Katesinthedarkness

He breathes your name against your lips. "I missed you."

Your hands knot into his hoodie. "You have no idea."

You don't even make it upstairs at first. Your mum's out running errands, your dad's still at work, your little sister is sleeping at her boyfriends house for the night, and it's just the two of you in the entryway of the house where you first kissed him, first loved him, first fell asleep on video call when he was halfway across the world only three months into your relationship.

"I was going mad without you," he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. "Couldn't sleep right. Couldn't do fucking anything right, to be honest. Everything just felt... off."

"You were off," you say softly, running your thumb along his cheek. "So was I."

He kisses you again, slow and deep like he's trying to remember every single inch of you in case the world rips him away again. And you let him. Because being apart from him was like walking around with only half your chest full. Like everything was muted.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. He looks at you like he's not convinced you're real.

"We have the house to ourselves," you tell him, lacing your fingers with his. "All day."

He grins — that boyish, crooked smile that made you fall for him in the first place. "Perfect."

————————————————

Upstairs, the bed creaks the way it always does — slightly too loud, slightly too old — but Ryan doesn't care. He pulls you onto it like he's never had a bed before. You lie tangled together under the same duvet he's teased you about over FaceTime (the one with the faded stars and moons from when you were thirteen), and for hours you just talk, touch, and fall into that rhythm that only comes after years of knowing someone's soul inside and out.

He tells you about Paris — the venue that had no heat, the promoter who called him Rian the whole night. You tell him about Dublin — your dad's knee acting up again, the new neighbours who've got the worst music taste imaginable. He laughs at all the right parts. You trace the veins in his forearm absentmindedly.

"I hate being away from you," he murmurs, voice low and scratchy as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

"I know," you whisper, nose buried in his chest. "Me too."

There's no rush. No phones. No pressure.

Just the soft creak of the mattress, the muffled sounds of life outside the window, and two people so wrapped up in each other it's like time folded just for them.

————————————————

Later, as the light fades into soft gold and the room starts to chill, Ryan rests his head on your chest, one arm slung over your waist. He's quiet for a while, then:

"Let's move in together soon."

Your heart skips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I want to come home to you. Not just your parents' house, or my parents' house. You. Always."

You don't say anything for a second — just slide your fingers through his dark hair and press a kiss to the crown of his head.

"Then let's do it," you whisper. "Whenever you're ready."

His arms tighten around you like he's anchoring himself.

"I'm already ready," he breathes.

And then silence. Comfortable silence.

You don't know how long you've been lying there — wrapped in the quiet of your childhood and now adult bedroom, skin still buzzing from hours of being near him. It's like he brought the heat of tour back with him and dumped it all into your sheets.

Ryan's head still hadn't moved from your chest, fingers tracing slow, lazy lines along your ribs through the thin material of your shirt.

You hum softly. "That tickles."

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. His smile is small, sleepy, and stupidly full of love. "Sorry," he whispers, not sorry at all.

You catch his hand and bring it up to your lips, kissing his knuckles. "Say it again."

He blinks. "Say what?"

"What you said earlier. About moving in together."

A pause. Then a slow grin.

He rolls half on top of you, his knee nudging between yours, and lowers his voice. "Let's move in together."

"Mmm," you smile against his mouth as he kisses you again. "One more time. I just need to hear it a few dozen more times."

“Let’s move in together,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw. “Let’s get a flat with horrible plumbing and a kettle that only works if you hit it—”

You giggle as his lips find that sensitive spot under your ear. “Sounds perfect.”

“And we’ll get one of those little carpets for the bathroom that you’ll insist is aesthetically neutral,” he adds, punctuating it with another kiss. “But it’ll be beige. And tragic.”

You swat his shoulder lightly, laughing. “It’ll be tasteful.”

“It’ll be ugly,” he grins, pulling back just enough to see your face, his hand sliding gently up the curve of your waist. “But I’ll love it because you’ll be there.”

Your smile falters — not in a sad way, just overwhelmed.

“You’re gonna make me cry.”

“I’ll kiss them away.”

And he does, dragging his lips gently across your cheek, toward the corner of your eye, where his thumb strokes softly.

Then back down to your mouth.

The kiss starts slow, sweet — the kind of kiss you give someone when you’re trying to memorize them — but deepens quickly, his hand slipping under your shirt, warm against your back.

“I missed this,” he whispers between kisses. “I missed you.”

You nod, kissing him back, your fingers curling in his hair. “I hated sleeping without you. My bed was cold for months.”

“I’ll never sleep without you again,” he murmurs. “Gonna wake up next to you every single day. Steal your socks. Steal the duvet.”

“You already do.”

“Just making it official.”

You laugh, but the sound turns into a sigh as his mouth finds your throat, then your collarbone, moving slowly like he’s rediscovering you. You arch into him, hands slipping under the hem of his hoodie, needing more skin, more warmth, more him.

He groans softly as your fingers graze his sides. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

“Oh, I do,” you breathe. “Your little flirty texts at 2 a.m. weren’t subtle.”

He chuckles against your skin. “I was suffering.”

“Well,” you whisper, pulling him closer until your noses brush, “I think you’ve earned a few rewards.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Careful. I might never leave.”

You smile, cupping his cheek. “That’s kind of the point.”

And for a long moment, you just stay like that — tangled up in sheets, in each other, in the kind of closeness that months apart couldn’t shake.

“I’ll start looking at flats this week,” he says quietly, brushing your hair back from your face.

“We can go together,” you say, voice soft. “Find one with a little balcony. Or a fireplace. Or a sad beige bathroom rug.”

His grin stretches against your skin. “Deal.”

You kiss him again. And again. And again.

And in between, you talk about furniture, about keys, about what color you’ll paint the bedroom, and about a life where he doesn’t have to leave to miss you — because finally, he’ll be coming home to you.

"Hey," Elijah says gently, stepping into the living room. "Didn't think you'd still be up."

You glance at the time on your phone. 12:08 AM. Late, but not unusual. He'd been at a studio session — not a big one, just something small with the band. Still, you stayed up. Out of habit more than anything.

"I couldn't sleep," you reply, your voice low.

Elijah nods, but he doesn't sit down right away. He studies you for a moment, eyes sweeping over your figure like he's cataloguing the way your hoodie hangs too loosely, the untouched mug of tea on the coffee table, the unopened granola bar next to it.

His bag slides off his shoulder and onto the floor. He crosses the room and sits down beside you, close but not pressing. His presence alone is grounding — warm and quiet and steady — but even that feels like too much sometimes.

"I missed you today," he says.

You nod, eyes still on the TV. "Missed you too."

Silence stretches between you — not tense, not hostile, but weighted. Like he's waiting. Like you're hiding.

Elijah leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You didn't eat today."

The sentence doesn't sound like an accusation. Just a fact. A fragile truth spoken aloud.

Your stomach twists. "I wasn't hungry."

He doesn't respond right away. He rubs a hand over his face, and when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable — worried, tired, maybe even a little helpless.

"Love..." His voice is soft. "I know you think I don't notice. But I do."

You flinch. Your body feels like it's buzzing under your skin, like shame is trying to claw its way out.

"I've just been... tired," you say, but the lie tastes thin. You're not just tired. You're drained. Hollowed out. The mirror has become your worst enemy. Food has become a bargaining chip with your own mind. Every outfit, every photo, every meal — everything has turned into a battle.

Elijah shifts closer, resting a hand gently on your knee. "Can I ask something?"

You nod.

He swallows. "When did you stop liking yourself?"

The question splinters something inside of you.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Your vision blurs. You hadn't planned on crying, but your body doesn't seem to care what you planned.

"I don't know," you whisper. "It just... happened. One day I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw. And it hasn't stopped since."

Elijah leans in, wrapping his arms around you carefully, like he's afraid you might break.

"You can't be shutting me out when it comes to things like this, and there's no fucking way I'm letting you deal with it alone either," he murmurs into your hair. "Even when it feels like you're alone. Even when your brain tells you I wouldn't understand — I'm still here."

You press your face into his shoulder. He smells like his cologne and the night air — safe, familiar, home.

"I don't want you to have to take care of me," you say. "It's not fair."

He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I want to be here. Not out of obligation. Because I love you." He brushes hair behind your ear. "But I'm scared. And I think you are too. It's been going on for way too long, gorgeous."

Something inside you stiffens. The warmth of his words doesn't sink in this time — instead, they spark something colder. Sharper. Like a nerve's just been exposed.

You pull your face away, subtly at first. He notices.

"I'm not scared...and it hasn't been going on for that long either," you mutter, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Okay," Elijah says gently. "Then maybe we can just... talk to someone? A GP, or maybe—"

"There's nothing wrong with me," you snap, more harshly than you meant to.

The room stills.

Elijah's face doesn't change much — not anger, not disappointment. Just this quiet, pained stillness behind his eyes. Like he's trying to not make it worse. Like he's used to stepping carefully around landmines now.

"I didn't say there was," he replies, his voice low and steady. "But you're hurting. And I don't know how to help you if you won't let me."

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, shrinking into yourself. The couch cushions seem too big now, the hoodie too thin. You hate the way your voice came out. You hate the way he's looking at you. You hate this conversation. You hate being like this.

"I said I was fine," you say again, colder now. "Why isn't that never enough for you?"

Elijah flinches — just barely, but enough that you notice. You wish you hadn't said it. You wish you'd said it worse. You don't know which.

A silence drapes itself over the room like a sheet.

You stare at the blank TV screen now, the reflection of your hunched body staring back at you in dark, glossy tones. You look small. Fragile. Angry. Lost.

"I'm not trying to push you," Elijah says finally, " but I'm watching the person I love the most disappearing in front of me."

Your throat tightens.

"I don't want to fix you," he adds. "I just want to see you smiled again."

You clench your jaw, blinking hard. "Then maybe stop acting like I'm some kind of problem."

"I don't think you're a problem," he says, sounding tired now. "I think you're in pain. And I'm not going to pretend not to see it just to make you more comfortable."

There it is — the crack in the wall. The fight that neither of you wanted, but both of you could feel coming.

"I didn't ask you to fix anything," you say, quieter now, but not softer. "I didn't ask for any of this."

Elijah exhales, sitting back a little. "No," he agrees. "You didn't. But I'm still here."

The silence this time isn't heavy. It's hollow.

After a minute, he stands. Picks up his bag from the floor. He doesn't storm out. He doesn't slam the door. He just looks at you like he's not sure where to go from here — not physically, but emotionally.

"I'll sleep in the spare room tonight," he says, carefully. "Not because I'm mad. Just... giving you space."

You don't answer. You watch him walk down the hall, the soft creak of the door closing behind him.

And then you're alone.

The apartment feels too quiet. Too large. And you sit there, motionless, in the echo of a love that tried to reach you and didn't quite make it.

————————————————

You lie on your side, facing the window, but not really seeing it. The streetlights outside cast soft orange lines across the bed sheets, striping the wall in long, melancholy shadows. The other side of the bed is still cold. Empty.

It's been hours since Elijah went into the spare bedroom and you entered yours. Hours since you said the kind of things that sit like stones in your chest after the anger fades. You don't know if he's asleep. You don't even know if you've blinked in the last twenty minutes. Time feels like something that's happening to someone else.

You shift, pressing your hand to the spot where he usually sleeps. You half expect it to be warm, for the smell of him to hit you instantly. But it doesn't.

And that — that's when something breaks.

You get up slowly. Quietly. Padding down the hallway in your socks like a ghost. The floorboards creak under your weight, a reminder that you're still here, still real, still tethered to the world by something other than your own thoughts.

The spare room door is half-closed. There's a faint glow from inside — not a lamp, just the hallway light casting a soft arc across the bed. Elijah's lying on top of the duvet, hoodie still on, one arm tucked under his head. He's not asleep.

He looks up the moment you open the door.

Neither of you speak right away.

Your voice, when it comes, is small. "Can I come in?"

He nods once. "Yeah."

You step inside, closing the door behind you. You don't go to him immediately. You stand near the wall, hands twisted in the hem of your sleep shirt, still unsure how to undo the distance between you.

"I didn't mean what I said earlier," your murmur.

He sits up slowly, his hair tousled, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and whatever he's been holding in. "I know."

You take a shaky breath. "You were right. About... all of it. I just didn't want to hear it."

He gestures towards the bed. "Come here?"

You hesitate — just for a moment — then cross the room and sit beside him. Not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of his body.

"I'm scared," you admit, barely audible. "I said I wasn't, but I am. I'm scared of needing help. Of what people will think. Of what it means if something is really wrong with me."

He doesn't rush to fill the silence. He lets your words settle.

Then: "It doesn't mean you're broken. It just means you're hurting."

You nod slowly, eyes starting to burn again. "I just... I don't want to lose you. And I feel like I'm ruining everything."

"You're not ruining anything," he says softly. "You're just going through something. And yeah, it's hard. But I'd rather go through something hard with you than pretend it's not happening."

Your throat tightens. You look at him, and he's already looking at you — not with pity, not with pressure. Just with that same quiet steadiness that's always been there.

"Can we just sleep? I'm tired of moving tonight." You whisper.

He doesn't answer. He just pulls the blanket back and opens his arms.

You crawl in, curling against his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, like muscle memory, like breathing. He doesn't press anymore questions. Doesn't bring up the GP. Doesn't say we'll fix this.

Instead, he just holds you. Grounding you. Keeping you here.

And somewhere between the rise and fall of his breathing, your body unclenches for the first time in days. Not healed. Not whole. But not alone either.

You don't say I'm sorry.

You don't say I promise.

You just whisper:

"I'm still here."

And Elijah's arms tighten around you as he whispers back:

Your heart clenches a little. God, he's so fucking cute.

You raise your eyebrows in a "you came?" kind of way, and he just nods, eyes crinkling, mouthing, of course I did.

You barely have a second to let it settle before the lights go down and your bandmate's voice cuts through the darkness, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

The set felt like it flew by in a haze of sound and sweat. Every note is charged, every movement fueled by adrenaline. The crowd is into it, and your bandmates are feeding off the energy, and you...you can feel that grounding thread pulling you back every time you start to float too far — the knowledge that he's here. Watching. Probably audibly singing along to your songs in the dark. That stupid smile on his face.

You spot him again as you walk offstage, post-set glow clinging to your skin. He's waiting just behind the barrier at the sound desk, hands in his pockets, leaning with the same calm confidence that drove you wild when you first met him.

"Hi, rockstar," he says when you reach him, voice low and teasing.

You can't help it — you laugh, throwing your arms around his neck, your bass still slung behind you.

"You made it," your murmur into his shoulder, placing a delicate kiss there.

"I wasn't gonna miss your first night." His arms wrap around your waist, warm and familiar. "You killed it, by the way. The biggest fucking star in my opinion, love."

"Liar," you grin against his chest. "I missed two notes."

"Did you?" he says, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. "Didn't notice. You were too sexy."

You snort, rolling your eyes, but the blush creeps up anyway. "Shut up."

"I'm serious. You looked like you belonged up there."

Something about the way he says it makes your heart stutter — it's not just about the performance. He means you. Doing this. Being on tour. Living the life you've been chasing since you were 16 and playing in pubs you definitely shouldn't of been in.

He brushes a strand of sweaty hair off your cheek and leans in, lips barely brushing yours. "I'm really proud of you, y'know."

You let the moment sit. The noise of the venue fades around you — the crew, the fans still lingering by the bar of the small venue, your bandmates shouting about where the fuck their gear went. All of it drops away.

"Thanks for being here," you say softly.

"I'll always be here," he says, his lips quickly pecking yours in a way that made your heart stop for just a second.

You think about how rare this is — two musicians, both in different bands, both pulled in different directions. But somehow, you and Josh have always just...fit. Quiet understanding. Unspoken support. The way he never makes a fuss but always shows up when it matters.

"Okay," you say, pulling back with a smile. "But now you've set the bar high. You coming to every show on the tour, hm?"

He laughs under his breath. "I mean, I was hoping for backstage passes...and to sleep with the bassist."

You roll your eyes playfully but still kiss him anyways as your own way of replying. You loop your fingers through his and tug him down the hallway, back toward the green room.

"Good," you say, glancing at him over your shoulder. "Cause I want you here...and in my bed too."

————————————————

The adrenaline hadn't worn off yet, not entirely.

Your legs still hummed with leftover energy from the stage, fingers still aching in that perfect, satisfying way—used and alive and aching with purpose. The clatter of post-show noise was still bouncing around your skull: reverb, cheers, your name in someone's mouth, and seeing Josh's face for the first time all day from your view on stage.

But now, in the quiet of your hotel room in Manchester, the only sound was the low whirr of the heating system, and then there was Josh, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed, eyes wide and stupidly full pride.

"I still can't get over how unreal you were," he said for what must have been the seventh time since you actually left the venue. "Like—seriously. You just walked out there like you fucking owned the place, and you kind of did to be honest."

You raised an eyebrow, unzipping your boots. "That's probably because it is my tour...well, mine and girls tour."

Josh grinned. "Yeah, well. You looked like a bloody star. I nearly started crying during the second song. The one where you do that riff right before the chorus—Jesus, babe. I mean, what the fuck."

You tried to brush it off with a little snort, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you.

Josh looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth paying attention to. He'd watched you from the back of the venue, arms crossed, smiling so hard it looked like it hurt. Now, here in this dim little room with bad wallpaper and an even worse kettle, he looked at you the same way—like he couldn't believe his luck.

"Okay, that's enough," you muttered, flopping down next to him on the bed, cheeks starting to burn. "You're being gross."

"I am gross," he agreed, already leaning over to kiss your shoulder, then the side of your neck. "Grossly in love with the most talented bassist I know."

"Oh my god," you mumbled, face hidden in the pillow, "Rob will be fuming if he ever finds out you said that."

Josh laughed—soft and warm. "Ah come on, like I care! You just walk out there with your bass, in your stupid little jacket, and I just lose the plot."

"My stupid little jacket?"

"Yeah, it's disgusting how hot you look. I wanted to scream."

"You did scream."

"Exactly. I'm a menace. You should probably dump me if you know what's good for you."

You turned your head, catching his eye. "Never happening."

And that was the truth. Because in that moment, with him stretched out beside you, hair a little messy from the wind, calloused fingers lazily tracing your arm, eyes soft and full of quiet love—there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

“You know,” he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, “I’m really proud of you.”

You swallowed around the lump that always formed when he said things like that. “Yeah?” “Yeah. Like, obnoxiously proud. Like I wanna grab everyone in that crowd and go, ‘That’s my person up there.’”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

Josh smiled, pressing your knuckles to his lips.

There was nothing else to prove. Nothing to outdo. You had your tour, your moment, your stage—and somehow, in the middle of all that noise, you’d also found this: a hotel room and a boy who looked at you like you’d hung the stars, strung the chords, and rewrote the setlist of his heart.

Your phone buzzed quietly on your nightstand, a message from Josh:

"Hey, do you want to come over tonight? Might help you unwind? X"

You blinked at the screen, a small rush of relief blooming in your chest. He always seemed to know when you needed him, even when you didn't say it out loud.

Yes. Please.

The day passed in a blur—half-hearted attempts at work, distracted conversations, restless pacing. The physical symptoms kept growing: a racing heart, tight shoulders, and that relentless pressure in your chest. You kept it hidden, trying to convince yourself it was just stress.

But when evening came, you couldn't wait to get to Josh's house.

The street leading to Josh's house was quiet, the glow from porch lights casting pools of yellow on the pavement. Your steps felt slower now, like the weight of the day was finally beginning to lift. Almost.

Josh's front door was always a beacon—warm, inviting, the promise of calm and comfort waiting behind it. You pressed the doorbell, and almost immediately, the door swung open.

"Hey, there's my girl!" Josh greeted you with that gentle smile, the kind that made your heart soften even on your worst days. His face looked slightly tired from the day, and his eyes held that familiar kindness that always made the world feel a little less heavy.

"Hey," you whispered back, stepping inside.

He reached out instinctively, threading his fingers through yours in that quiet, intimate way you'd both fallen into over the last two years, while his lips found yours in the most gentle manner. No words were needed—the gesture said everything.

His house smelled like sandalwood and his mother's cooking. The little plant by the window caught the fading light, casting leafy shadows on the wall. Everything was exactly how you remembered it—safe, steady.

Josh led you to the couch in the sitting room, pulling a soft blanket over your shoulders. "You okay?" His voice was gentle, but the concern was clear.

You shrugged lightly, trying to downplay it. "Just tired, I guess."

Josh didn't push. Instead, he sat close, close enough that your knees touched, and began playing with your fingers absentmindedly. The simple physical connection was a balm—warmth spreading through your skin, anchoring you.

You breathed a little easier.

The two of you talked quietly, your voices low, blending with the hum of cars outside. You told him about the little things: the weird headache that wouldn't go away, the restless nights, how your thoughts wouldn't stop spinning. He listened, always listening, never rushing to fix or explain—just there.

The conversation between you and Josh had suddenly grown quieter, less steady as the minutes slipped by. Your chest tightened again, tighter this time, and the room seemed to tilt slightly at the edges.

Josh's fingers still traced gentle circles on the back of your hand, but you could barely feel it anymore. Your mind was spinning in fast circles, a wild storm you couldn't control.

You told yourself to breathe. Just breathe. But your breaths cam short and sharp, each inhale like trying to swallow shards of glass.

A flicker—the overhead light wavered for a brief second, then stabilised. It was nothing, but it was enough to set you off.

Your heart thundered. Your vision blurred. The walls closed in.

The panic hit like a tidal wave. Your hands trembled, and your voice caught in your throat.

Josh's eyes widened with concern as he saw you pulling away, your body rigid.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he said softly, reaching for you, his voice calm but urgent. "You're okay, I'm here."

But the fear inside you screamed louder than reason.

You tried to speak, but your words came out in a strangled whisper. “I… I can’t…”

Josh’s arms were around you before you could fall apart completely, pulling you close, steady and grounding. His heartbeat against your ear was steady and strong.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he murmured. His hands stroked your hair, rubbing slow circles on your back.

You couldn’t stop the tears anymore—they spilled freely down your cheeks, hot and cleansing.

“Breathe with me,” Josh whispered. “In… two… three… out… two… three…” His voice was a lifeline.

You matched your shaky breath to his, counting together, slowly, deliberately.

Minutes passed, stretched out and fragile, but eventually the storm inside you calmed.

Your hands unclenched, your body relaxed. The pressure in your chest softened.

Josh held you tight, refusing to let go.

“You’re safe, love. I’m right here,” he said gently.

You buried your face in his shirt, sobbing softly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Josh shook his head, brushing your hair back tenderly. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You’re okay. We’re okay, I promise.”

His voice was steady, unwavering—your anchor in the storm.

You stayed pressed against Josh, your breath slowly evening out as the tension melted away. His arms were wrapped securely around you, a protective shield that made the world outside seem distant and unimportant.

You didn’t have the energy to speak; words felt fragile and raw. Instead, you let the silence speak—the silence that said you were not alone, that you were loved fiercely even in your weakest moments.

Josh’s fingers traced soft patterns on your back, a quiet rhythm that soothed your frayed nerves. “You did amazing,” he whispered, voice thick with tenderness. “I’m so proud of you.”

You lifted your head slowly to look at him, eyes red-rimmed but full of gratitude. “Thank you,” you murmured.

He smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “There’s nothing you have to thank me for. We’re in this together. Always.”

You leaned into him again, savoring the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek. The panic had passed, but the lingering exhaustion clung to you like a heavy blanket.

Josh shifted gently, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you. “How about we just stay like this? No talking, no moving. Just us.”

You nodded, your fingers curling around his. In that moment, the quiet intimacy was everything.

Minutes passed in soft breathing and gentle touches, the kind of moments that built the foundation of a love that could weather any storm.

At some point, your eyelids grew heavy, and you let yourself drift, safe in Josh’s arms.

Eventually morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting gentle patterns across the room. You stirred slowly, feeling the warmth of Josh’s body curled protectively around you. The lingering heaviness from last night had lifted, replaced by a fragile calm.

You blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, realising Josh must've carried you up to bed once you knocked out, then turned to find Josh’s eyes already watching you, soft and steady.

“Morning,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly over your cheek.

“Morning,” you replied, voice still a little thick with sleep.

Josh sat up and stretched, then padded quietly to the kitchen. Soon the comforting aroma of coffee filled the air, a small, perfect ritual that made everything feel a little more normal.

He returned with two steaming mugs, handing one to you with a smile. “Thought you might need this.”

You took it gratefully, wrapping your hands around the warmth.

You both sat close on the couch, sipping slowly. The silence between you was easy, filled with the unspoken understanding that whatever came, you’d face it together.

“I’m proud of you,” Josh said quietly. “Last night was hard, but you didn’t give up.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling a flicker of strength you hadn’t felt in days. “I’m lucky to have you.”

He smiled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We’re lucky to have each other.”

The future was still uncertain, the anxiety likely to return in waves, but in that moment, you knew one thing for sure:

You weren’t alone.

You two had been inseparable back when Inhaler had been touring and you guys were their opening act—late-night pizza boxes and endless laughter backstage, the quiet hum of shared music in hotel rooms. Now, things were different. He and the lads were home, finally taking a break they’d earned. And then there was you, halfway across the world, filling venues larger than the last tour, yet somehow still feeling smaller than when you’d left.

You picked up your phone, thumb hovering over his name. You wanted to reach out, to tell him how much you missed him, but every message felt inadequate, every “I love you” too heavy with unspoken frustration. You could hear his laugh in your mind, see the way he scrunched his nose when he was focused—little details that used to comfort you but now stung, a reminder that you weren’t there with him.

A quiet knock on the back lounge door pulled you from your thoughts. Sophie leaned against the frame, hair messy from a nap, eyes soft but knowing.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said.

You shrugged, forcing a smile you didn’t feel. “Just tired, I guess.”

She didn’t press, just sat next to you, nudging your shoulder gently. “You’ve been staring at your phone for hours. It’s not just tired.”

Her words hit harder than you’d expected. You hated admitting how much this distance was getting to you, hated how vulnerable it made you feel—but you also hated lying to your friends.

“I… I miss him,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the drone of the bus. “I thought I’d get used to this, but I can’t. Not like this.”

Sophie gave your hand a squeeze. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s hard. You’re allowed to feel it.”

You nodded, grateful, though the ache didn’t leave. Your phone buzzed suddenly, Elijah’s name lighting up the screen. A picture—him on the couch, his guitar on his lap, shirtless, a silly grin.

Wish you were here xxx

You smiled, a little laugh escaping you despite the tightness in your chest. He always knew how to reach you, even from thousands of miles away.

You typed back quickly:

Wish I was there too xxx

It wasn’t enough. It never was. But it was something. A thread between you both, fragile but unbroken, stretching across the miles.

You leaned back, phone warm in your hand, heart a little lighter. Distance didn’t feel any easier, but for the first time in hours, it felt survivable.

Because no matter how far apart you were from each other, you were still tethered. Still the couple everyone knew. Attached at the hip.

You hovered over the text you sent, wondering if you should say more. But before you could overthink it, the phone buzzed again—this time, with an incoming FaceTime call.

Your heart lurched, and you swiped to answer with shaky hands.

“Hey, stranger,” Elijah’s voice filled the small space, warm and teasing. His face came into focus, hair falling into his eyes, the familiar background of his bedroom at his parents house behind him.

Sophie poked her head in your personal space just as the call connected. She caught sight of the screen, her mouth curving into a wicked little smile.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” she whispered dramatically, wiggling her brows before slipping out of the back lounge and shutting the door.

You couldn’t help laughing, even as your throat tightened. “Sorry about her.”

Elijah grinned. “God, I love her. She keeps you honest.” His eyes softened as he leaned closer to the camera. “But… you don’t look okay.”

You hesitated, the mask of I’m fine so close to slipping into place. But he knew you too well.

“I’m… trying,” you admitted, voice quiet. “I thought the distance would get easier, but it feels heavier every day. I’m proud of what we’re doing, but sometimes it feels like I left half of me back in Dublin.”

His expression melted into something tender. He rested his chin on his hand, listening the way he always did when he wanted you to feel heard. “You didn’t leave half of you,” he said softly. “You’re still whole. Just tired. And missing home. Missing me.”

“Of course I’m missing you,” you whispered, blinking back the sting of tears.

“I’m missing you too,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But we’re stronger than the miles. And when you come back, I’ll be waiting. With the best cup of hot chocolate you’ve ever had with extra marshmallows and probably a burnt pizza.”

That made you laugh, a wet sound, but real. “That’s not much of a welcome.”

“It’s our welcome,” he countered, eyes glinting. Then his voice softened again. “I don’t need you to be strong all the time, you know. Just be you. That’s enough.”

You both stayed silent for a minute, just staring at each other through the screen. God you loved him, so much it made your soul feel like it was leaving your body.

Elijah tilted the camera as he stretched out on his bed, giving you that lazy grin that always made your heart skip. “You know,” he said, “Mum and Dad keep asking when you’re coming back. They miss you almost as much as I do.”

You smiled, soft and sad all at once. “You know Ali makes the best shepherd’s pie. No one feeds me properly out here. I swear it’s just crisps and energy drinks keeping me alive.”

He laughed, that rich sound that felt like home. “Don’t let her hear that. She’ll have me shipping dinners to you on dry ice.” His expression softened. “They really do miss you, though. Mum keeps saying the house is too quiet without you dropping by. And Dad—” he smirked—“he pretends he doesn’t notice, but he asks about you all the time.”

Warmth spread through you at the thought. You hadn’t realized how much you missed them, too.

You shifted on the couch, tucking your knees up to your chest. “I’ve not been sleeping much,” you admitted, voice lower. “The bus never stops moving, and my head just… won’t shut off.”

His brow furrowed, but his voice stayed gentle. “Baby… you should’ve told me sooner. I’d have sung you to sleep every night.” He tilted the phone closer to his lips. “Want me to try now?”

You laughed, cheeks heating. “You’ll wake up the whole band.”

“Good,” he teased. “Let ’em know I’ve got you.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide the brewing grin. “Cocky.”

“You love it,” he shot back, eyes glinting.

You bit your lip, warmth pooling throughout your body. “Maybe I do.”

There was a beat of quiet, both of you just drinking each other in across the screen. His voice dropped, lower, teasing. “You know, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m never letting you back on stage again. Gonna lock you in my room and keep you all to myself.”

Your laugh bubbled out, flustered but giddy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he said simply, no hesitation, his grin softening into something that stole your breath.

You tucked your face into your hand, heart hammering. “You can’t just say stuff like that while I’m trapped on a bus with three other nosy idiots.”

“Then hang up,” he teased, smirk widening. “But you won’t.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I won’t.”

You talked like that for hours—sweetness laced with banter, his voice steady in your ear until your eyelids grew heavy. The last thing you remembered was his voice, soft and playful, promising he’d still be on the call when you woke up.

And he was.

Just like he’d promised.

"Is this… about me?" His voice was quiet at first, then edged with something raw you couldn’t immediately place.

You froze. "I… it’s just… a poem. Feelings. Nothing to—"

"No, it’s not nothing," he snapped, stepping fully inside. "Are you saying I don’t care about you? That I leave you behind?"

Your chest tightened. "Ryan… that’s not it. I love you. I love your career. But sometimes… sometimes I feel invisible. Like you’re living this amazing life while I’m just… here. Waiting."

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the small living room. "Invisible? That’s… that’s not fair. You know I love you. You know I’d give anything to be home more."

"Then why don’t you act like it?" You shot back, anger and hurt mixing in your voice. "Why do I have to write a poem just for you to see that I miss you? That I feel like I’m… being left behind?"

Ryan stopped, staring at me like he was trying to find the right words. "I… I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. I’m doing everything I can out there, and you—"

"And I’m trying to support you!" You yelled, tears pricking your eyes. "I’m trying to cheer you on, to be happy for you, to survive without you for months at a time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel lonely! It doesn’t mean I don’t need you!"

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Ryan looked down at the floor, shoulders slumped, and finally muttered, "I… I didn’t realise. I didn’t think… I didn’t think about how much it hurts for you."

"You should," you whispered, voice breaking. "I shouldn’t have to remind you."

Ryan moved closer, hesitantly, as if approaching fragile glass. "You’re right," he said, voice trembling. "I’ve been selfish. I’ve been so wrapped up in the tour, in the shows, in everything else, that I forgot… I forgot that home—our home, our life—means just as much to you as the road does to me."

You blinked back tears, chest tight. "I just want to feel like you’re still here, even when you’re not. That I’m not being left behind."

He reached for your hands, holding them gently. "You’re not. You’ll never be. I’m sorry… for not thinking, for not noticing, for not being enough when you needed me."

You let out a shaky breath, the tension in your body slowly unraveling. "I just… I love you. I don’t want to fight. I just want to feel like we’re… us, even with the miles."

He pulled you into a tight hug, strong and grounding. "Four years, yeah? And every mile, every tour, I promise I’ll try harder to make sure you don’t feel alone. You’re my home, even when I’m on the road."

You buried your face in his chest, listening to the familiar steady thrum of his heartbeat. "Promise me you’ll think about us, too," you whispered.

"I promise," he murmured. "Always. No more forgetting, no more leaving you behind."

The van rolled through the city towards Raheny to get to St. Anne’s Park, the soundcheck already underway by the time you arrived. You barely registered the security team scanning passes and waving you through as a distant, familiar riff floated through the trees. You recognized it immediately—“Cheer Up Baby.”

The air was warm, thick with summer and something else—anticipation, maybe. You kept your camera bag slung across your shoulder, fingers twitching for something to hold. As you walked toward the backstage entrance, surrounded by laughter and inside jokes, the nerves finally caught up to you.

You didn’t really know the guys. You knew of them, of course—anyone involved in Irish music did—but only in the way fans do: through lyrics and stage lights and Instagram stories. Now here you were, pass hanging around your neck like proof that you belonged. But did you? You didn’t really feel like you did.

You knew Lucy through a photography project you did with her about two years ago, and you guys got incredibly close, but that’s it. It’s not like you belong in their inner circle.

Backstage was less chaotic than you expected—cords and guitar cases, roadies in headsets, the smell of coffee and grass and gaffer tape. Someone handed Lucy a radio. Grace disappeared to find Elijah. Martha winked and said she was off to “wrangle Rob’s hair into something photo-safe.” And suddenly, you were standing alone—until someone approached from stage right.

Josh Jenkinson.

You recognized him right away, of course, even with his hoodie half-zipped and guitar pick stuck between his teeth. He offered a small smile—tentative but kind.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little shy. “You must be Lucy’s friend?”

You nodded. “Yeah, that’s me!”

He nodded, eyes flicking to your camera bag, then back to you. “You doing photos for her today?”

“Not officially,” you shrugged. “But I brought my gear, just for fun really.”

He smiled a little wider then. “That’s cool. You a music person too?”

“More from the sidelines,” you said, and then added, maybe a little too quickly, “I really love your music though.”

His ears turned faintly pink.

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

————————————————

The hours blurred into golden haze. The band did final checks. You wandered between cords and conversations, snapping a few candid shots—Elijah laughing with his head back, Rob balancing a water bottle on his head, Ryan mock-fighting with a mic stand. But your lens kept drifting to Josh.

Not in a creepy way. Just…curious. The way he tuned his guitar like it was a secret. The way he stood back a little in large conversations, observing, offering quiet as much as words. You found that oddly comforting—because you felt that way too, a little overwhelmed but trying.

At one point, you were sitting near a row of monitors when Josh sat beside you, unprompted. You both watched the crew work, a comfortable silence stretching between you.

“It’s always weird, this part,” he said.

You looked over. “Before the show?”

“Yeah. Like…everything’s too calm, and then suddenly, it’s not.”

You smiled. “Like waiting for a wave.”

He turned to look at you properly then. “Exactly. That’s a good way to put it.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The sky was starting to turn that soft, warm blue of late afternoon, and Josh looked out at it like it was singing only for him. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of a guitar pick.

“I get nervous too,” you said quietly, surprising yourself.

He looked over.

“I don’t really know any of you. And part of me thought…what if everyone hates me?”

Josh blinked, then laughed under his breath. “You? No way. Everyone already loves you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How would you know?”

He looked away, then back again, eyes crinkling. “I pay attention.”

Later, just before the show, Lucy pulled you aside and whispered, “So. You and Josh?”

You rolled your eyes. “Nothing happened.”

“Yet,” she smirked.

The band walked onstage to the roar of the crowd, and you stood out in the crowd with all their friends and family, camera in hand, watching them become larger than life. Josh glanced over to your direction once before they started—even though he definitely couldn’t see you or any of his friends for that matter, but he still smiled.

It was small. Barely a shift in his mouth.

But it was enough to make your heart skip.

————————————————

The high from the show lingered long after the final chord faded into the summer air.

You were still clutching your camera, thumb sore from snapping more photos than you meant to. Backstage was buzzing—sweaty hugs, half-drunk bottles of beer, amp cables trailing like vines. You caught Josh’s eye a few times, but the swirl of bodies and sound pulled you both in different directions.

Until someone—maybe Rob—yelled, “Kehoes, yeah? Twenty minutes? Everyone in!”

————————————————

The pub was tucked away in the corner of a narrow street off Grafton. From the outside, it looked like any other: wood paneling, Guinness sign in the window, flickering light through old glass. But inside, it felt like a secret shared only by those who knew where to look.

The place was buzzing with low music, dim yellow light, and the hum of voices slightly hoarse from shouting over guitars. The band claimed a booth near the back, coats tossed over chairs, drinks already gathering condensation on the table.

You squeezed in next to Lucy. Grace was perched on Elijah’s lap, Martha balancing a pint like a pro. Josh wasn’t there yet.

You were halfway through your drink—something cold and fizzy and handed to you by someone with a wink—when he arrived. Hair damp, still in the same clothes he wore on stage, and a subtle sort of quiet carved into his posture. He slid into the empty seat beside you, his arm brushing yours in the close quarters.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” you echoed, smiling over your glass.

“You warm enough?”

You blinked. “I’m good. Why?”

He glanced sideways, that same barely-there smile pulling at his mouth. “You just looked cold.”

Your heart hiccupped, stupidly.

“I’m fine,” you said, but you left your arm where it was, still touching his.

The table thinned out slowly. First Grace and Elijah disappeared to get more drinks. Then Rob and Martha went to play some chaotic version of darts. Lucy got pulled into a conversation with someone you vaguely recognized from a local band.

And suddenly, it was just you and Josh. The music shifted to something slower—old Pogues, maybe—and the booth felt more like its own little world.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked. “The show?”

You turned to face him. “Yeah. You guys were…unreal.”

His cheeks flushed a little, and he looked down at his pint. “Thanks.”

You paused. Then added, quieter, “I watched you the most.”

He glanced up sharply—surprised, but not in a bad way. He held your gaze this time, really held it.

“I noticed,” he murmured.

You laughed, embarrassed but not regretful. “Not subtle, was I?”

“I liked it.”

Silence again—but charged now. Buzzing at the edges.

Your foot nudged his under the table, and neither of you moved away.

Everyone else’s worlds and conversations danced around you, but you were frozen. Not in a bad way, it was more like you were frozen because you wanted to know Josh now for the rest of your life, and being frozen in this night is the only possible way that could happen, probably.

“Want to go outside?” he asked suddenly. “It’s loud in here.”

You nodded.

He led you out the side door into the alley behind the pub, where the air was cool and smelled like old stone and cigarette smoke. A distant hum of music still drifted through the walls, but it was quiet enough to hear each other breathe.

Josh leaned against the brick, hands in his jacket pockets. You stood a few feet away, suddenly nervous.

“I’m not usually good at this kind of thing,” he said.

“What kind of thing?”

He gave a slow, lopsided smile. “Meeting people who make me nervous.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “I make you nervous?”

“A bit, yeah.”

You tilted your head, heart thudding now.

“Why?”

He hesitated, then looked at you fully. “Because you don’t care about…all this. The band. The scene. You’re just…here. And I like how you see things.”

You swallowed, pulse loud in your ears.

“I like how you see things too,” you said. “Quietly. Like you’re looking for something underneath it all.”

His expression softened, eyes flicking to your mouth and back again.

And then, very gently, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, he reached for your hand.

His fingers brushed yours, careful and tentative—until you threaded them together, and for a second, neither of you spoke—just the quiet rhythm of your joined hands.

“So,” you started, trying to sound casual, “how did you even get into music? I mean…besides being obviously amazing at it.”

Josh laughed quietly, a little self-conscious. “Uh…started messing with it as a kid, never really stopped. You?”

You shrugged, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Family thing too, but more…accidental. I fell into photography and then music stuff sort of followed me around. Not as flashy as playing in a band, though.”

He tilted his head, curiosity softening his expression. “That’s why you were always snapping photos back there. You caught some amazing shots, by the way. Better than most of the press we get.”

Your chest warmed at the compliment. “Thanks. I like catching things no one usually notices. People…moments…faces. Little things that tell a story.”

Josh nodded, fingers brushing your hand again. “I get that. That’s…sort of how I play too. Trying to find something that feels real underneath all the noise.”

You smiled, leaning a little closer. “Yeah. I like that about you. You notice things.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “Only when I’m paying attention.”

You stayed in that easy rhythm, talking in low tones, laughing softly at little asides. Somehow, the world felt smaller, more intimate, as if the alley had wrapped itself around just the two of you.

Finally, you stood on your tiptoes, brushing a quick, soft kiss against his cheek. He froze mid-breath, eyes wide, and the faintest pink crept up his neck.

“I should get back,” you said with a playful smile, letting go of his hand just enough to step back. “Before Lucy notices we’re missing and drags me into some embarrassing conversation.”

Josh blinked, still frozen, staring after you. “Right…yeah. Okay.”

You grinned and slipped back into the pub, leaving him leaning against the brick wall, fingers brushing his cheek where your lips had been. His jaw slack, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning, and you couldn’t help but laugh quietly to yourself as the noise of the pub welcomed you back.

Josh stayed where he was for a moment longer, replaying the feel of your hand in his and the warmth of your kiss.

Too close, maybe. His leg pressed lightly against yours, neither of you shifting away. The weed had hit (so did the whiskey), mellow and heavy, and your whole body felt like it was floating. But your mind — your mind was doing somersaults.

You could smell him. That same cedarwood-after-smoke scent he always carried, always just barely there. And you shouldn't notice that, shouldn't care. But the warmth pooling low in your stomach said otherwise.

"You're quiet," Elijah said suddenly, voice low like a secret.

You glanced at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little glassy, his curls a mess from when he kept running his hands through them. He looked unfairly good. Not even in a rockstar way — just...him. Familiar and infuriating and heartbreakingly safe.

"Just thinking," you said, blinking up at the stars like they could save you from the daydream you were slipping into.

"About?"

You should've lied. You should've said something dumb — the stars, Lucy's nonsense, or how Josh still couldn't roll a proper joint. But you were too high for that kind of finesse.

"You."

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable in the low light. "Yeah?"

You gave a half-shrug, suddenly feeling exposed. "Dunno. Just...It's weird, isn't it? How we've all known each other forever, but sometimes I look at you and it feels like I'm seeing you for the first time."

He didn't answer right away. He just stared, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second too long, before flicking back up to your eyes.

The air thickened. Like summer heat before a thunderstorm.

"Eli," you said, voice soft, guilty even. "I probably shouldn't say any more."

"Probably not," he agreed.

Neither of you moved.

The laughter in the background faded to a blur, the music distant. Everything felt underwater. Too slow. Too much.

You imagined his hands. On your hips. On your neck. Tangled in your hair. You imagined saying fuck it and kissing him, right there, while everyone else was too stoned to care. You imagined him pulling you into his lap and whispering the things you wanted to hear but could never ask for.

You looked away,

"God," you muttered under your breath. "I need water or I'm going to say something really fucking stupid."

Elijah laughed. Quiet, low, raspy.

"I'd probably say something worse."

Your gaze snapped back to his, and this time you didn't look away.

There was something unspoken hanging there — thick, heavy, humid — suspended in the summer air and the smoke curling lazily around the two of you.

He leaned in just a little, breath brushing your ear as he whispered, "Tell me later."

Your heart stuttered.

And maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was the years of almosts. Maybe it was everything finally catching up with you.

But in that moment, your daydreams didn't feel so far from reach anymore.

—————————————————

The night had slipped into that dangerous kind of blur — too many joints lit at once, whiskey glasses way too full, everyone too relaxed, too loud, too far gone.

Caoimhe was giggling at something Josh had muttered under his breath, their shoulders pressed against yours like bookends holding you up. But across the fire, Elijah hadn't laughed in minutes.

His eyes were on you. Still.

It was relentless. His stare wasn't subtle, wasn't gentle. It burned. Possessive. Heavy. The kind of look that sank into your skin and didn't let go. He didn't care who saw it. His glass was low in his hand, fingers loose, his star ring catching the firelight — and still, all his attention was on you.

You shifted under it, tried to laugh at something Rob said, tried to focus on Martha gripping Rob's arm while she stared at him like he hung the moon just for her. But it was like Elijah's gaze was pulling at the hem of your linen button up shirt, trailing down the slope of your shoulder, setting fire to the inside of your throat.

You couldn't take it anymore.

"I—uh—water. Need some water," you said, voice too sharp, too fast. You were on your feet before anyone could respond, your steps uneven as you practically bolted into your house.

The kitchen lights were too bright. The cold water from the tap hit your glass in a hiss, and you drank it like it might save you. But it didn't. You slammed the glass down harder than you mean to, chest rising and falling like you'd run a marathon.

Head in your hands. Elbows digging into the marble counter. You squeezed your eyes shut.

"Get a grip," you whispered to yourself. "He's your friend. He's always been your friend. Just your friend."

But your body didn't feel like it got the memo. It was still humming, charged. And your mind — your mind was deeper in the gutter, imagining things that you couldn't un-imagine.

The sliding backdoor squeaked.

You didn't need to look up to know who it was.

He didn't say anything at first. Just walked in and shut the door behind him like it was nothing. Like you weren't about to combust.

When you finally looked up, he was leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, curls messy, whiskey eyes locked on yours.

"You alright?" he asked. But he knew the answer. You could see it in his stupid, knowing smirk.

You let out a humourless laugh, still breathless. "Not really, no."

He pushed off the wall and walked toward you, slow like he was giving you a chance to run. You didn't.

"You left in a bit of a hurry," he said, voice lower now, almost careful. "Did I... do something?"

His eyes searched your face, softening just enough to make your stomach flip.

"You know you did," you whispered, too honest, too wrecked to lie. "Back there. What you said — how you said it, about me telling you what I was thinking later. You can't just... do that."

He stepped closer. You didn't move.

"I meant it. I always want to know what your thinking. I always have."

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

One second you were staring at him — at his flushed cheeks and parted lips, his chest rising slow like he was trying to keep it together too — and the next, your hands were in his shirt and your mouth was on his.

It was messy, immediate. Years of repressed feelings, passing glances, drunken almosts, and high-stoned fantasies crashing into one kiss that was too much and not enough at the same time.

He kissed you like he'd been waiting. Like he'd thought about it every night on every tour. Like he couldn't believe it was actually happening. His hands gripped your waist, pulled you flush against him, and you gasped into his mouth, already dizzy from everything — the weed, the whiskey, him.

His lips trailed down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees weaken. Your hand tangled in his curls, the same ones you'd watched him push back over and over, wondering what they'd feel like between your fingers.

You were halfway up on the counter before either of you realised it — clothes still on, but the tension electric, skin burning. It was like every fantasy you'd buried under years of friendship had broken the surface all at once.

When he pulled back, just barely, his breath hit your lips.

"This isn't just the weed talking, right?"

You shook your head, whispering, "No, it's not."

He nodded, like that was all he needed, and kissed you again — deeper this time. Slower.