always told us not to talk to strangers.”

You began laughing at him making Liam grin. “But you knew enough for us to shag?”

Liam let out a bark of laughter, the sound echoing off the wood-panelled walls of the Winnebago. He didn't look even remotely embarrassed; if anything, he looked incredibly proud of himself.

"Listen, darlin', that’s just basic chemistry. You don't need a CV to know when the sparks are flyin' enough to burn the stage down," he said, his thumb continuing that slow, distracting rhythm against your jaw. "But now I've had the main course, I’m interested in the footnotes. The stuff the cameras don't see."

He shifted, getting comfortable, clearly not planning on letting you go anywhere, to Barry or otherwise, anytime soon.

"So, c'mon. Start from the beginning," he prodded, his eyes bright with genuine curiosity. "Where’s the accent from? Where’d you learn to cut hair without takin' someone's ear off? And most importantly... how many times did you have to talk yourself out of punchin' Barry in the throat before today?"

You took a breath, the cool air of the Winnebago feeling a little more like home and a little less like a dream. "London, mostly," you said as you rolled on your side to face him. "I’ve got a tiny flat in Camden. It’s basically a wardrobe with a hot plate, but it’s close to the studios."

Liam made a face, a classic Gallagher scowl. "Camden? Full of students and blokes in skinny jeans trying to look like they’ve had a hard life. You sound like you’ve got a bit of the North in you, though. That ‘bite’ didn't come from North London."

You smiled up at him. "Sharp ears. I’m from just outside Manchester, right on the edge of the Yorkshire border."

Liam’s eyebrows shot up, a genuine grin breaking through. "A Northerner! I knew there was a reason you didn't crumble the second I started shouting. Why the move south, then? Did you get tired of the decent chippies and people who actually speak English?"

Your smile faded just a fraction, replaced by a shrug that you tried to keep casual. "The usual story. Parents split when I was eleven. Dad moved to Spain to ‘find himself,’ and my mum… well, she wasn't really the nurturing type. She decided boarding school was the best place for me. Sent me off to a place down south where they tried to teach me how to sit up straight and keep my mouth shut." You rolled your eyes defiantly.

Liam rested his hand on your hip. His eyes narrowed, "Boarding school? Fuckin' hell. So, they basically shipped you off because you were an inconvenience?"

"That’s one way of putting it," you laughed, though it sounded a bit hollow. "I think the headmistress was thrilled when I left. I spent most of my art classes practicing special effects makeup on the younger girls, making them look like they had black eyes or throwing paint cans around like am John Squire.” You giggled. “It didn't go down well at parents' evening."

The mention of John Squire made Liam’s eyes light up.

"I bet it didn't," Liam chuckled, but his voice stayed low. "John Squire? That mean you like ‘The Stone Roses'?”

You nodded grinning, “Bloody too right I do.”

The mention of The Stone Roses seems to be the final piece of the puzzle for Liam.

He let out a triumphant “HA!” that bounces off the mahogany walls of the bedroom, his eyes shining with a sudden, renewed energy. ​“See? I knew it! I knew you were proper!” he exclaims, shifting so his chest is pressed firmly against yours. “John’s a good lad. The Stone Roses... that’s the blueprint. If you’re throwing paint like Squire and listening to Reni’s drums while some posh headmistress is yelling at you, then you’re a legend in my book.” ​He traces the line of your collarbone, his touch lingering. The atmosphere had shifted from the high-octane heat of the sex to a cosy, conspiratorial warmth. ​“So, you’re a rebel from the North, shipped off to the posh south, and now you’re making up pop stars and dealing with pricks like Barry,” he muses, his voice softening. “That’s a lot of weight for a girl with glitter on her face. No wonder you’ve got a bit of a mouth on you.”

You rolled your eyes playfully at him. “What’s your excuse then?”

Liam’s grin turned slow and wicked, a flash of that trademark rock-and-roll arrogance flickering in his eyes, but it was tempered by the way he was currently tangled up in the duvet with you. "Me? I don't need an excuse, darlin'. I was born this way," he quipped, popping an imaginary collar. "God gave me this voice and this face, and then realized I was too perfect, so He gave me a temper and a brother from hell just to keep things interesting."

You let out a dry snort as his thumb tracing the curve of your hip now.

He paused, his expression softening as he looked at you. "So, we've both got a bit of that 'fuck you' energy from the North, then. Except you've been using yours to put up with spit-talking bosses in Camden wardrobes, and I've been using mine to... well, to get exactly where I am right now." He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Which brings us back to the point. You’re from the right side of the tracks, you like the Roses, and you’ve got more backbone than my entire security detail. Why the hell are you going back to a man who doesn't appreciate you? Stay. Tell Barry you've found a better class of madness."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression turning stubborn, the look of a man who had already decided the future and was just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

"I’ve got a load of other festivals after this. Then a load of arena gigs. My hair's a mess, my skin's trashed from the road, and my crew is a bunch of lads who think a wet wipe is a spa treatment. I need someone to look after me who isn't afraid of biting back. I'm not asking you to be a groupie. I'm telling you to come be the boss of my backstage. Better pay, better tunes, and I promise no one spits when they talk to you." He paused, his fingers tangling in your hair. "And if you miss the North, we'll go get a proper chippy in Burnage. My treat."

You looked at him, the luxury of the Winnebago suddenly feeling less like a temporary escape and more like a crossroads. The career you’d fought for was back in the mud with Barry, but the life you’d actually wanted was lying right here, smelling of leather and rock 'n' roll.

You chewed your bottom lip as you “thought” about his offer. Of course you were going to say yes, you were just going to let Liam sweat a bit first. You didn’t want to seem desperate. “I’m not sure.”

Liam’s eyes widened, his thumb stuttering on your jawline. For a second, the legendary Gallagher confidence faltered, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief. He propped himself up further, the duvet sliding dangerously low, though he didn't seem to notice or care.

"You're not sure?" he repeated, his voice cracking upward in a way that was almost comedic. "I’m offering you the keys to the kingdom! No more Barry, no more Camden cupboards, and you get to look at this every morning." He gestured vaguely to his face with a self-deprecating but still arrogant flourish. He let out a huff, falling back onto the pillows with a dramatic thud, staring up at the ceiling of the Winnebago. "Unbelievable," he muttered, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitching. He was trying to play it cool, but the way his fingers were restlessly drumming against your hip told a different story. "I’ve got thousands of people screaming my name out there, and I’m getting 'I'm not sure' from a girl who makes fake black eyes for a hobby."

You found his pouty over dramatic act adorable and a small giggle bubbled out of your mouth before you could stop it. You quickly covered your mouth.

He turned his head back to you, his blue eyes narrowed in a playful, suspicious squint. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?” He shook his head with a chuckle as you grinned at him. “Cruel. Just cruel.”

“Sorry,” You giggled, “Couldn’t help myself.” You grinned at him.

He let out a breathy chuckle, his thumb lightly stroking your arm. "That boarding school really did a number on you…” He joked as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder making you smile, “Now give us a couple of minutes, then we’ll start round two, yeah?" He said cheekily as he pulled you to lay on his chest once more.

You raised your eyebrow at him, “Can you manage a second round?” You teased.

Liam’s eyes snapped open, a mock-offended glint sparking in those sharp blue depths. He let out a dry, raspy chuckle that vibrated through his chest against yours, his hands sliding down to give your hips a firm, possessive squeeze.

"Can I manage?" he repeated, his voice dropping into that classic, cocky Manchester drawl. "Listen yeah. You’re talking to a man who’s played Knebworth twice, love. I don’t do 'managing.' I do legendary."

He shifted, the movement lithe and hungry, rolling you back into the plush mattress until he was hovering over you once more. The sweat on his skin shimmered in the amber light, and the cocky smirk on his face softened into something far more intense as he looked down at you.

"I’ve got more stamina in my little finger than most of those posers out there have in their whole bodies," he murmured, his nose brushing against yours. "And besides... I’ve got to make sure you’re properly looked after, haven't I? Can't have you going back to reality thinking I’m just a loudmouth and a pretty face." He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours, as his hand slid between your thighs.

Your breath caught as he easily found your clit. He grinned against your lips, feeling the involuntary quiver of your body.

"See?" he rasped. "You're already tuning up. Now, shut up and let the professional take it from the top."

Liam leaned down again, this time closing the small gap between your lips with a fierce, hungry kiss. It became something deeper, more urgent than the soft kiss before. Liam groaned into your mouth, a rough, appreciative sound that made your core clench.

The heat of the moment was shattered by the persistent, muffled familiar buzzing ringtone of your phone. At first, Liam tried to ignore it, his mouth moving hungrily along your jawline pulling breathy moans from you, but the vibrating was relentless.

You let out a frustrated huff, “Liam.”

"Ignore it," Liam muttered against your skin, his fingers pressing firmer against your sensitive bud making your fingers dig into his shoulders. "Whoever it is can wait until Monday. Or next year."

But then the ringing started again. And again. The silence of the Winnebago only amplified the sound of your phone vibrating against the floorboards in the other room. Liam let out a sharp, frustrated groan, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder.

"Fucking hell," he growled, his voice thick with irritation. "I’m gonna kill 'em.” He rolled off you with a disgruntled huff, “I’m actually gonna end 'em."

“It’s fine,” You patted his chest with a small giggle, “I’ll just turn my phone off.” you said as you slipped out of the bed.

“Cover up with that.” He pointed to the bathrobe hung up on the back of the door, “Don’t want the lads getting an eyeful.” He winked at you as he put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, smiling to himself as you grabbed the bathrobe and slipped it on.

You stepped into the small hallway, the thick carpet soft beneath your bare feet as you fumbled with the belt of the oversized bathrobe. The phone was still buzzing on the floorboards, its screen illuminating the dark space with a harsh, clinical glow. You picked it up, expecting a frantic query from a coworker or a confused text from a friend.

Instead, the screen was a wall of red notifications. 14 Missed Calls. 22 Unread Messages. All from Barry.

Your stomach did a slow, sickening somersault. You swiped open the messages, and the vitriol hit you like a physical blow.

Barry: Where the fuck are you? The headliner’s bassist is sitting in my chair and you’re nowhere to be found.

Barry: I saw you trailing after that Gallagher prick. You’re a fucking joke.

Barry: Don’t bother coming back. You’re a talentless little whore. Nothing but a groupie with a brush.

Barry: You’re sacked. You’re worthless. I’ve already thrown your kit bag into the mud behind the tent. Good luck finding work in this town again!

The phone trembled in your hand. The word ‘worthless’ seemed to hum in your ears, louder than the AC. Your kit bag everything you’d collected over years. It was your livelihood. Your entire career, everything you’d built since leaving that boarding school, felt like it was dissolving into the Glastonbury mud.

“You alright, love? You’ve gone quiet,” Liam’s voice drifted from the bedroom, sounding drowsy but attentive.

You didn't even realize you were shaking until Liam sat bolt upright, his eyes instantly sharpening as they landed on you.

“What’s happened?” Liam asked as you walked back into the suite.

“He sacked me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Barry. He… he called me a whore, Liam. He said I’m worthless. He threw my kit in the mud. My clothes… everything’s in the backstage tent. If I don't go now, someone will nick it or it’ll be ruined.” A wave of panic crested over you. The reality of being jobless, stranded at a festival, and losing your equipment hit all at once. “I have to go. I have to find my stuff. Oh god, I’m so stupid, I shouldn't have-”

Before you could spiral further, Liam was off the bed. He didn't care that he was stark bollock naked; he moved with a sudden, predatory grace, crossing the room in two strides and grabbing your shoulders.

“Hey... look at me, Y/N,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl that cut through your hysteria. You blinked, focusing on his piercing blue eyes. “First of all, that prick is a dead man walking. Nobody talks to you like that. Not while I’m breathing.”

“But my kit, Liam. It’s my life-”

“Listen to me,” he interrupted, his grip firm and grounding. “It’s just stuff. You’ve got the talent in your hands, not in a fucking plastic box. You think I care about a bag of brushes? When we get back to London, we’ll go to one of them fancy shops. Whatever the fuck you need. I’ll buy you the best kit money can buy. Ten of ‘em. Better than whatever that spit-shouting twat threw away.” He saw you were about to protest and shook his head firmly. “No. Don’t even start. You’re with me now. My lucky charm, remember? And I don't let my people worry about small-time pricks like Barry.” He moved over to where his discarded pants were on the floor and grabbed his own phone from the pocket, his thumbs flying across the screen with aggressive intent. “Where’s your bag of clothes?” he asked, not looking up. “Exactly where? Which tent?”

“It’s… it’s a duffel with a giant lemon keychain on the handle... you can’t miss it. It’s in the production crew tent, behind the Pyramid Stage,” you stammered.

“Right.” He tapped out a final message. “Sent. One of my people will sort it. They’ll have your bag here in twenty minutes. If Barry so much as looks at them funny, they’ll bury him under the John Peel stage.”

He tossed his phone aside and pulled you into a hug, the heat of his skin and the steady, heavy beat of his heart acting like a balm to your frayed nerves. He tucked your head under his chin, his hand stroking your hair with surprising gentleness.

“See? Problem solved,” he muttered into your hair.

“Thank you, Liam.” You mumbled into his chest.

He pulled back just enough to smirk at you, the familiar, defiant glint returning to his eyes. “Now, about that encore... I think you need something to take your mind off the drama, don’t ya?” He guided you back toward the bed, the weight of the world suddenly feeling a lot lighter than it had five minutes ago as Liam untied the belt of the bathrobe. “And don’t worry about the kit, love,” he added with a wink. “I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna be much too busy for the next few days to worry about blending foundation anyway.”

The panic that had been clawing at your throat began to recede, replaced by the sheer, grounding force of Liam’s presence. He didn’t just suggest a solution; he dictated a new reality where Barry didn’t exist and your worries were beneath him.

As the bathrobe pooled around your ankles, Liam’s eyes darkened, the protective anger shifting back into that raw, magnetic hunger. He didn’t waste time with words. He guided you toward the edge of the large, plush bed, his hands steady and warm against your skin.

“Forget the kit, forget the prick, and forget the mud,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, commanding vibration. “Just focus on this.”

He didn’t pull you under him this time. Instead, he directed you to turn around, his palms flat against the small of your back as he urged you to kneel on the mattress. You felt the cool air of the AC for only a second before the heat of him pressed up against your rear. Reaching forward, you gripped the padded leather headboard, your knuckles turning white as you braced yourself.

Liam let out a low, appreciative whistle, his gaze raking over you from behind. “Absolutely biblical,” he muttered.

Suddenly, he reached over to the nightstand, grabbing his phone. You heard the distinct click of the camera shutter. You looked back over your shoulder, startled, only to see him smirking at the screen, a look of pure, devilish triumph on his face.

“Liam!” you gasped, though a frantic thrill raced through you.

“Capturing a masterpiece, darlin’,” he chuckled, tossing the phone onto the pillows just out of reach. “Something to remind me why I’m never letting you go back to Camden.”

Then, he moved. He gripped your hips with his large hands, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive strength that made you arch your back. He didn’t ease in; he drove forward with a sharp, heavy thrust that forced a loud, jagged moan from your lips.

The rhythm was relentless, rock ‘n’ roll at its most primal. Every time he hit home, the headboard rattled against the wall of the Winnebago, a steady percussion to the sound of his heavy, rhythmic breathing and the slick friction of skin on skin. He leaned over you, his chest pressing into your back, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your shoulder to leave a Mark that would definitely last longer than the festival.

“You’re mine now, yeah?” he growled into your ear, his voice ragged. “Not Barry’s. Not the studios’. Mine.”

He reached around, one hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back against his shoulder while the other found your front, his thumb working with devastating precision. The dual sensation sent you over the edge, your vision blurring as a white-hot wave of pleasure crashed through you. You cried out his name, the sound muffled by the duvet as you collapsed forward.

Liam let out a final, guttural shout, his body tensing behind yours as he followed you into the fray. He held you tightly for a long moment, his forehead resting against the back of your neck, both of you gasping for air in the dim, amber light.

Eventually, he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him until you were draped across his chest, your heartbeats syncing up. He reached for his phone again, scrolling back to the photo he’d taken. He showed it to you, a blur of skin, golden light, and raw intimacy.

“See? Much more relaxed now.” he whispered, kissing your temple.

The Winnebago was a cocoon of amber light and the scent of expensive tobacco and salt. You and Liam were a tangled mess of limbs and protective energy fir the rest of the afternoon. His hands never leaving your body. One moment he was kissing you with a hunger that felt like he was trying to swallow your very soul, and the next, his fingers were trailing low, finding that familiar, slick heat again just to hear the hitch in your breath.

And of course, you were returning the favour, your hand wrapped firmly around him, moving in a slow, rhythmic slide that had him groaning into the crook of your neck. He felt like a young lad again, he couldn’t get enough of you.

"You're gonna be the death of me, North," he wheezed, his teeth grazing your collarbone. "Forget the gigs. I’ll just stay here and let you finish me off.”

“Oh, you poor little rock star.” You giggled making him huff and double down his efforts to make you cum again.

The bubble burst with the sudden, violent thwack of the Winnebago’s heavy door swinging open.

"Oi! Is it safe to enter the lions' den or are we gonna need therapy?" Gene’s voice boomed through the small hallway, followed by the heavy thud of boots.

You scrambled for the duvet, pulling it up to your chin with a squeak of alarm, while Liam didn't even flinch. He just leaned back against the headboard, pulling the duvet to cover the important parts and looking entirely too pleased with himself, as his sons rounded the corner into the suite.

“Look at the fucking state of it in here.” Lennon was leading the way, looking bored but carrying your duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He stopped dead, his eyes flicking from his dad’s smug face to your flushed one, then down to the discarded bathrobe on the floor. "Jesus, Dad," Lennon muttered, tossing your bag onto the foot of the bed with a heavy thump. "The security lads said you sent them to 'confiscate' this. What’s going on?"

Liam’s expression hardened instantly, the playfulness vanishing. "Had to save Y/n’s stuff from her ex-boss," Liam spat, his arm snaking around your waist under the covers to pull you firmly against his side. "He sacked her. Called her names I’m not repeating in front of you lot. Threw her kit in the dirt."

Gene’s eyebrows shot up. "The spit-shouter? Proper coward, that. You want us to go back and find him?”

"Already handled," Liam grunted, though he looked proud of Gene’s offer. "She’s with us now. Working for me. No more Camden cupboards."

“Working for you how exactly?” Gene asked with a playful smile that made heat crawl up your neck.

Liam rolled his eyes, “As my hair and wardrobe bird obviously.”

You huffed. “Don’t make my job sound too glamorous, Liam.”

Liam let out a sharp, barking laugh and squeezed your hip under the duvet. “Listen, darlin’, being the person who keeps me looking like a legend is the most important job in the country. It’s a matter of national security, innit?”

​Gene shook his head, leaning against the doorframe of the master suite. “So, let me get this straight. You’ve known him for, what, four hours? And you’ve managed to get yourself sacked, hired by the most difficult man in music, and done god knows what in a Winnebago with him.” He looked at you with a mixture of pity and genuine impressed amusement. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

​“When you say it like that, it makes me sound like some cliché groupie,” you muttered, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. You pulled the duvet tighter, suddenly acutely aware of your messy hair and the general state of the room. “I’m a professional. I just happened to... have a very intense career consultation.”

​Gene let out a snort, and Lennon’s lips quirked into a dry, knowing smirk. The “groupie” label hung in the air for a fraction of a second too long, making your stomach do that nervous little flip again.

​But Liam wasn’t having it. The protective rigidity you’d felt earlier returned tenfold. He shifted, sitting up straighter against the headboard, his arm tightening around you like a vice. The smug, post-coital glow vanished, replaced by a sharp, dangerous edge in his eyes.

​“Oi,” Liam snapped, his voice dropping into a low, warning rumble that silenced his sons instantly. “Pack that in. Right now.”

​He looked at Gene, then at Lennon, his gaze hard enough to crack stone. “She’s not a groupie. She’s got more talent in her little finger than half the posers we’ve seen today. She was the only one in that fuckin’ tent who knew how to handle the chaos while Barry was busy being a total cunt.”

​He turned his head slightly to look at you, his expression softening just enough for you to see the sincerity behind the bravado.

​“I’m hiring her because she’s the best. She’s a Northerner with a spine of steel who’s been dealt a shit hand by a prick of a boss. I’m not ‘hiring’ her out of some favour,” he lied effortlessly, though you both knew the chemistry was the catalyst. “She’s the only one capable of getting things backstage in order. Understood?”

“Got it.”

“Crystal.” Lennon leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms and looking at you with a lopsided, genuine smile. "So, you’re the new boss, then? Good luck. He’s a nightmare to manage when he hasn't had his tea." He paused, glancing around the messy suite. "So, what’s the plan? Are you actually gonna let her out into the festival, or are you just gonna keep her locked away in here like a trophy?"

Gene chimed in, grinning. "Yeah, Dad. Don't be a hermit. It’s Glastonbury. The sun’s down, the lights are up, and there’s a decent DJ over at Arcadia."

Liam looked down at you, his thumb tracing a slow circle on your hip beneath the duvet. He seemed to weigh the idea of staying in bed forever against the urge to mark his territory in front of the world. The rock star won out.

"Nah," Liam said, his voice regaining that sharp, electric edge. "We’re going out. She’s had a shit day thanks to that twat, so we’re gonna have a biblical night. I’m gonna show her off, get her a proper drink, and let everyone know that if they so much as breath near her, they’re dealing with me.” He looked at you, his eyes dancing with mischief. "C'mon then. Get your gear out of that bag. Put on your best 'fuck you' outfit. We’re going to celebrate your new job in style."

Lennon rolled his eyes, heading back toward the kitchenette. "I'll get the drinks started. Try to be decent in five minutes, yeah?"

A few minutes later once the boys had left the Winnebago so you could get ready, Liam sat on the edge of the bed, a lukewarm beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, watching you with the intensity of a man observing a high-stakes art restoration. Every time you pulled something out of that duffel bag, his eyes tracked the movement, a slow, appreciative smirk growing on his face.

“See?” he muttered, gesturing with his cigarette toward the pile of makeup you’d had in your duffle. “Told you. Boss energy.”

As you started to transform, the atmosphere in the Winnebago shifted from post-coital haze to high-voltage anticipation. You stepped into the fishnets first, the black diamonds hugging your curves, followed by the heavy, battered Docs that gave you that extra bit of “don’t mess with me” height. When you pulled on the checked mini skirt and tied the front of your top, leaving just enough skin and cleavage to make a man lose his train of thought (Liam actually stopped mid-sip). His gaze travelled slowly from your boots up to the delicate, intentional chaos of the ties over your chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, the cocky rock star momentarily replaced by a man who looked like he’d just won the lottery. “Barry’s a bigger idiot than I thought. Letting a goddess like you walk around his tent while he’s shouting about foundation? Criminal.”

You turned to the mirror, your fingers moving with professional speed as you twisted your hair into two sharp, defiant buns on the top of your head. You added a flick of eyeliner, sharp enough to draw blood and a touch of shimmer that caught the dim overhead lights.

Liam stood up, crossing the small space until he was towering behind you in the mirror. He looked like the king of the festival in his parka, but beside you, he looked like a man who’d found his match. He wrapped his arms around your waist, his large, rough hands splaying over the skin revealed by your top. He leaned down, his chin resting on your shoulder as he caught your gaze in the glass.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice thick with pride. “You look incredible, love. Proper legend.” He reached out and grabbed his tinted shades from the counter, sliding them onto his face, but not before giving you a wink that made your stomach flip. “The boys are gonna lose their heads,” he chuckled, straightening his jacket. “And Barry? If he sees you tonight, he’s gonna realize he didn’t just sack a makeup artist, he sacked the best thing that ever happened to his boring-ass career.” He held out his hand, his fingers beckoning. “Ready to go make some noise? I want every person on this farm to know exactly who you’re with.”

You took his hand, feeling the solid, grounding heat of it. As you headed toward the door, Liam paused, grabbing his phone and sliding it into his pocket with a wicked grin, no doubt thinking about that photo from earlier and the night still ahead.

The heavy door of the Winnebago hissed open, and the transition from the climate-controlled luxury to the raw, electric hum of Glastonbury at night was instantaneous. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, distant chips, and the vibration of bass coming from the valley below.

Gene and Lennon were leaning against a blacked-out Range Rover, sharing a laugh until they saw you step down the stairs.

Gene let out a low whistle, pushing off the car. "Fucking hell, Y/N. You look like you’re about to headline the Other Stage yourself." He turned to Liam, who was still holding your hand like it was a prize trophy. "Dad, seriously. How’d you manage this? You’ve got the charisma of a damp parka most days, and she’s out here looking like that."

Lennon shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. "He’s right, you know. You’re punching way above your weight class tonight, old man. She’s too cool for you. One look at those Docs and the buns, and people are gonna think you’re her security detail, not the other way around."

"Pipe down, you lot," Liam barked, though the grin on his face was wider than the Mersey. He pulled you flush against his side, his arm heavy and protective over your shoulders. "She’s got taste, hasn't she? That's why she’s with me. Now move your arse, Gene, I’m starving and she needs a drink that didn't come out of a lukewarm can."

The walk through the backstage area felt like a victory lap. Liam didn't just walk; he strutted, his fingers interlaced with yours, his eyes darting around behind his shades, daring anyone to even blink in your direction.

When you reached the VIP hospitality area, the atmosphere was chaotic, glitter-covered influencers, tired legends, and a sea of expensive mud. Liam ignored the queues, leading your little quartet straight to a vendor serving gourmet burgers and loaded fries.

"Four of everything," Liam commanded, tossing a wad of crumpled notes onto the counter. "And make 'em quick. The lady’s had a run-in with a prick today, she needs feeding."

You eventually found a battered wooden bench on the edge of the clearing, overlooking the glow of the Arcadia spider in the distance. Liam sat down sideways on the bench, and pulled you in between his legs. His arms wrapping around your waist as you and the boys tucked into the food that sat on the table.

"See?" Liam murmured in your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he stole a fry from your tray. "Better than a Camden cupboard, innit?"

Gene and Lennon were sat opposite you, the two of them still ribbing their dad, but there was a new warmth in the way they looked at you, a silent acceptance that you weren't just a fleeting face in the trailer.

"So," Gene said, pointing a chip at you. "If you’re the boss of his backstage now, does that mean you can finally tell him his hair looks like a medieval peasant’s when he wakes up? Because he won't listen to us."

Liam let out a raspy laugh, his chin resting on your shoulder as he watched you eat. "She can tell me whatever she wants. She’s the only one with the shears, isn't she? She holds my life in her hands." He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your cheek, his stubble grazing you. "You okay, love? You’re not thinking about that kit bag, are you?"

You shook your head, the bass of the festival thumping in your chest, feeling the solid weight of the three Gallagher men surrounding you like a fortress. "Not even a little bit."

Liam grinned, his hand sliding down to squeeze your hip. "Good.”

The table was a chaotic spread of grease-stained cardboard and open drinks, the steam from the loaded fries rising into the cool night air. Liam didn’t let go of you for a second; even as he tore into a burger with one hand, his other arm remained draped across your lap, his fingers occasionally tapping a rhythmic beat against your thigh as if he were already playing a set in his head.

“Try this,” Liam muttered, nudging a forkful of truffle-oiled fries toward your mouth. He didn’t wait for an answer, essentially feeding you with a look of intense concentration. “Need your strength up. We’ve got a long walk to the Stone Circle later, and I’m not carrying you through the mud. Well, I might, but I’ll moan about it the whole way.”

“You’d love it,” Gene chimed in, leaning over his own food. “Gives you an excuse to show off those ‘legendary’ biceps you’re always going on about.”

Lennon laughed, reaching over to steal a burger from the middle of the table. “He’d probably drop you halfway just to see if your buns stay in place, Y/N. Don’t trust him.”

You felt a genuine sense of belonging wash over you. The terror of Barry’s messages and the loss of your old life felt miles away, buried under the roar of the crowd and the smell of salt and vinegar. You leaned back against Liam’s chest, feeling the vibration of his voice through his parka as he barked back a retort at his sons.

“Right, enough talk,” Liam said, standing up abruptly once the trays were mostly cleared. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and adjusted his shades, despite the darkness. He hauled you up with him, his grip firm. “Food’s done. Drinks are finished. The vibe is calling.”

He turned to his sons, his expression shifting into that of a commander. “You two go find out where the ‘after’ after-party is. The one without the wannabe lot. We’re gonna catch the end of whatever’s happening at the Park Stage.”

As the boys headed off with a wave, Liam turned you toward him so your legs were hooked over his, pulling you closer to him with his hands resting on your waist. The neon lights from a nearby bar reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses.

“You ready to really see this place?” he asked, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rasp. “Just the music and me.”

You nodded, “Sounds like the perfect night.”

Liam grinned before kissing you, “C’mon then. Let’s go get noisy.”

He  hooked his arm around your neck and pulled you into his side. As you moved through the VIP gates and out toward the main festival site, the sheer scale of the lights and the people hit you, but with Liam’s hand in yours, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt like an invitation.

The Park Stage was glowing like a jewel against the dark Glastonbury hillside, the music drifting up the slope in waves of hazy, melodic reverb. Up here, away from the frantic crush of the Pyramid, the air felt thinner and cooler, but you barely felt the nip of the night.

Liam had unzipped his oversized parka, pulling you flush against his front and wrapping the heavy, fur-trimmed fabric around you like a cocoon. You were tucked under his chin, your back to his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart. His hands were clasped over your stomach, squeezing you every time the bass dropped, his nose buried in the crook of your neck.

"Fucking tune, this," he mumble-growled against your skin, his breath a warm, tingling contrast to the breeze. He started to nip at the sensitive cord of your neck, his teeth grazing you just enough to make your toes curl inside your Docs. Each small bite was followed by a lingering, wet kiss that sent sparks straight to your core.

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. The lights from the stage blurred into a kaleidoscope of gold and blue. In this moment, you weren't a girl who’d just lost her job; you were a girl being held by a man who seemed ready to burn the world down just to keep you warm.

"You're shivering, love," he whispered, his voice vibrating through your spine. He tightened the parka around you, his arms acting as a human vice.

"I'm okay," you breathed, turning your head slightly to look at him. "Just happy."

Liam’s eyes were dark, reflecting the stage lights, but the usual restless fire in them had softened into something incredibly focused. He didn't say anything at first; he just looked at you with a raw, unshielded intensity that made your breath hitch.

Then, he leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that tasted of salt, beer, and pure, unadulterated want. It wasn't a gentle kiss, it was a Gallagher kiss; deep and demanding. You turned fully in his arms, your hands sliding up his chest to bunch the material of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

The thousands of people, the glowing ribbons of the Ribbon Tower, the distant roar of the crowds, simply ceased to exist. You were lost in the slide of his tongue against yours and the way his hands moved down to grip your hips, pulling you firmly against him. To anyone passing by, you were just another couple lost in the Glastonbury haze, but to Liam, you were the only headline act that mattered.

He eventually pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily.

"Yeah," he rasped, a wicked, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. "Redundancy suits you, darlin'. Best career move you ever made."

He kept his arm draped heavily over your shoulders as the set ended, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "C'mon then. Let's go find the boys before they manage to get themselves kicked out of Arcadia. I want to see you dance under that big fuckin' spider."

The walk from The Park to the Arcadia field was like descending into a beautiful, neon-lit madness. The giant metal spider loomed in the distance, spitting massive plumes of fire into the sky that illuminated the entire valley in a rhythmic, orange strobe.

​Liam didn't let go of you for a second. He kept you tucked under his arm, guiding you through the crowds like a man on a mission. Every time the spider hissed fire, the heat hit your face, and Liam would look down at you, his eyes wide and wild with the thrill of it.

​"There they are! The terrible two!" Liam shouted over the pounding techno beat, spotting Gene and Lennon perched on a metal railing near a bar.

​They both had fresh drinks in hand and looked like they were having the time of their lives. When they saw you and Liam approaching wrapped in each other’s arms, Gene broke into a massive, knowing grin.

​"Took your time, didn't you?" Gene yelled over the bass, handing a cold drink to you and a beer to his dad. "We thought you’d decided to elope to the Stone Circle and leave us to pay the bar tab."

​"In your dreams, you little prick," Liam quilled, taking a long swig of his beer before pulling you back against his chest.

​The next couple of hours were a blur of high-energy chaos. You were right in the thick of it. You met Liam’s tour manager, a gruff but kind man named Steve.

He took one look at you in your fishnets and Docs, saw the way Liam was looking at you, and just nodded. "Welcome to the circus, love. Hope you've got thick skin, you're gonna need it with this lot."

​You danced under the fire, the bass vibrating so hard in your chest that you could barely feel your own heartbeat. Liam wasn't much of a "shuffler," but he stayed right behind you, his hands on your waist, swaying with that heavy, rhythmic swagger of his, leaning in every few minutes to shout something cheeky in your ear or steal another deep, breathless kiss.

Gene wrapped his arm around his dad’s neck and shouted something you couldn’t quite hear making Liam frown.

“The Rabbit Hole?” Liam repeated, squinting through the neon haze as Gene and Lennon started gesturing wildly toward the hidden entrance. “Fucking hell, lads, really?”

​“Don’t be a pensioner, Dad!” Gene laughed, already starting to back away toward the secret tunnel. “It’s the best vibe in the place. Alice in Wonderland on acid, innit? You can’t come to Glasto and not go down the hole.”

​Lennon nodded, looking at you with a challenge in his eyes. “C’mon, Y/N. Don’t let him pull the ‘old man’ card. If you’re joining the crew, you’ve got to see the weird stuff. It’s a rite of passage.”

​Liam looked down at you, his eyebrows raised.

“I wouldn’t mind.” You smiled.

He was clearly exhausted, but the moment he saw the spark of curiosity in your eyes, he let out a dramatic, suffering sigh.

​“See that?” he muttered, gesturing to his sons. “Manipulative little shits. Just like their old man.” He tightened his grip on your waist, a wicked grin finally breaking through the fatigue. “Right then. Down the Rabbit Hole we go. But if I see a bloke in a bunny suit, I’m punching him in the carrot.”

Liam didn’t let go of you for a second. Even as he stopped to take a couple of blurry selfies with fans who looked like they’d seen God when they spotted him, his hand stayed firmly anchored on your waist or shoulder.

"The Rabbit Hole, then?" Liam shouted over the increasing volume as you approached the hidden gem of the Park area. "Hope you’re ready, darlin’. It gets a bit... psychedelic in there."

The entrance to the Rabbit Hole was true to its name; a tunnel-like walkway that forced you to duck down. You giggled as Liam followed closely behind you, grumbling about his parker getting muddy and something messing with his hair. The “warren” opened up into a space that felt less like a music venue and more like a fever dream. The decor was Alice in Wonderland on a steady diet of illicit substances: oversized mushrooms, flickering fairy lights, and performers dressed in surrealist costumes darting through the crowd. You felt like you were really tripping as you looked around the space.

"Look at this place," Gene laughed, immediately spotting a group of girls in neon face paint and disappearing toward them. "See ya at the bar!"

"Don't lose your shoes!" Lennon yelled after him before turning to Liam. "I'm going to find the secret stage. Meet you by the 'Eat Me' sign in an hour?"

Liam waved him off with a flick of his hand, his focus already narrowing back down to you. The lighting in the Rabbit Hole was low and saturated in deep purples and oranges, making your black outfit look even sharper and Liam’s blue eyes look almost obsidian.

He leaned in and kissed you again, his hands falling to hold firmly onto your waist. He pulled back with a grin, “Right,” he said, his voice regaining its trademark swagger. “Let’s find the bar in this hole.”

The bar at The Rabbit Hole was less of a service counter and more of a psychedelic stage prop. It was carved out of what looked like a giant, gnarled tree root, glowing with internal LED pulses that changed from deep violet to a sickly, electric lime.

Liam didn’t wait in line. He simply leaned over the wood, his presence acting like a magnet. The bartender, a girl wearing a top hat and glittery whiskers did a double take, dropped her shaker, and immediately scrambled over.

“Two double gins, heavy on the lime,” Liam barked back, then looked at you, his eyes darting to your lips.

As the drinks were slid across the glowing wood, Liam handed you your gin, but he didn’t move away. He stayed anchored to the bar, using his body to create a small, private pocket for you amidst the crush of costumed revellers and sweating dancers.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against yours. He took a massive swig, then leaned in so close his lips brushed your ear. “Look at ‘em all. Half of ‘em don’t know if they’re in Somerset or on Mars. But you? You’re sharp. You’re right here.”

He pulled you toward a small alcove draped in heavy, moth-eaten tapestry, shielding you from a passing troupe of acrobats. He boxed you in, his hands resting on the wall on either side of your head.

"You're taking it all in, aren't you?" he murmured, his face inches from yours. "The madness. Most people look a bit overwhelmed by now, but you... you look like you’re finally home."

"It's better than a 'wardrobe with a hot plate,'" you teased, reaching out to fiddle with the zipper of his parka.

Liam’s expression shifted, the cocky smirk softening into something more intense. "I meant what I said back there. About the tour. About London. I don't just want you around because you’re good with a makeup brush or because you can hold your own against pricks. I want you around because... well, because I've felt more like myself in the last five hours than I have in five years."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. The smell of the festival, damp grass, wood smoke, and cider was heavy in the air, but all you could focus on was the heat of him.

"You're a proper firecracker, Y/n," he whispered. "And I've always been a bit of a pyromaniac."

You reached out and turned him back to face you. You didn’t say anything you just reached up and pulled his face down to meet yours, crashing your lips against his as you wound your arms around his neck. He let out a deep moan into your mouth as you slipped your tongue past his lips and licked against his. Liam’s arms protective wrapped around your waist and held you close as the two of you got lost in what was becoming a heavy make-out.

Once again, your bubble was burst making Liam pull back from you with loud huff as Lennon and Gene appeared by your sides making you giggle. Gene was holding an inflatable banana and Lennon had a neon pink boa around his neck, pair of them covered in neon paint and glitter, both looking equally hammered and bussing to be there.

"Right, enough of the brooding!" Gene shouts, grabbing one of your hands while Lennon snags the other. "Dad’s being a bore, Y/n. Come on, the lobster-priest didn't train us to stand against a wall!"

You let out a yelp of laughter as they drag you toward the centre of the checkerboard floor. Liam lets you go with a mock grumble, but he doesn't follow. Instead, he leans back against the wall, one foot hooked behind him, watching you with a look of intense, quiet pride.

Out in the middle of the madness, you lose yourself for a few minutes. Between Gene swinging the inflatable banana like a weapon and Lennon trying to do a coordinated indie-stomp, you’re spinning, laughing, and throwing your head.

From the sidelines, Liam pulls his phone out. He usually hates people filming him, but for you, he makes an exception.

He holds the phone steady, a smirk playing on his lips as he captures a video of you spinning between his sons. He zooms in on your face, the genuine, unbridled joy there and then snaps a few candid photos. One of you biting your lip as you try to keep your balance, and another of you laughing at something Gene said, looking radiant under the flickering strobe lights.

He scrolls through the shots for a second, his thumb lingering on a picture where you look particularly "lethal."

“Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head.

Eventually, the song peaks, and you’re breathless, your skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat and the leftover tequila buzz. You break away from the boys and head straight back to the one person who hasn't taken his eyes off you once.

You stumbled into his space, your chest heaving, and leaned your full weight against his solid chest. The air in the Rabbit Hole was thick and humid, a stark contrast to the cool night outside, and you could feel the dampness of your skin against the fabric of his parka.

“I’d forgotten...” you panted, a wide, breathless grin stretching across your face as you looked up at him. “I’d forgotten what it was like to actually dance. To just... let go and not worry about who’s looking or if I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”

Liam caught you easily, his arms wrapping around you like a protective shell, steadying you. He tucked your head under his chin for a second. “See?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration in his chest. “That’s the point, innit? That’s what this place is for. Not for fetching water for bassists or getting spat at by middle-management wankers. It’s for this.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb reaching out to smudge a bit of stray glitter from your cheek. His eyes were soft, devoid of the usual rock-star posturing.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, flicking through the screen before turning it toward you. “Look at that,” he said, showing you the video he’d just taken. You saw yourself in a blur of neon and movement, sandwiched between Gene’s inflatable banana and Lennon’s pink boa, looking happier than you had in years. “That’s a girl who’s finished with Camden cupboards. That’s the new boss of the Gallagher tour.”

You let out a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his collarbone. “I’m going to have so much work to do, aren’t I? Keeping you lot in line.”

“Don’t even worry about that now,” Liam chuckled, pocketing the phone and pressing a firm, salty kiss to the top of your head. “Tonight, we’re just two Northerners lost in a hole. Tomorrow... well, tomorrow we’ll tell the world to fuck off and get you some proper breakfast.”

He looked over your shoulder at Gene and Lennon, who were now engaged in a very serious-looking dance-off with a man dressed as a giant playing card.

“Right,” Liam said, his eyes glinting with a fresh spark of energy. “I think the ‘Eat Me’ sign is calling. And after that, I’m taking you to the Stone Circle. I want to watch the sun come up over this mad farm with you, before we go back to the Winnebago and I show you exactly how much I appreciate your ‘career consultation.’” He grabbed your hand, his fingers interlacing with yours, the grip tight and certain.

You grabbed the boys before they could get into any more trouble with the inflatable banana and feather boa, then began making your way out of The Rabbit Hole.

As you stepped out into the night air, Liam tightened his grip on your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours so firmly it felt like he was never going to let go. “Stay close, love. The walk up there is a trek, but once we’re at the top, you’ll see. It’s the only place on this farm where you can actually hear the earth breathing.”

The trek up the hill toward the Stone Circle was a slow, stumbling pilgrimage through the pre-dawn mist. The air was turning a misty, pale grey, the stars beginning to fade as the first hint of morning light threatened the horizon. Thousands of people were scattered across the grass, some huddled in blankets, others still drumming on bins or singing at the top of their lungs.

As you reached the summit, the massive stones loomed out of the haze like ancient sentinels. The boys immediately found a spot near a fire pit, falling into easy conversation with a group of festival goers similar age to them. Liam led you a little further away, toward the edge of the hill where the entire valley of Glastonbury lay spread out below you.

The thousands of lights from the tents and stages twinkled like a fallen galaxy in the mud. Liam sat down on an abandoned blanket, pulling you down right between his legs. He unzipped his parka again, wrapping the heavy fabric around both of you until you were tucked against his chest, shielded from the biting morning chill.

“Look at that,” he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp in the quiet of the morning. He pointed toward the horizon where a thin line of gold was starting to bleed into the purple sky. “All those people down there... they’re all looking for something. Magic, music, a way out of their boring lives.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on your shoulder. “But we found it, didn’t we? Without even trying.”

You leaned back, the steady throb of his heart against your spine acting as a grounding force. “I think the magic found us, Liam. Probably helped that I had a pair of scissors in my hand.” You smiled.

Liam let out a soft, breathy chuckle, his lips finding the sensitive skin behind your ear. “Best haircut in history, darlin’. I’m telling ya.” He went quiet for a moment, just watching the sun start to peek over the hills, turning the mist into a sea of glowing amber. “I mean it, you know. When we get on that tour bus next week... it’s gonna be mad. But if you’re in the back with me, I think I might actually behave myself... well, mostly.” He smirked making your smile widen.

“Mostly?” you teased, turning your head to catch his eye. “That’s a lie.”

“Don’t push it,” he smirked, leaning in to capture your lips in a slow, soft kiss that tasted of the end of a long night and the beginning of something much bigger.

As the sun finally broke over the horizon, a massive cheer erupted from the hundreds of people around the Stone Circle. Gene and Lennon appeared through the mist, looking like two bedraggled but happy ghosts.

“Sun’s up!” Gene cheered, dropping down beside you. “We made it.”