sitting here • making daisychains

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: None

AN: Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

No one was more excited when the tour bus pulled into Lisbon than Shawn. Not only did he love Portugal for the family history there - it’s where his dad grew up - but Shawn’s parents were coming to visit. He hadn’t seen them in almost a month, and he missed them more than he was ever prepared for.

It would be a hectic day, and Manny and Karen wouldn’t arrive until later, so Shawn and the boys hit the gym immediately after deboarding the bus. Shawn looked forward to working out every day, but today he had a lot of nervous energy to burn off.

Maybe that’s why you were surprised to find Shawn’s reply to your note. You had expected him to be too busy and distracted to write back until a few more cities had passed by your bus window.

Shawn’s note wasn’t as long as yours, which was not surprising considering your question (What would you name your boat if you had one?), but you couldn’t help but be excited to read it. You allowed yourself to be momentarily distracted from your usual unpacking-Shawn’s-room duties and sat on the edge of the hotel bed to read.

Who says I don’t have a boat already? Shawn wrote. Well ok, I don’t. But now I kind of want one. I think watching the sun go down over Lake Ontario from the bow (yes, I looked that up) of my own sailboat would be kind of amazing. A sport boat, like the kind you could surf behind, would be cool, too. But there’s something about a sailboat that seems really - is romantic the right word? Not like love-romance, but the kind of romantic where everything just seems perfect and beautiful and a little bit magical. Although, come to think of it, watching the sunset on a sailboat could be pretty love-romantic, too.

Your breath caught in your throat as you read. Growing up so close to Lake Travis, you were practically raised on the water. Your mom’s best friend owned a small boat rental business, and you spent every free moment of the warm seasons wakeboarding behind one of his boats, learning to expertly drive the various sports boats he offered, or laying across the deck of Dave’s own Nautique to work on your tan. You’d turned your favorite pastime into a pretty lucrative high school job, working the counter at Dave’s shop and offering boating and wakeboarding lessons on the side. 

You’d always had a pretty romantic, to use Shawn’s word, view of sailboats, though. You often fantasized about sailing out to open sea, standing at the tip of the bow of a catamaran or a schooner, one hand on the jib as you leaned out over the water. That particular image may have come from an old Audrey Hepburn photo your mom had shown you (your mom had an obsession with old Hollywood starlets). 

Either way, you felt your heart race a little at Shawn’s words - especially the implication of a romantic sunset cruise. Was he flirting?

Maybe one day we’ll meet, and we can sail off into the sunset together - at this, you stopped breathing altogether; that definitely felt like flirting to you - on The Firebolt. Mischief Managed? Maybe I’d call it The Patronus. I’ve got some time to come up with the perfect name, but it’ll definitely be Harry Potter themed. 

We won’t be sailing anywhere before you answer my next question: What exactly is your job? I don’t think I’ve ever had a “handler” before.

You could have been reading and rereading Shawn’s notes for one minute or ten - you lost track of time until you heard the jiggle of a doorknob, and you practically jumped out of your skin. Someone was opening the door to Shawn’s room. For a fleeting second, you wondered whether you should hide. But you knew that idea was ridiculous the moment it crossed your mind - imagine if Shawn opened his closet to find you tucked down beneath his clothes? You would look like a crazy stalker. No, you had every right to be in his room - it was your job to be there - and it was bound to happen anyway. Eventually. You just weren’t ready for it to be today, right now, that you’d meet him.

The door opened before you had time to move, and in walked a tall blonde woman with a large tote bag slung over her shoulder. She was beautiful, and you knew instantly who she was. When her eyes connected with yours, a surprised expression crossed her features. You could see her calculating the situation - you, a woman not much older than her world-famous rockstar son, were sitting on the bed in that rockstar’s hotel room as though waiting for him - and you hastily wanted to correct the conclusion that seemed to settle itself awkwardly across her face.

“Mrs. Mendes!” you exclaimed, jumping up from the bed and stuffing Shawn’s note in your back pocket. You crossed the room quickly, reaching out a hand toward her - to shake her hand or take her bag, you weren’t sure.

“Hello,” she replied cautiously, still confused by your presence in her son’s hotel room. She wasn’t naive by any means, but she was still a mom being confronted by a strange woman in her son’s bedroom. She reached for your hand.

“I’m (Y/N),” you said, shaking her hand. “We spoke on the phone last week.” Realization began to dawn on Mrs. Mendes’ features. “About Shawn? And his laundry?” 

“(Y/N), of course!” she beamed, understanding that you weren’t Shawn’s latest hookup but rather an employee. “You’re the one who’s been taking such good care of my son!” At this, she pulled you in for a warm hug, which you happily returned.

“I do what I can,” you said bashfully. “Let me take that for you,” you said, motioning toward the bag on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she replied kindly. You took the bag and set it gently on the desk for her. She went to the bag and opened it, pulling from it a few objects you assumed were meant to make Shawn feel at home. “I couldn’t resist,” she said, indicating the device she had pulled from the bag. “I miss taking care of my boy,” she said in her charming Canadian/British accent. 

“I understand, Mrs. Mendes.”

“Please, (Y/N), call me Karen. We’re on the same team, after all.”

You beamed. “What is that?” you asked as Karen plugged in the device. 

“It’s a diffuser for essential oils,” she responded. “I live by my oils.” You thought you understood, now, where Shawn got his penchant for all things natural.

“I can see why,” you smiled. “I’m never doing laundry without lavender oil again.”

“You like it?” Karen asked, pleased.

“I love it! I couldn’t believe how good the laundry smelled when it came out of the dryer. I did Shawn’s and mine with lavender and I’ll never go back to regular dryer sheets.”

“So you really do Shawn’s laundry?” Karen seemed surprised. “He’s really getting the rockstar treatment now.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. Karen seemed disappointed by this information, and for some reason, the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint her. “Part of the job,” you muttered uncomfortably.

Karen sensed something was wrong. “Don’t get me wrong!” she said apologetically. “I often do Shawn’s laundry back home. I just worry about him,” she confessed. “This has been his life for so long,” she indicated the ritzy hotel room, “I worry about how we’re going to keep him grounded. You hear so much about the other child stars, I sometimes think that if they did their own laundry, they wouldn’t turn out so...” She trailed off, but you knew what she meant.

“I don’t think you have to worry about Shawn,” you replied in the most reassuring voice you could muster. “He seems really humble.”

Karen didn’t answer right away, distracted by the tiny bottles of oils she was pulling from her bag. You wondered what they were each supposed to do, and thought learning about essential oils might be the next task to keep you busy on a long bus ride. 

“Seems humble?” she finally asked. “What do you mean?” She looked up at the mirror above the desk to your reflection, and it felt, somehow, as though she were looking right through you.

“Well, I just mean,” you stammered, “that it always looks like he puts everyone else first. It doesn’t ever look like he thinks he’s the center of the universe. Which is pretty impressive, considering this tour is all about him, really.”

“Does he put you before himself?”

Your stomach did a flip. How could you explain your friendship-that-wasn’t-a-real-friendship to Shawn’s mom? 

“I think he would,” you replied uncomfortably, “if we ever talked to each other.” There. It wasn’t quite a lie - you’d never had a conversation with Shawn. Only notes written on scraps of hotel paper, passed back and forth between you via the pockets of jeans and the lining of bags. “I work sort of in the background,” you finished lamely. “I’ve never actually met Shawn.”

At this admission, Karen turned to face you. “I know,” she replied. “I just don’t know why.”

This would be harder to explain, but you found yourself trying anyway. “To be honest, I’m not sure there’s a really good reason anymore,” you started. “When we left for Amsterdam, I asked Andrew - he’s my boss - to hold off on introducing me to Shawn. I wanted to spend some time observing him to get to know him first. Shawn seemed like the type of guy who would go out of his way to take care of other people, and, well, it’s my job to take care of him. I think that would make him uncomfortable, and ultimately make my job harder.”

Karen nodded her head in understanding. “You’re right about that,” she admitted. “But what about now?”

You had to think about this one. You had observed Shawn enough by now to be able to anticipate his needs and wants pretty well. He knew you existed, and he knew you were the one who followed him around, packing and unpacking his luggage, washing his clothes, shopping for him, prepping the green rooms at stadiums across Europe. He’d hinted in today’s note that he wanted to meet you. “I guess it just seems easier this way,” you said lamely, knowing this wasn’t a real answer. 

“He talks about you, you know,” Karen said, catching you completely off-guard. Your head snapped up to meet her eyes, the eyes you’d been avoiding as you answered her question. “He tells us about the things you’ve done for him.” You could feel your cheeks heat up. “You’ll have to give me that tea recipe, he went on and on about it. Said it was a miracle.”

“I can write it down for you,” you said, happy for the change in subject.

“Just text it to me,” she said. “You have my number, right?” You nodded. “I do hope you’ll use it.”

You knew why Shawn loved his mom so much. It was true that he probably couldn’t get away with anything around her; she was too smart, too observant. But despite the fact that she could apparently see right through you, she didn’t push. She told you just enough to let you know she knew there was more to your story, but didn’t pry or make you feel bad about holding back. You knew she would listen if - when - you wanted to talk.

 ---------------------------------------------------

Shawn was on a high unlike any other when he finally crashed in his hotel room that night. The show had been as perfect as a show could get, and his parents had been there to see it for the first time. They’d had an incredible dinner together, and he’d hugged on both of his parents enough to satisfy him for the next month on tour. He fell into his bed, grinning from ear to ear. What a night.

He was almost too distracted to notice that he didn’t get a reply from you. He went to sleep wondering where he would find your next note.

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: One curse word

AN: Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

“If everything in your house had to be one color, what would you pick?” Shawn was picking at his guitar while Brian played FIFA on the PS4 they’d hooked up in Shawn’s hotel room. To Brian, the question came out of nowhere.

“Huh?” Brian asked, keeping his attention on the game.

“You know, like if everything in your house had to all be the same color, what color would it be?” Shawn asked again.

“I don’t know, blue I guess,” said Brian noncommittally.

“Blue, really?” asked Shawn incredulously. “I think I would get tired of that.”

“Maybe,” said Brian, “but who the fuck cares?” he turned his attention back to the game.

 “It’s just a question,” said Shawn, pseudo-defensively.

“Where in the world did it come from?”

Shawn momentarily contemplated telling Brian about the stack of notes he had saved, shoved into a journal where he wrote down song lyrics that flitted into his head day and night. About how a stranger - a mystery woman - had captured his attention with the witty notes she’d begun to sign with an X, handwritten in a hybrid of cursive and print with architectural As and cursive Fs that were written lazily, quickly, the effect being that the letter looked backwards. He thought about telling Brian that despite his pride in getting to know everyone on the tour, someone in his entourage had managed to escape his attention. Or maybe, he thought to himself, it’s someone I do know. He thought about the women in his crew, their personalities, whether he’d ever seen their handwriting. But something told him that this woman wasn’t Addison or his stylist Tiffany or the girls in hair and makeup. This woman - who was equal parts witty and thoughtful based on the notes and the way she cared for him - had a humor to her that he hadn’t seen from the women who toured with him. And that’s how he would describe what she’d been doing: caring for him. The tea, the earring solution, the scarf, the most incredible gift she’d given him in Italy, of those moments when he closed his eyes and believed he was in his childhood home. Something about all of this told Shawn that he was missing someone, that he hadn’t been paying as close attention as he’d thought.

“Dude?” Brian asked, finally noticing that Shawn had disappeared inside his head.

“I don’t know,” Shawn said, shaking himself out of his train of thought. “Nowhere I guess.” He wasn’t ready to share this somewhat unconventional friendship with Brian yet. Some part of him wanted to keep her all to himself.

 ---------------------------------------------------

The note was sticking out of a pocket of Shawn’s backpack when you found it just hours before the Barcelona show.

Gray, it said decisively. It’s the only color I can think of that I wouldn’t get tired of, and it comes in a million shades. I would never be able to give up my guitars, though, and they’re all different colors, so I won’t be living in a monochromatic house anytime soon.

And before you go calling me boring (again), I’ll remind you that the point of this game is that I ask questions that will help me figure out who you are. It’s a little unfair. You already know who I am.

You chuckled at this. He was right, you had to admit to yourself. The game was more than a little one-sided.

You finished steaming Shawn’s shirts, knowing he would want to go out after the show tonight, and you thought about his latest question: Where are you from? And I want to know more than just the name of the city. Tell me about your home.

 ---------------------------------------------------

It was never lost on you how incredible the experience of a Shawn Mendes show was. You watched your twelfth show of the tour from the floor with Addison and a few others from the crew. This was your first time to see the show as a member of the audience rather than backstage, and it was unlike anything you’d seen before. The energy of the crowd was infectious, and you found yourself singing loudly along with them, fangirling with the rest, forgetting momentarily that earlier today, you had been folding Shawn’s underwear into drawers in yet another hotel room. If only the surrounding crowd knew. You chuckled to yourself, then let the show carry you away.

 ---------------------------------------------------

When Shawn made his way into the green room after the show, sweat was dripping from every part of him. He grabbed a towel to soak up some of the perspiration - evidence of another adrenaline-pumping performance - and passed through the green room and into his dressing room to shower. As he stood in front of the lighted mirror, toweling off his hair while the shower heated up, he caught sight of a note tucked underneath the corner of his toiletry kit.

The note was the longest yet - almost a page. He leaned against the vanity, unable to resist reading it, when Brian burst through the door. Shawn hastily stuffed the note into his toiletry bag. Luckily, Brian wasn’t the most observant person, so he didn’t notice Shawn’s behavior.

“Hurry up, man!” Brian said excitedly. “We’re going out tonight!”

“Alright!” Shawn laughed with his best friend. “I’m going!”

It wasn’t until hours later, holed up in his Barcelona hotel bed, that Shawn read:

Austin, Texas. It’s not as backwoods-country as people tend to think. We don’t all have thick Southern accents and I’ve never seen anyone ride a horse to work, although once, in high school, someone did bring a pig to first period.

Austin is a huge urban city. We have some of the best food in the world. Maybe I haven’t been as many places as you, but so far, nothing I’ve tasted has beaten what you can find in any of the food trucks on South Congress. Maybe it suggests I’m an indecisive person, but I really can’t think of anything better than fusion food because it’s the best of all the worlds. Give me Kimchi fries from Chi’lantro and a bahn mi from Van’s. Or find me at Whiskey and Fried Chicken Wednesdays at The Peached Tortilla. (That place started as a food truck, too. Maybe I just love food trucks.)

A lot of Texas is flat, but not Austin. Austin is Hill Country. When I was little, my mom would take me to the top of Mount Bonnell (which is less mountain, more hill), and I thought I was standing on the top of the world. We have Lake Travis, bats (look them up), and the most beautiful parks. I learned to ride a bike at Zilker Park, which is this completely incredible piece of land dead in the middle of the city, but when you’re there, you forget that you’re in a city at all (a little like Central Park, in fact, which is near where I live now). I learned to swim in Barton Springs, a massive spring-fed pool that’s the perfect temperature all year long. I went swimming there in the winter once. The water felt ok, but getting out of the water was a totally different story. I’m in no rush to do that again.

Austin is the perfect place to live if - like me - your love of the outdoors is equal to your love of the city. The sunrises are magical, only rivalled by the beauty of sunsets.

But my very favorite thing about Austin is the music. We’re known for it - the Live Music Capital of the World. It’s where Janis Joplin and Stevie Ray Vaughn started. And later, Spoon and Iron & Wine (two of my favorites). It’s everywhere, in every part of our culture. You can hardly go out to dinner most nights of the week without being subjected to some live musician or other.

I grew up surrounded by music. It fills every part of me. Every memory - good and bad - comes with a song attached. And while I don’t have it in me to play or sing or even write, I need to be near it. I guess that’s why I’m here, chasing around a world-famous rockstar while he lives his dream. Folding a rockstar’s underwear is less glamorous than it sounds - but there’s nothing quite like the music. I’d follow it anywhere.

X

P.S. What would you name your boat if you had one?

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: None

AN: Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

Fair enough, you read from Shawn’s latest note. You had just taken a seat at a tiny bistro table at an adorable coffee shop. Addison was still ordering her usual iced coffee, so you had a moment to peak at this note before she sat down with you.

So… The note continued. Male or female?

You rolled your eyes at the most tragically boring question he could’ve asked you, though you couldn’t help but smile. Shawn was sweet to his core, and it didn’t surprise you in the least that he’d played his first question so safe.

You started to brainstorm a snappy retort, but quickly stuffed the note back into your pocket as Addison squeezed her way between tightly-packed tables to reach you.

“So, what are we doing today?” Addison asked, swirling her iced coffee in its tall cup before taking a sip. She had the look of adventure in her eye, and you hated that you were about to disappoint her. It was a beautiful morning in Bologna, Italy, and a rare free day for Shawn.

You had one obligation that you’d put off in Germany: laundry. Both yours and Shawn’s. Even though you very much wanted to head out for a mani/pedi with Addison after coffee, you were going to run back upstairs, gather all of the laundry, and haul it to the nearest laundromat.

“Laundry first,” you said, wincing when Addison’s audible sigh confirmed your fear that she would be disappointed. “But then I’m all yours!” you said cheerily, hoping she would find it in her heart to forgive you.

“I can’t believe you’re going to waste this beautiful day doing laundry.”

“I know. But I can’t put it off any longer. Shawn’s going to run out of clean shirts and start walking around topless across Europe. We can’t have that.”

“No, that would be such a shame,” Addison laughed with you.

“It might actually start riots in the street,” you giggled. “Can you imagine what the fangirls would do?”

“Can you imagine what I would do?” Addison snorted. “I’d tackle him right in front of Andrew.”

You continued laughing through the rest of your coffee, then parted ways. Addison was off to do some shopping, and you promised you’d catch up to her when you’d finished the task at hand.

You headed back upstairs to your hotel room to grab your duffel bag of dirty clothes, then up quite a few more floors to let yourself into Shawn’s room to grab his laundry.

As you stuffed a bag with everything from the famous black skinny jeans to stinky gym shorts, it struck you that you didn’t know what type of laundry detergent Shawn liked. You doubted he cared about the brand, but did he have a preferred scent?

You reached into his closet and pulled out a clean shirt. You inhaled deeply - fully aware of how creepy this would seem if anyone saw you - and tried to pick a scent out of the fabric. It was no use. The clothes had been in and out of suitcases, and hung up in too many strange places to have maintained that fresh laundry smell. You’d have to work on that.

---------------------------------------------------

Andrew’s phone rang as he followed Shawn down a beautiful Italian street. He was surprised to see your name appear on the screen; he’d given you the day off.

“Hello?” he asked. Shawn turned, as though he’d know who was on the line just by looking back at Andrew. He was quickly distracted by Connor, who was pointing out something he saw across the street. If Shawn had listened for a moment longer, he’d have heard a very confused Andrew ask, “Why do you want Shawn’s mom’s number?”

---------------------------------------------------

As luck would have it, you found a nearly deserted laundromat a quick taxi ride from your hotel. You lugged two large duffel bags of dirty clothes into the facility - getting stuck in the doorway - and set to work along a wall of industrial washing machines.

Since no one else was using the machines, you took full advantage. You sorted all of Shawn’s clothes into four washers before stuffing your own clothes into their own machines. It seemed wasteful to wash your clothes separately when there was more than enough room in the giant washers, but it was far too intimate to wash them together.

When the first washing machine you’d started beeped loudly, you jumped up from the row of hard plastic chairs you’d been sprawled across while you read from a recently downloaded iBook. It was time to prepare your newly-discovered secret weapon: essential oils and cotton washcloths.

Before your trip to the laundromat, you had gotten Shawn’s mom’s number from Andrew (you were still impressed by your own cleverness). Karen was surprised to hear from you - Shawn had never mentioned a crew member by your name - but was as sweet as could be when you told her you wanted to make Shawn feel more at home by using whatever laundry detergent she used.

She’d told you her trick for the freshest-smelling laundry: Dry a couple of clean, wet washcloths dotted with half a dozen drops of essential oil. She said that Shawn’s favorite was lavender. The oil smelled so good that you couldn’t resist using it on your laundry as well.

As you pulled Shawn’s clothes out of one dryer after another, folding them neatly and placing them into your bags, you couldn’t resist hugging them to your chest and inhaling the lavender scent. When you caught yourself doing this on his fourth shirt in a row, you shook your head. “Get it together, (Y/N),” you told yourself. “This is getting weird.”

---------------------------------------------------

Today had been one of Shawn’s best days on tour so far. He’d had the whole day to himself - with the exception, of course, of selfies with any fans he met throughout the day.

He enjoyed walking aimlessly around Bologna, stopping at vendors along the street to taste delicious local foods, sip on craft beer, and lay in the sunshine, watching the locals stroll by.

He returned to his hotel room to change before dinner.

As soon as he opened the door, he smelled it - home.

He couldn’t immediately pinpoint why it smelled like home. He walked into the room, overwhelmed by the scent that greeted him, hoping that maybe, just maybe, his mum would be waiting for him to find her.

“Mum?” Shawn called quietly, feeling foolish (albeit hopeful). No one answered. The room was empty.

Disappointed, Shawn walked into the bathroom to turn on the shower. He came back into the room to pull a clean outfit out of his closet. When he slid open the door, the smell of lavender hit him with even more force. Shawn tentatively pulled a soft sweater from the closet and buried his face in it. With his eyes closed, he could pretend his mum had just handed him a basket of fresh laundry. He pictured her at the bottom of the stairs in his childhood home calling up to him to pick up his sneakers from the floor and take his clean clothes upstairs to put away. She would sound stern, but he would always find her smiling when he came down. He loved being on tour, but he missed home, too.

Shawn returned to the bathroom to shower, now more curious than ever to figure out who was taking such good care of him on the road.

It wasn’t until an hour later, just as he was sitting down to dinner with the boys, that Shawn found a note stuffed into the pocket of his freshly-washed jeans. He pretended to look down at his phone under the edge of the table and read:

I’ll give you this one because it’s the first round (I’m a woman), but you’re going to ruin the fun if you keep asking such obvious questions. Come on, Mendes, give me something I can work with.

Your turn: If everything in your house had to be one color, what color would you choose?

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: None

AN: Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

You were reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower for the hundredth time on the back of a tour bus, making your way across Germany. Although you were an almost constant iBook reader, you carried this old, beat-up paperback with you everywhere you went. You had just started a new murder mystery about a flight attendant who wakes up next to a dead man in a luxurious Dubai hotel, but something about the angst in Perks called to you today. Maybe it reflected the angst you were beginning to feel. In fact, you weren’t the only one.

 Homesickness had found a home on the tour.

 Usually, the tour buses were either lively with chatter, movies, and video games, or everyone was asleep. Today was different. No one was asleep, but no one was really socializing either.

 You looked around at the crew on your bus. Everyone’s head was in their phone, scrolling aimlessly through social media. They only looked up to stare blankly out the window as the German countryside passed by, nothing but a blurry streak. The weather outside the window - a hazy, grayish gloom - reflected the mood in the bus.

 You knew Shawn was feeling it, too. He wasn’t on your bus - usually just the innermost inner circle travelled directly with Shawn. Andrew would have liked for you to be on his bus, but you’d managed to avoid the inevitable so far. 

You’d seen Shawn step off the bus when you’d all pulled over at a rest stop to take a break from endless miles on the road. He wasn’t boisterous like you were used to; he was subdued, leaning against the side of the giant bus and staring into the distance at nothing in particular. Even Brian couldn’t get much reaction out of him.

 Shawn hit a nearby gym the moment you arrived in Munich. This suited you perfectly; you were anxious to get him unpacked before he went up to his hotel room.

 You were still in a funk as you unpacked Shawn’s large suitcase, going through the motions without putting much thought into what you were doing.

 You were on such intense autopilot that you almost missed the note that fell out of Shawn’s bag as you pulled his cotton tee shirts from their neatly folded stack. You picked up the wrinkled piece of paper, haphazardly torn from a notepad, and read: 

You were right about the croissant, so I’m not going to doubt you anymore. You smirked smugly at this admission. I’d ask who you are again, but I don’t think you’ll answer. I do have some questions for you. So I’ll make you a deal: Answer my questions and I’ll figure out who you are by myself.

 I’m Shawn, by the way, he’d written at the bottom of the torn page. It’s nice to meet you.

 Maybe it was the fact that this was the first time you’d smiled in 24 hours. Maybe your brain was fried from breathing in recycled tour bus air for the last 18 hours. Maybe, just this once, you were ignoring the practical part of your brain that warned against befriending your client.

 Whatever the cause, you left your note on Shawn’s nightstand before you could change your mind.

 Questions sounds a little indefinite - so for every question you ask, you have to answer one of mine. May the odds be ever in your favor.

 You signed your note with an X.

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

AN: I’m blown away by the reception to this story that I love so much! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist. :)

Warnings: None

You hated to be a cliché, but Paris was one of the cities you’d been most excited to visit. You looked forward to strolling along the Seine River, staring out across the city from the top deck of the Eiffel Tower during the day, and staring up at it while it lit up the Parisian night. But more than anything else, you had been dreaming about trying all of the delicious French pastries you’d seen on all of your favorite cooking shows.

 Shawn’s notorious sweet tooth gave you more than enough reason to spend most of your time in Paris visiting innumerable pâtisseries. You had been planning your outings around the different pastries you wanted to try and the ones you thought Shawn would want.

 Your stroll along the Seine was even better than you could have imagined; you munched on the freshest macaron you’d ever tasted while you walked the river’s edge. You sipped a glass of wine at a nearby cafe, watching the sun dip below the horizon. You never missed a show of Shawn’s, but tonight you couldn’t help but push to the limit of your time away from the rest of the crew in order to take in this magnificent view.

 You finally tore yourself away from the best day you’d had on tour so far. You picked up your bags of French pastries and headed to the AccorHotels Arena in a taxi.

 “Where have you been?” Addison asked you, nudging your side as you ran in to catch up with her and the group. They’d already been at the venue for hours because of sound check.

 “Shopping,” you replied, holding up your bags.

 “That must’ve been nice,” she said snarkily. You thought she might only be half kidding.

 “I was shopping for Shawn,” you said, feeling a little guilty about the fun you’d had running around the most beautiful city you’d ever seen. “You know sweets are his favorite.”

 Addison eyed you up and down, but then she let herself smile. “You’d better have something in there for me.”.

 “I do!” you said brightly, digging into one of your bags and pulling out a box of brightly-colored macarons like the one you’d tasted by the river.

 “Ooooh,” Addison moaned, “you know me so well.”

 “That I do,” you laughed, then broke away from the crowd to make your way toward Shawn’s dressing room so you could set up a pastry bar for Shawn and the crew.

 You flattened yourself against a wall to let Shawn, surrounded by his usual group, pass. Shawn was caught up in a conversation they were having and didn’t seem to notice you as he walked past. Luckily, the boys turned right, heading away from the dressing rooms into another part of the arena for the Q&A. You hurried left, your heart racing at the close call you’d just had. Writing notes was one thing; you still weren’t sure you wanted to meet Shawn just yet. He made you nervous, though you weren’t quite sure why. Being in the music business, you’d met many other celebrities before. But something about Shawn was more intimidating, even though he was nice to everyone he met. You shook your head, clearing it of those thoughts, You had a job to do, and you were determined to do it well.

 Your pastry table was a sight to behold. You laid a watercolor-print tablecloth down on a long table in the outer dressing room. You’d seen it in a shop window and couldn’t resist picking it up; it reminded you of the aesthetics of the tour. You then lined the table with the many delectable goodies you’d collected.  Even though you’d snacked all day, it was hard to resist grabbing another sweet from the table.

 You cautiously walked through the door that you knew led to Shawn’s personal dressing room. You’d handpicked a few pastries just for him.

 You laid out a éclair au chocolat, a handful of small petit fours in a mix of chocolate and raspberry, and lastly, a pistachio chocolate escargot from Du Pain et des Idées. The last thing you pulled from your bag was a note that you’d written while you sat drinking wine next to the river. You placed it underneath the snail-shaped croissant on the far right of the tray of pastries, the corner sticking out just enough to hopefully catch Shawn’s eye.

 ---------------------------------------------------

 Shawn was feeling good about how the Q&A had gone, but he couldn’t help think back over every answer as he made his way back into his dressing room to prepare for the Paris show. It was impossible to tell how the media (and the fans) would interpret any given response. Tonight’s questions had been pretty straightforward and innocent, but Shawn had enough experience to know that sometimes even those led to rumors and scandal.

 The first thing he noticed in his dressing room was the pastry tray laid across the vanity. He grabbed the chocolate éclair without a thought, shoving it into his mouth as he busied himself taking off his Q&A outfit and getting ready for the concert. He set the éclair down to try something else, and scrunched his nose up at the swirly croissant with suspicious green filling. He wasn’t about to try that one. He nibbled instead on a raspberry petit four, then finished getting ready for the show.

 ---------------------------------------------------

 Shawn was practically bouncing off the walls as he made his way back into his dressing room after the show. The crowd had been spectacular and given back every bit of effort and energy as he’d given them. It was a perfect night.

 As he grabbed his things and threw them haphazardly into his bag, he took another look at the pastry tray he’d left sitting on the vanity. He hated to leave sweets behind. He grimaced once again at the croissant sitting on the far right of the tray. Whoever left this didn’t know him at all; that definitely didn’t look like something he would ever eat.

 He picked up the tray anyway, shrugging and thinking he would give the gross-looking green thing to Brian. Brian would eat anything.

 That was when Shawn noticed the note that was hidden underneath the tray. He recognized the handwriting right away.

 The only thing I can’t handle, the latest note said, is how amazing the pistachio chocolate escargot is. Don’t let the name fool you - it only looks like a snail. It doesn’t actually have snail in it. And I know you won’t want to try it. But trust me on this one.

 Shawn couldn’t help but smile as he read. The writer was right - he didn’t want to try the croissant. He held it up to his nose, sniffing cautiously. He dramatically expected something rotten, but the smell was actually pretty enticing. He took the most tentative of bites at the flaky croissant. All that broke off was bread, which he had to admit, was one of the better croissants he’d had. Feeling more brave, he bit deeper into the pastry, into the swirl of green.

 He was surprised at the flavor that burst onto his tongue. Pistachio? And chocolate? Shawn would never have put the two together. He didn’t like pistachio ice cream, he’d tried it at a fancy restaurant in Berlin. But something about this croissant had his mouth watering. The croissant was soft, buttery, and flaky, and the pistachio-chocolate filling was a masterful combination of savory and sweet with a hint of almond. It was one of the best pastries Shawn had ever had.

 Shawn walked out of the dressing room, his guitar strapped to his back and another bag slung across his shoulders. He held his phone in one hand and what was left of the snail-shaped croissant in his other hand. As he bit once again into the delicious crust, a small smile on his face, he began to plan his next note.

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: None

AN: I’m so sorry for the delay in this chapter! I had to take a break, but I’m back and more inspired by this story than ever :) Let me know if you’d like for me to make a taglist for this fic!

The tea worked like magic; Shawn had woken up in Denmark feeling like his old, energetic self. His Copenhagen show had been his best in days.

It was when you were packing up his room, preparing to leave for Germany, that you noticed a note scribbled on the hotel pad next to his bed. You ignored it at first, half assuming it was nothing and half afraid of prying. Your curiosity got the best of you, and you couldn’t help but glance at the note as you used the bed to fold a pile of clothes from the dresser.

To your surprise, the note was written to you. Thanks for the tea, it said in Shawn’s messy print. I feel a million times better.

You shoved the note in your pocket, cheeks red, while you finished packing Shawn’s things.

When you arrived in Köln, your first task after exiting the bus was to run to a piercing shop to buy a bottle of cleaning solution for a new piercing. If you weren’t mistaken, Shawn’s new helix piercing was becoming infected. He was playing with the earring more than usual, and the top of his ear looked red.

Your stop was fruitless; the shop didn’t sell solution, and instead gave you directions for how to make your own. After checking two translator websites to ensure you got the right ingredients, you headed to tonight’s hotel to get to work settling Shawn in.

This part of your day was easy; you tried to put Shawn’s things away in the same places, no matter how different each room was. You always placed his boxer briefs in the top dresser drawer, followed by his soft undershirts, and lastly, his socks. At the beginning of the tour, you’d put the undershirts on bottom, but Shawn tended to stuff unworn socks into the bottom drawer, and you'd since adjusted accordingly. Being a good handler was all in the details.

In the closet, you hung up an array of skinny jeans (black and blue), v-neck shirts, then sweaters, then jackets. You lined his boots up along the floor of the closet, polishing each one thoroughly before placing it carefully in its spot next to the others.

You moved into the bathroom, sorting items from his toiletry kit between the counter and shower. The room began to smell of bergamot and hints of leather - scents you’d begun to associate with Shawn.

Your last task in the bathroom was to mix Shawn’s earring solution. It was a simple recipe of warm water and a special sea salt.

You placed a new package of lint-free Q-tips next to the nondescript bottle of solution you had concocted on Shawn’s bedside table. You picked up a pen and pad, perched on the side of the bed, and scrawled, For your earring, when it’s bothering you. 

———————————————————————

Shawn found another note, and another solution to a problem he had. (This problem was barely on his radar, but as he read the note, he caught himself twisting his earring unconsciously. It stung.)

Shawn’s response read, I want to thank you again, but a note to Anonymous seems so impersonal after you practically saved my life with that tea, and now the earring. Who am I thanking?

It took you until France to respond. You held onto Shawn’s note for 300 miles, and for every mile, you’d come up with a new reason to ignore his question.

You told yourself that you hid from Shawn because you wanted him to act naturally around you so that you could better do your job.

Professionalism was important to you, and you didn’t need a relationship with your client in order to do your job. As you approached Paris, you began to realize that this wasn’t true; had it not been for the trust you’d built with Jeffy J Menace, you’d never have gotten him through the tour. He had come to rely on you because of the relationship you’d built over time and many, many hours together.

It was for this reason that you’d finally left a short message on Shawn’s bedside table.

I’m your handler.

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: None

By the time you got to Sweden, Shawn’s cold had turned into a full-blown sinus infection. He was on a round of antibiotics, and while the medicine seemed to be helping, it was obvious that Shawn was miserable.

He was spending more time resting on the bus or in his hotel room than you’d been used to. In fact, you’d hardly seen him.

In some ways, that was a good thing; it made it easier to get out to execute Shawn’s riders when you didn’t feel like you were missing out on moments where you might better learn your client. In other ways, you felt - and you did your best to ignore this, but there was no other way to put it - you missed him.

It was impossible not to be caught up in the magic that was Shawn Mendes. He was charismatic and funny, not to mention gorgeous (there, you admitted it). But as you spent more and more time in his orbit, you saw that he was, in fact, as kind as everyone said. He was thoughtful and attentive to his friends, and put everyone else before himself. You could tell he was genuinely interested in all of the people in his circle. And the circle definitely felt it when Shawn wasn’t himself. It seemed like Shawn’s sickness had infected everyone - even Brian wasn’t as energetic as you were used to, and nothing ever seemed to slow him down.

Your mom noticed it, too. When you FaceTimed her from the tour bus, just a few miles outside Stockholm, she immediately knew something was wrong.

“I’m not unhappy on the road,” you insisted. “It’s just that Shawn’s been sick for days, and everybody is feeling it. We’ve all been pretty bummed.”

“Is there anything you can do?” your mom asked. She knew how much you hated to feel out of control when something was going wrong.

“I’ve tried everything! I’ve been buying him warmer clothes, getting him medicine, he’s seen a doctor. He’s getting better, but it feels like it’s taking forever,” you said exasperatedly.

Your mom paused thoughtfully. “What about Nana’s tea?”

You sat bolt upright in your seat, slapping yourself in the forehead. You couldn’t believe you’d forgotten your grandmother’s miracle tea recipe. She’d made it for you every time you’d gotten sick when you were a little girl, and it always made you feel better.

“Mom, you’re a genius!”

After thanking your mom profusely and hanging up, you began searching on your phone for stores near your next hotel. You had some shopping to do when you arrived in Stockholm.

———————————————————————

It was customary for you to check Shawn and the crew into each hotel prior to their arrival. The roadies would bring the luggage up to the rooms, and then one of the most important parts of your job began: prepping Shawn’s room.

Back in New York, Andrew had explained to you that he wanted Shawn to feel at home in every city he visited. A big part of this, he’d said, was the luggage: he didn’t want Shawn to have to unpack and repack his suitcase each day.

You’d been doing this for weeks, but it still felt strange and a little voyeuristic to unpack Shawn’s clothes every day. You tried not to think about it while you were putting his black boxer briefs carefully into a drawer. You pulled your hand from the drawer quickly, ignoring the warmth that blossomed pink in your cheeks.

You lingered at the large window that looked out on Stockholm. The sun was disappearing behind the tall buildings that broke up the horizon. You could see the Baltic Sea sparkling orange below. It was unlike anything you’d ever seen.

“Let’s go, (Y/N),” you muttered to yourself. You knew you only had so much time to finish up in Shawn’s room before he would arrive. The boys had all gone to dinner, but you knew Shawn wouldn’t stay out late; he needed plenty of rest before tomorrow night’s show.

You only had one more thing to do before you could call it a night and go to your own hotel room. You opened the brown grocery sack you’d brought up from the small grocery you’d stopped in on your way here.

You filled a tea steeper with a blend of lavender tea and the special herbs your Nana taught you to use. You placed the steeper in a large mug and placed it under the hotel room’s coffee maker. Everything was ready to go - but how am I going to get Shawn to make it? you thought to yourself. You certainly couldn’t brew it now; it would be cold by the time Shawn came up.

You looked around the room for inspiration. There was a pad and pen sitting on top of the desk near the window. You grabbed them and sat on the edge of Shawn’s bed, but then you hesitated.

If I leave a note, you thought, then he’ll know I was here. But surely he must know that somebody preps his hotel room every day.

You couldn’t think of any other way to make sure Shawn got the tea he needed, so you quickly scrawled a note, tore the page from the notepad, and left it on Shawn’s pillow.

———————————————————————

Shawn never thought he’d be so happy to lock himself into an empty hotel room before 9:00 pm, but he was. He was exhausted even though he’d slept on the bus for most of the day, and he couldn’t wait to fall into the plush white bed that awaited him.

As he pulled off his shirt and threw it to the floor, a note on his pillow caught his eye. He picked up the paper, forgetting momentarily about his clothes.

“Just add water,” he read aloud. “You’ll feel better by morning…” He looked on the back of the paper for further explanation, but it was blank. “Just add water?” he repeated, brows furrowed in confusion. He looked around the room, but didn’t see any other notes.

He went into the bathroom and took quick stock of the contents of the counter and shower. He didn’t see anything but his usual toiletries lined up neatly on the counter.

He walked back out into the suite, where his eye finally landed on the coffee bar. A large mug sat, ready to be filled.

Shawn picked up the mug and looked inside to find a tea steeper filled with something that smelled wonderful. He pressed the coffee maker’s On button, then turned around to finish getting ready for bed.

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

 Warnings: None

 You’d thought the night at the club was an indicator of the level of partying that would happen on this tour - but you’d been wrong.

 The crew did enjoy a good time, but the last few nights had been much more low-key, especially as the almost-constant traveling began. Three shows after the first, you’d been in four cities in a week, and fatigue had begun to set in.

 No one was more tired than Shawn. He began to show signs of a cold, although he tried to hide them. You felt bad for him - when you were tired, you could go back to the hotel and crash early. But Shawn was the center of gravity of the crew. He was constantly surrounded, and he didn’t seem willing to ask for a break.

 Behind the scenes, you’d been supplying over-the-counter cold medicine and any remedies you thought might help. In Oslo while you were out picking up a few things for Shawn at Andrew’s request, the window display of a department store caught your eye.

 You went into the store to take a closer look at the display of beautiful scarves laid out on a table. You ran your hand over the rainbow of choices, amazed by how soft the fabric was beneath your fingertips. You pulled one from the table, a lush charcoal gray, and looped it around your neck. The fabric was softer than anything you’d ever touched, and you felt warm and cozy with it wrapped around you. On a whim, you picked up two more - black and a navy the color of the night sky - and took them to the register.

  Shawn wasn’t much of a scarf-wearer, so he was surprised to find a charcoal gray scarf laid out on his bed when he returned to the hotel after sound check to get a couple of hours rest before the next show got under way. He picked it up to move it off the bed so he could lay down, and was surprised at how unbelievably soft the fabric was against his skin. He laid the scarf across his pillow and fell asleep with his cheek pressed against it.

 A few short hours later, Shawn was sitting atop a box in front of a group of lucky fans for one of his favorite parts of the show: the Q&A.

 He loved getting to interact with them, and answered all of the questions they had.

 The telltale signs of Shawn’s impending illness must have been apparent because one sweet fan asked if he was taking care of himself.

 “Do I remember to take care of myself? “he repeated. “I do,” Shawn smiled, picking up the scarf, “that’s why I have this scarf.”

 You beamed with pride; you took your work very seriously, and were thrilled to hear, straight from your client’s mouth, that he appreciated your efforts.

 You allowed yourself, only for the briefest moment, to imagine that it was your arms wrapped around Shawn’s neck.

Can someone help me find the video from the Q&A where a fan asks Shawn if he’s taking care of himself and he says yeah, he’s got the scarf?

I need it for my next fic.

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: None

Shawn’s adrenaline rushed as he exited the stage. He had just finished the first show of the tour, and the roar of the audience was deafening, even as it followed him down the long hallway back to his dressing room.

His team surrounded him, cheering, clapping, patting him on the back, and hugging him as best they could as they all celebrated an unforgettable night. The fans had been more incredible than ever. Shawn was so wound up, he didn’t think he’d sleep for days.

You watched the celebration, finding yourself almost as swept up in the excitement as everyone else. This was the first time you’d seen Shawn Mendes perform, and he had been intoxicating. Despite the enormous size of the arena, Shawn had somehow made the experience feel intimate; there were moments you could swear he was singing just to you.

You were curious to see what would happen next. It was clear no one was in the mood to go back to the hotel and go to sleep.

Brian was taking control of the afterparty. “I got the name of a club from one of the guys here that sounds pretty sick,” he was saying.

“Let’s go!” several of the group cheered, Shawn included.

“But first,” Shawn added, “I need a shower.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty ripe,” Ziggy laughed, pushing his shoulder playfully into Shawn’s.

The group disbanded pretty quickly, grabbing their things and getting ready to head back to the hotel to freshen up.

———————-———————-———————-

An hour later, you were sitting in a booth at the edge of a large Amsterdam nightclub, enjoying watching Shawn and his entourage celebrate an incredible night. Everyone was drinking, dancing, and laughing.

You weren’t in the thick of things, but you didn’t feel left out; you weren’t much of a club girl anyway.

“What do you think of life on the road so far?” Addison Kemper asked you as she slid into the bench across from you.

Addison was Shawn’s tour coordinator, and the two of you were becoming friends. It was easy to make friends on the road, when you were around the same people all day, every day.

You had to tear your eyes away from your crew to answer. “It’s unreal,” you smiled. “I can’t believe I’m here. And in Amsterdam!”

“...following Shawn Mendes around like a puppy dog!” she added playfully.

“That too!” you laughed. “I’m having a hard time believing this will be the next nine months of my life,” you said, gesturing around.

“Believe me, it won’t always be this fun,” Addison said honestly. “You’ll start to miss home soon enough.”

“I miss my mom,” you replied. “I didn’t leave much else behind.” Addison looked at you questioningly. “I had just barely graduated college when Andrew sent me on tour with Jeffy J Menace. I literally dumped the boxes from my dorm at my mom’s house and took off. I’ve barely been home since.”

The two of you lapsed into comfortable silence and watched the rest of the tour group party on the dance floor.

Your eyes gravitated toward Shawn, who was dancing - not well, you thought to yourself. He was doing something between bouncing and shuffling side to side, but mostly he was drinking a glass of whatever amber liquid Brian had handed him. It wasn’t his first glass, you noted, and you winced inwardly thinking about how Shawn would feel in the morning if he kept up this pace.

Shawn was soon joined on the dance floor by a group of young women. You could tell they had recognized him. None of them seemed to mind the awkwardness of his dance moves.

Shawn clearly enjoyed the attention, and you and Addison giggled as you watched them all vie to get closest to him, some seeming more desperate than others.

It was when another woman joined the group, a beautiful brunette with legs almost as long as Shawn’s, that something stirred in your stomach. She easily stole Shawn’s attention from the rest of the girls. The feeling in your stomach intensified as you watched Shawn put his hands on the brunette’s hips and pull her close to him.

“Do you want to get out of here?” you asked, turning back to Addison. “I have a few stops to make before I go back to the hotel.”

—————————————————-

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: None

AN: A rider is a set of requests or demands that a performer sets as part of a performance contract.

Handler. That was the official title listed at the top of your contract with AG Talent.

You didn’t feel like your new assignment matched up with the traditional job description of celebrity handler because you wouldn’t actually be doing much interacting with your new celebrity client.

The type of celebrity handling you’d done in the past involved you being basically glued to your client’s side, making sure they were where they were supposed to be and had what they needed at all times, among many other things.

Your boss, Andrew Gertler, had  just assigned you to Shawn Mendes: The Tour. But he would be the one interfacing with Shawn day in and day out over nine months of shows in countless countries across the world. Andrew had told you that you would be doing more behind-the-scenes work, prepping hotel rooms, dressing rooms, buses, and other accommodations, making sure Shawn felt at home the moment he arrived in every city. You were more than ok with this arrangement; the idea of a tour as big as this one overwhelmed you, and the introvert in you wouldn’t mind staying in the background while Andrew handled the star.

It was your introverted nature that made it easy for you to go unnoticed during the hustle and bustle of travel across the Atlantic Ocean to Amsterdam, where the European leg of the tour would soon begin. Andrew had asked to introduce you to Shawn several times, but you asked that he hold off. Shawn would be more himself if he didn’t know you were hanging around trying to learn him. So far, he’d shown himself to be pretty low-maintenance, but you were beginning to get some ideas for how to make him feel at home in Amsterdam.

While Shawn and his entourage kept busy with rehearsals, you observed from the sidelines, trying to get a feel for the types of things he would like. You noticed things about your clients that most others didn’t because people were a hobby to you, and this was the quality that made you so valuable to Andrew in the first place. You much preferred waiting in the wings to being in the spotlight, and you found people fascinating. You spent time watching your clients’ actions and habits until you could predict what they might want before they wanted it.

You quickly noted that while Shawn was full of magnetic energy and was the obvious center of attention, there was also a quietness to him. People gravitated toward him, but you often noticed him pulling away from the crowd and into himself. Even though you’d seen the show during rehearsals and it would be a high-energy experience, everything else about the tour was dedicated to chill, cozy vibes and creating a feeling of intimacy despite the large venues.

His riders were fairly simple to carry out, and showed Shawn to be health-conscious, but also a man who loved to snack, especially on muffins. You made it your mission to hunt down the best muffins in every city you visited on the tour.

You had just returned from B&B Lunchroom with today’s muffin haul. You had to admit, the blueberry muffins looked incredible and smelled even better. You arranged them in a basket with the rest of Shawn’s snacks and then made yourself scarce when you heard Shawn and the usual crowd that surrounded him coming down the hallway.

The smell of fresh-baked blueberry muffins led Shawn down the long hallway to his dressing room. He followed his nose to the snack table and found a basket overflowing with his favorite treat. They were still hot, and he couldn’t resist picking one up off the stack and biting into it, savoring its warmth.

Brian was close behind him.

“You have to try one of these,” Shawn said as he swallowed another bite.

“You say that about every muffin,” Brian joked.

“Not true,” Shawn protested. “These muffins are the best.”

“You say that about almost every muffin.”

“No I don’t!,” he countered as he reached for a second muffin.

Shawn allowed himself to fall back (a long way, you noted from the doorway in which you stood) into a comfortable-looking chair.

“And even if I did,” he continued, “these muffins are better than all those other muffins. Maybe the best in the world.” A satisfied grin crossed his face, and he relaxed further into the chair in order to better savor the muffin.

Can’t Handle You | Masterlist

Warnings: None

AN: Jeffy J Menace is a fictional artist. A rider is a set of requests or demands that a performer sets as part of a performance contract.

Handler. That was the official title listed at the top of your contract with AG Talent.

You’d had an internship at AG during your senior year of college, and after proving to be an asset to the team, had been hired on after graduation. You’d just finished a short tour with Jeffy J Menace, a hip hop artist AG represented. The venues were small and the riders were fairly easy to carry out. Jeff was gaining popularity, but he didn’t yet garner A-List treatment. That’s why you’d been assigned to him in the first place; you were both just starting your careers.

Jeff surprised everyone when he turned out to be a bigger diva than his popularity warranted. You’d surprised everyone when you managed to keep Jeff’s ego - and his excessive partying - in check, while still keeping him happy.

It was your attention to detail and grace under fire that had led Andrew Gertler, head of AG Artists, to call you into his office shortly after you returned home to New York.

“Hi (Y/N), welcome back,” he said warmly, shaking your hand. You smiled shyly. Andrew was no stranger to you - AG Artists was a small, tightly-knit team - but it was the first time you’d seen him in person since Jeff’s tour ended.

“It’s good to be back,” you replied.

“Please, have a seat,” Andrew gestured to the chairs across his desk. You perched on the edge of your chair, iPad and Apple Pencil in hand, ready to take notes.

“Tell me how you think the tour went.”

You hesitated, only momentarily, before responding. “Jeff is really talented,” you said optimistically, “the crowds really went for him.” Andrew raised an eyebrow. “And he settled down, in the end.” You smiled bashfully.

“You settled him down,” Andrew corrected. “You didn’t even tell me everything that happened, but I heard about it. From what I can tell, you were the real rockstar on that tour.”

You looked down at your lap, feeling your cheeks redden.

Prologue｜Chapter 1｜

Chapter 2｜Chapter 3 ｜

Chapter 4 ｜ Chapter 5 ｜

Chapter 6｜Chapter 7 ｜

Chapter 8 ｜Chapter 9 ｜

Epilogue: Perfect (Masterlist)

Warnings: None

Note: Italics are song lyrics

AN: This is the Shawn Mendes x reader AU teenage heartbreak story you didn’t know you needed.

It was momentarily quiet except for the sound of Lake Ontario’s waves lapping against the shore and the chatter of guests. Shawn had just kissed your head, excusing himself to go to the restroom.

You sat contentedly at a long table, looking happily out at all of the people you loved and who were part of your and Shawn’s story. Shade, now six years old, sat chatting happily next to you. He looked adorably handsome in his little tux. You reached over and ruffled his hair lovingly.

On Shade’s other side, Tori sat holding a giggling two-year-old girl. Just as Shade looked like a carbon copy of Shawn, she was undoubtedly a miniature you, from her bright blue eyes to her wild blonde waves. You had named her Story Aaliyah Mendes. Shawn had come up with Story, in honor of Tori, who had been such an instrumental source of support in yours and Shade’s life without him.

The sound of a single guitar chord caught your attention. You turned to look in the direction of the sound to find Shawn standing alone on the stage where the band had been playing minutes earlier.

You didn’t know what he was up to, but you could guess.