As soon as the words left his mouth, you saw embarrassment flicker through his features at the perceived confession. You feel a warm smile pull up the corners of your mouth. 

You let your tongue dart out to wet your bottom lip before responding. “Good. I don’t either.” Relief seemed to pass over him a few seconds before he swallowed. Hard. 

“And what would you want to do instead?” His tone had dropped, and the implication heated you up.

“I can think of a few ideas.” You had smiled coyly as he shifted his attention to you, eager to hear what you’re going to suggest. “We could look up the current stock rates. Book tickets to the next football match. Get botox.” Andrew barked out a laugh at the uncharacteristic, decidedly unsexy slew of activities and cocked his brow. 

“Think you wouldn’t mind more time with me?”

“I suppose you’ll do.” You’d let out a small giggle at the end, not being able to keep up the pretense of the joke for very long. 

Which is what leads you to getting into his car, a luxe model that has to be a current release, and what leads your stomach to erupt in butterflies. 

You hadn’t really thought it would get this far, you and Andrew. Had worried he would go out with you once, out of respect for the mutual friend who connected you, and then would send polite text that read something like: It was lovely to meet you, but I’ve got a lot on at the moment, what with being a world-famous rockstar. Try Dave down at the pub. He seems more your speed. Good luck! 

No, of course it wouldn’t have been quite so ridiculous, but still. You hadn’t expected much, especially not a second date. A lovely second date spent walking around the wild paths of County Wicklow together. Or a third date, one that had come via a text that said Just got back in country. Free for dinner? A simple, perfect, pub dinner that somehow morphed to this. 

After leaving the pub, you had made out in his car like a couple of teenagers in the parking lot. Windows steamed and all. The back door to the pub had slammed closed and you both jumped back, breaking the intensity. It was the staff, heading out for the evening. Sheepishly, he’d looked at you and said, “Suppose we’d best get going?” You had reluctantly nodded, thinking now was the time you’d part for the night. As he clicked over the engine, you felt your stomach drop. 

Putting your hand on his thigh, you had felt his muscles tighten in response to your touch. “I…” Andrew turned his gaze to you. Looking into your eyes. You loved this about him, you had decided immediately upon meeting him. You loved that when you spoke, he listened. Gave you his full attention. He doesn’t put the car in gear. “I don’t want this to stop.” You say the words in a rush, similar to him from just a little bit ago. You let your hand slowly skirt up higher. His eyes darken, and with one nod, he’s pulling out of the parking lot and heading in a direction that is definitely not yours. 

The ride is short and silent, but the tension had pulled it to feeling like forever. Your hand had stayed on his thigh, not going further but not going lower either. He seemed to like it there. Your thoughts swirled with the recent sensations of his lips on yours, his hands desperate to touch your skin. His breath, warm in your ear as he panted out the words, “Fucking hell. You are so beautiful. God, I want you all over me.” In the midst of the good, though, comes the bad. Self-doubt and self-consciousness creep in and threaten to overwhelm you. This couldn’t be happening, could it? He couldn’t want this could he? And what did it matter, it was probably just a fluke one-off anyways.  

You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you don’t notice the car stopping outside a stunning home, tucked away up a long drive. Gathering up your bits and opening the car door, you’re about to step down when Andrew steps up and fills the space. He’s standing so close you can feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of him. His scent – peppery cologne mixed with the malted barley of the pub – combines with the fresh night air and you inhale deeply. His eyes, getting wilder by the moment, scan you from head to toe. You look up at him with a look of rawness, and you know the fear and insecurity has reached your eyes when he takes your face in his hand and rubs his thumb on your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. The look he shares with you – full of longing, reverence, and something else tied up – is enough.

He leans in close, pressing kisses along your temple, to your jaw, down your neck. Might seem like sweet kisses to an observer, but they wouldn’t feel the heat or the pressure. Wouldn’t feel the searing promise in the kisses saying this is only the start. He stops just an inch above the top curve of your breast and when he tilts his head up to whisper, you feel the warmth of arousal that’s been pooling turn molten. 

“Going to need to get you inside, love, otherwise I’m going to fuck you right here.” His eyes, usually an intricate hazel, are almost black thanks to the dark evening and his own building need. The words sound rough and thick, which instantly winds up your core tightly. “In the car. Against the car. On the ground. I’m not picky, but if you don’t want that, we’d best go inside the house.” You nod, once, then over and over, as he takes your hand in his and leads you through his front door. 

You assume you’ll make your way to his bedroom or maybe the living room, but apparently Andrew wasn’t exaggerating. As soon as the front door clicks shut behind you and he’s fastened the locks, he pins you against it and is kissing you again. 

And somehow, the kissing in the car seems like nothing compared to this. That was rushed and nervous; this is steady and sure, building to a feverpitch as you frantically squeeze your thighs together. Andrew’s touching you everywhere, each one more perfect than the last. He’s clearly torn on whether or not he should slow down, but he can’t seem to. 

In quick time, both coats have been removed, your shirt long discarded, with your jeans around your ankles. His shirt is unbuttoned and hanging loose, his jeans unzipped with his hard-on bulging out the front. Whispers and kisses and movements from his tongue have you leaning against the cold wood of the door as he asks you to beg for him. 

“What? Was is it you want?” Andrew croons has he traces a path across your breasts and down your stomach, until his fingers rest just above your slick curls. He licks a stripe along the column of your throat and chuckles low as you whine. You’re about to respond – about to tell him exactly what you want, in crystal clear detail – when you feel something… strange. 

Something is pressed into the outer side of your thigh, something cold and… wet? Before you can process it fully, you yelp and jerk toward Andrew, away from the sensation. He takes a measured step back and lets you fall into his arms, clinging tightly.

“Mo náire thú, cú!” Comes from Andrew, his voice exasperated on the surface, but with an unmistakable fondness. “Look what a hash you’ve made of it, you silly pest.” He leans down to scratch the head of the source of the interruption, the interruption turning out to be, in fact, a dog nose. A nose belonging to a very large, very motley looking wolfhound mix. The hound came up past your hips, even on four legs, and is looking at you with rapt curiosity. “Allow me to introduce you. This is Butler.” 

You give the intruder a big pet. “Hello, you sweet thing. Making sure I’m not burgling your house? That I’m not hurting your Andy?” You scratch between his ears and the dog leans into your touch. 

“He is utterly harmless, but does like to, er… stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.” A beat passes before you let out a bright laugh at the joke. 

“Maybe we ought to go somewhere more private then?” You level a heated look at him. “Where we can close the door on… uninvited guests?” 

Thursday 11:33PM

Working in a coffee shop that’s open until midnight was a hassle. Serving food until late, closing duties keeping you there until close to 1:00am, dealing with customers who are definitely not sober, trying to keep your energy up so as not to seem like a zombie. It was usually at minimum, a light headache, and at worst, a complete migraine. But you needed the money, the hours worked well with your grad school schedule, and you loved your coworkers. 

In addition, the shop itself, having been around for thirty-odd years and known for being a pillar in the community, has garnered your loyalty in no small measure. The interior of Wired Roots basically looked like if a record store from the 70s had been dragged into the 21st century then was handed an iced oat milk latte. Old, worn couches with bright fabrics and cartons of records and CDs were paired with state-of-the-art espresso machines and a cashless, card-only sales register. 

Wired had not initially been set up as a music store, but the founder, Waylon Briggs, had been so music-obsessed, using vinyl for decor and keeping so much of it around, that eventually customers started asking to buy the music (originally his personal collection). Since then, they’d gained a reputation for always playing the best music, having incredible finds, and sensational live shows of both undiscovered artists and even some stars. A few big names have come through, and a few names that eventually got big. Waylon had a knack for finding and inviting some amazing acts in, and the experience was something else. Someone had once suggested getting recording equipment and publishing the productions on YouTube or streaming services to increase profit margins. Waylon had vehemently disagreed, saying the real magic was experiencing it live. Not selling it for a profit. Just you, your cup of coffee, and the music. And keeping it that way for twenty years now had certainly kept the magic pure. 

But tonight, it was quiet. It was the last hour on a Thursday, rain lashing outside.  As senior shift leader, you’ve been in control of the playlist since you clocked in (though it’s pretty communal most days). You prefer to play jazz standards on a night like this, the late night rain creating the perfect backdrop. The dark city streets are shining and reflective, the rainfall pattering on the windows, and the smooth, warm jazz felt like it could transport you back decades ago when these songs were first being made. 

The sounds of Coltrane’s masterpiece, “A Love Supreme” – rich saxophone and piano – fill the air as you wipe the counter absent-mindedly. Your coworker had left a half hour earlier, having thrown up their lunch in the staff toilet (with apology). It was just you closing tonight, fine for a one-off, not great when it happens regularly. You’re mentally going through the checklist of all the things that need to be done before you can leave for the night (counters, floor, run dishwasher, check expired foods, set up for openers… the list goes on). You’re lost in thought, body swaying slightly to the familiar tune. 

With the music and the thundering rain, you don’t hear the bell on the door chime or the footsteps of the customer, your back to them. It isn’t until you hear someone clear their throat that you turn, an apology on the tip of your tongue. But the sight of Andrew Hozier-Byrne, best known by the mononym of the first half of his last name, standing in front of you, dripping wet, startles you. His dark, wet hair is plastered to his face, skin pale from the cold, looking like a hero from a period romance film about to declare something far grander than his coffee order. (And if Mr. Darcy had emerged from the lake dressed in jeans and a dark gray hoodie.)

Seeing him shouldn’t have made you stop in your tracks, shouldn’t have emptied your head so quickly. You’ve met famous musicians before. Been to intimate concerts at the shop by artists who were icons from the last five decades. You’d orchestrated the concert last summer with Lizzy McAlpine! And more importantly, you’d been drilled by Waylon more times than you could count that “musicians are people and we treat people good around here, don’t we? c’mon now get ‘em a cuppa coffee” .

“Needed to get in from the rain. Still have some coffee?” He asks with a blink. His lashes are coated with rainwater, dripping onto his cheek. It’s incredibly too mesmerizing. 

“Oh, of course. We don’t close until midnight.” You say, wiping your damp hands on your black barista apron. “What’ll it be?” It’s taking every ounce of your focus to remain calm, even-toned, and attempt something like normal. For once, you’re glad that the rote conversation is able to be done on muscle memory instead of having to think about it.

“Drip coffee, erm, dark roast. If you’ve got it. Black. Medium, please.” He shuffles on his feet, rubbing his arms as if chilled. 

“Sure thing.” You turn to the row of large coffee pots, forever grateful to the customer who asks for a simple cup of drip coffee. It always felt like a wink and a nod, an I get it, I see you moment in between long, complicated orders from people who didn’t give the person behind the counter a second thought. You’re not sure if that’s what’s behind it this time, but you get the feeling it might be. He seems the sort to recognize you’re about to close and wouldn’t want to kick up a fuss. 

Hozier, Andrew, whatever he wants to be called, had found a bin full of old, weird, niche vinyl. They were Waylon’s special babies, all misfits that no one really wanted, but he had declared were all masterpieces. 

“Hey, is this for here or to go?” You ask, raising up a ceramic mug in one hand and a paper cup in the other. He glances up, one hand still on the bin. God, his hand could cover so many records, a thought that led you to think of all the other things that large hand could hold or do. 

“Er, I guess…” He looks to the records, as if debating with himself. You can’t help but smile at the deliberation. 

“Even if you get it in a to-go cup, you can still hang around and scope out the wax.” You grin and watch as he visibly relaxes his posture and goes back to digging through the records. You go back to your task, slower than usual, distracted by his presence. Eyeing him from in between the machines, you take a few seconds to observe him. His long wet hair had been hastily pulled back, and his tall frame is bent over the cartons. His face is currently screwed into an expression of concentration. A single curl escapes and falls into his face as he leans, drawing your attention. Fucking hell.  

Attempting to refocus, you turn around to pour the cup of hot coffee (not at the level of freshness you’d prefer to hand over to him, but it’ll do). As you finish and place the lid, you notice he has a few records in his hand and is examining them. 

“Find some buried treasure?” You can’t help but ask. He looks up. 

“Oh. Well. I, um. Are these for sale?”

He’s Hozier. A millionaire many times over, world-renowned musician. He could probably afford to buy the shop itself and it wouldn’t make a dent. The humility is staggering. You nod. 

“Yeah, everything on the floor is for sale except the furniture.” The last few words are said with a lilt, a teasing tone you always take when saying the oft-repeated phrase. You cock your head and arch a brow. “First time here?” He’s looking at the records again but nods all the same. 

“I heard about it from some friends. Cool place. Music and coffee. Brings people together.” His mouth stretches into a half-smile, his expression suddenly warm, and you sense there’re layers behind what he’s said. 

“Totally.” 

“Has it been around long?” 

“Since the early 90s. Waylon didn’t mean for it to be a music store, he kind of fell into it. He’s a vinyl-head and the story goes that his wife, Patti, said he had to find somewhere to store his collection.” You smile at the tale. You can totally see it happening that way too, Patti being her usual calm but no nonsense self. 

“So he bought the store for his collection?” You see a glimmer of humor in his eyes, and a tone of almost-appreciation. 

“Exactly. The plan was to sell coffee. But when people came here, all he would do is talk about music and whatever was playing. Still will talk your ear off, has a list for each employee to listen to as homework when they first start… but I digress. Pretty soon, people wanted to buy the records. Waylon mainly hired college kids and ‘old farts’ – his words – so the staff could talk about music with the customers, give recommendations.” 

“And which are you?” He asks jokingly.

“I’m a grad student. I started coming here to study, the late night hours are perfect for that, and I loved it. Plus, I need coffee like an IV drip, so it made sense to work here.” You push the cup of coffee toward him and he reaches for his wallet. “Oh, please. If I made you pay, I would actually be strung up and maimed. It’s on us.”

It's customary for Waylon to give performers or friends (or really anyone, depending on the day) a complimentary coffee, especially since most of the sales these days were music related. You see a look of confusion pass his face.

“First off, we’re a bit off our game tonight. I feel bad for giving you coffee that’s at least six hours old. But much more importantly, we’re not just a coffee shop or music store. In the early aughts, Waylon started hosting live shows, mainly for friends and family. There’s been all kinds of people who’ve played here since.” You gesture to the stage, now empty. There’s an ancient rickety piano set up with an old stool where performers sit. “If Waylon were here, he’d be schmoozing you up, probably talking about all your music inspirations and references, how your best album is your first.” Andrew gives you an amused look. “Well, it is. His favorite, I mean.” 

The whole while you’ve been talking, giving the history of the store (you’re pretty sure you’re rambling but you can’t help yourself), Andrew has been listening with a look of curiosity on his face. About halfway through he wanders around, coffee in hand, looking at the more popular bins. He flicks through them, but looks up every now to make eye contact or nod slightly to indicate he was listening. He’s careful, though, making sure to not jeopardize the precious vinyl. As you suspected, one hand easily wraps around the cup of coffee, which he’d been cradling as if for warmth. 

“He sounds like a man with taste, clearly.” Andrew looks around, reddening slightly. “Not because of me, I mean. All of it. Making a real community institution so organically, it’s rare.” 

You nod, taking his words in. “That’s what it’s all about, honestly. It’s a special place.” You pause, then add, because when else would you be able to do this? “He loves your debut album. We all do; you’re definitely a regular staff favorite. I think we played Unreal Unearth every day the week it came out.” You crack a smile.

His eyes, somewhere between green and brown, crinkle as he smiles back at you. Then, he’s back looking through the records, looking for something. After a moment, he finds a copy of his self titled debut, his first studio album, and holds it up, almost tentatively. 

“Can I sign it? For the store.” 

You give a laugh, breathy with disbelief. Asking permission. To sign his own fucking record. It was ridiculous. It was endearing. It was, without a doubt, extremely hot. 

“Oh my fucking god? Yes?” You laugh again, a little harder, before muttering, “Christ. Everyone’s gonna want these closing shifts now.”

You toss him a Sharpie and he signs the vinyl record with a flourish, a practiced professional. He hands it to you and you can see the note:  Wired Roots: Thanks for the brew, can’t wait to come back – Hozier  

You look at it, hold it in your hands, and are simply stunned. The small gesture might not equate to much, but to you and those who work here, it does . Done with no agenda, no selfish motive, no desire beyond appreciation and likemindedness. It’s special and kind and thoughtful and everyone is going to freak and you feel, suddenly, quite overcome by the moment. 

So, instead of tucking it away to show Waylon later, you scan the walls. Near the register to the left are a few shelves that currently house Waylon’s claims as the Best Albums Of All Time: He has old copies of The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie, and Born In The U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen all lined up next to each other. They’re all first editions, and the Springsteen was particularly coveted, having been signed in 1989. Walking out from behind the counter, you reach up and push them closer together, making room for one more. Suddenly, Andrew is standing next to you, admiring the choices. 

“Some of the greats.” Andrew says casually. He’s very close, a few inches at most, and his presence almost knocks you off your feet. The smell of the rainwater mixed with day-old cologne and something else combined with the barely there heat you feel from his body makes every inch of your skin feel like it’s on fire. You inhale slowly, focusing, as you attempt to place the signed record, now utterly priceless, on the shelf. 

But you can’t quite make it. Until you feel a hand brush against yours, Andrew’s body angled toward you, close enough to touch if you aren’t careful. He’s lifting the record to the shelf with ease, nestling it in nicely. You feel your heart rocket to your throat, clogging your voice and mind. You risk a look to his face, wanting to see his expression, wanting to know if he felt the electric moment like you did. But he’s gazing at the record on the shelf, looking calm and… serene? 

It piques your curiosity, but you’re so close you don’t want to break whatever spell he’s under. Because then he’ll leave, taking his coffee, his half-smiles, and his self-effacing attitude with him. And you’ll close up the shop, go home to your cramped apartment six blocks away, fall into an unmade bed, and not be able to sleep. You’ll toss and turn, thinking of his hair and eyes and hands and smile and the way he said words that had previously been familiar to you but now sounded new .

You’d replay every single word exchanged, every posture change and gesture, overanalyze everything, over and over. Develop a crush on someone you would probably never see again. Who also happened to be a multi-millionaire, Grammy nominated musician. One part of your usually rational brain is saying don’t be an idiot don’t say anything on loop. But the other part, the part that had gotten you into trouble more than a few times, whispered dangerously, why not?

“Why are you looking at it like that?” You ask, your voice soft. Andrew doesn’t look toward you, his eyes still on the record. 

“It means something to mean something.” He says, but in a voice that indicates he’s possibly quoting someone. His voice is far from here, far from now. “I don’t always see it. It’s special to see it.” You feel your brow knitting together in confusion. 

“Aren’t you gearing up to go on tour? Doing multiple shows a week?” 

“‘Course, and it’s lovely and all. But it’s not like… this.” He turns his head just so, looking up and around at the empty coffee shop, his gaze finally settling again on the album. You think you understand, at least a little.

Personal versus public, connection versus consumption, performance versus product.

“You can come back anytime, you know.” You say the words carefully, not wanting to spook him or give the wrong impression. “We’ll always be here.” 

He nods, finally looking down and then at you, blinking. As if he didn’t realize just how close you were to him, just how heavy he was breathing. You have to tilt your head up to look at him.

“And what about you? Will you always be here?” You see it then, a shift in his eyes, a glimmer of something yet unformed but there nonetheless. Whatever it was felt fleeting, impossible to grab onto. 

“Three or four days a week.” You say, keeping your voice light to feign a nonchalance you certainly weren’t feeling. “Monday through Thursday. Sometimes a weekend if I’m picking up or swapping a shift. Not this weekend, though.” You don’t know why you say it (okay, that’s a lie, it’s because you want him to know). 

Andrew simply nods, looks like he wants to ask more or do something, edging his body just a fraction closer. But before he can manage anything, the music that’s been playing the entire night ends abruptly, pulling you both out of the moment. He pulls up his arm to check his wristwatch. 

“Midnight.” You both say it at the same time, and both smile immediately after. 

“The speakers are on a timer for midnight, when we close.” You explain, your tone beseeching, wishing you could rewind just one minute to go back to where he was looking at you like that, like he wanted to…

“I’ll get out of your hair, then.” His tone is almost apologetic, but it’s impossible to know what he could be apologizing for . 

“See you around?” You ask with a smile, attempting to set him at ease, to bring it back to where it was just a little bit ago. He glances up to the record swiftly before angling his head toward you, a smile spreading across his face.