emma

ᰔ requests ᰔ ⟡ who I'll write ⟡

law and order: svu

casey novak

alex cabot

olivia benson

casey novak x alex cabot

casey novak x olivia benson

criminal minds

emily prentiss

emily prentiss x jennifer jareau

catherine zeta-jones

catherine zeta-jones

morticia addams

lady gaga

lady gaga

the countess

smosh

Which, honestly, felt pretty accurate.

Your dress was hanging from the wardrobe door. Your shoes were lined up neatly beside the suitcase. Makeup brushes, hair products, and half-open bags covered every available surface. The room looked less like a hotel and more like a backstage dressing room that had exploded.

“You know what’s crazy?” Michelle said from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, holding up two different lipstick shades. “In a few hours, we’re going to be in the same room as her.”

You looked over from the mirror, where you were trying to fix a strand of hair that refused to cooperate.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s a normal sentence.”

Michelle stared at you.

“It is a normal sentence.”

“No, it’s not.” You pointed at her. “You just casually said we’re going to be in the same room as Lady Gaga.”

The room went quiet for exactly two seconds.

Then everyone started talking at once.

“I still can’t believe we got invited.”

“I’m going to forget how words work.”

“I’m not even going to look at her because I’ll embarrass myself.”

That last one came from Jess, who was currently applying eyeliner with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

“You’re telling me you won’t say anything?”

“Nope.”

“You won’t ask a question?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You won’t even say hi?”

Jess paused.

“Okay, maybe hi. But that’s it.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

The entire morning had been like this. Every ten minutes, someone remembered that this wasn’t just another event. This was a private ARTPOP press conference. A room full of journalists, fans, and people who had somehow managed to get closer to an artist you had spent years listening to through headphones.

Someone whose songs had followed you through late nights, bad days, celebrations, and moments you never told anyone about.

It was strange how a person you had never met could somehow feel like they had been there.

“Okay,” Chloe said, sitting up suddenly. “Important question.”

You immediately knew from her tone that it was going to be ridiculous.

“What?”

“What are you going to ask her?”

You groaned.

Not because you didn’t have an answer. Because you had too many.

You had rewritten your question at least twenty times. You had notes in your phone. You had practised saying it out loud when nobody was around. Every version sounded either too serious, too awkward, or like you had completely forgotten how human conversation worked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Yes, you do,” Chloe said.

“I really don’t.”

“You do. You’re just pretending you don’t because you’re scared.”

The other two immediately turned toward you.

“Oh my god, she’s right.”

“Wait, what is it?”

You shook your head, laughing.

“No. I’m not telling you.”

“That means it’s good.”

“That means it’s embarrassing.”

“Even better.”

You threw a pillow at Chloe, but she caught it easily.

“Listen,” Michelle said, pointing at you. “The three of us are clearly too nervous to ask anything. So this responsibility has fallen onto you.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who might actually speak.”

“That is not a compliment.”

“It absolutely is.”

The teasing continued as everyone went back to getting ready. They debated questions, outfits, and what impression you wanted to make. They gave completely unhelpful suggestions, ranging from heartfelt questions about creativity to dramatic ones that would probably get you escorted out before you even made it home.

By late morning, the room had transformed.

The beds were covered in discarded clothes. The playlist was still going. Everyone was dressed, almost ready, and suddenly the excitement that had been buzzing around all morning became something heavier.

Real.

You looked around at your friends, all dressed up and smiling, and felt the same strange thought settle in.

In a few hours, you weren’t just going to listen to her music.

You were going to be in the room. You were going to hear her speak. And somehow, impossibly, she might hear you speak too.

By the time the Uber pulled up outside the hotel, all four of you had reached the stage of excitement where nobody could sit still.

The driver barely had time to unlock the doors before Chloe was climbing into the back seat, carefully lifting the hem of her outfit so she didn't wrinkle it.

"Everybody do one last check," she announced.

The car had barely moved an inch before four phone cameras appeared.

Lipstick. Hair. Earrings. The angle of a collar. Mascara.

"Jess, you've got glitter on your cheek."

"I put glitter on my cheek."

"...Right."

"You've got lipstick on your tooth."

"Oh my God, where?"

"There."

"There where?"

"No, your other left."

"I hate you."

The Uber was filled with nervous laughter for almost the entire drive. Every few minutes, someone would blurt out another sentence that sent everyone spiralling all over again.

"We're actually going."

"What if she walks right past us?"

"What if she smiles at us?"

"What if she asks someone a question?"

"What if she makes eye contact?"

"No," Michelle said immediately. "We're not talking about eye contact."

"Why?"

"Because then I'll pass away before we even get inside."

Your eyes gazed out the window, watching the city slide past. You felt immune to the cold weather outside, your nerves creating plenty of warmth. 

The venue grew larger with every traffic light.

You'd imagined this day so many times that actually driving toward it felt... wrong somehow. Like you'd accidentally stepped into one of the daydreams you'd had while listening to ARTPOP on repeat.

"This doesn't feel real," you murmured.

"No," Jess agreed quietly.

"It feels like we're pretending."

The Uber rounded one final corner. Then it came into view.

The venue.

There was already a line forming outside despite everyone having assigned entry times. Staff moved between guests with clipboards while photographers lingered near the entrance, hoping to catch arrivals.

"Oh my God."

"Oh my God."

"Oh my God."

The phrase echoed around the car like a chorus.

The driver chuckled.

"Big fan?"

The four of you answered at the same time.

"Yes."

He laughed.

"I figured."

Checking in happened almost faster than your brain could process. Names confirmed, IDs checked, lanyards slipped over your heads.

The glossy pass rested against your chest, swinging gently as you walked through the entrance.

You picked it up between your fingers.

Exclusive Guest - ARTPOP Press Conference. Your name printed neatly beneath it.

"I am never throwing this away," Michelle whispered.

"It's getting framed," Chloe corrected.

"Mine's getting buried with me."

"You’re so young."

“And?”

Nobody had an argument for that.

Inside, everything felt polished.

Soft lighting washed over modern white walls while huge ARTPOP promotional displays stood throughout the foyer. Staff directed guests toward the conference room, while another section had been transformed into a catered lunch area for everyone who had arrived early.

Thankfully, you had; it gave you time to breathe. Or, at least, attempt to.

You each grabbed a plate, wandering slowly along the buffet with the sort of absent-mindedness that came from having your brain occupied by one singular thought. Lady Gaga.

The food looked incredible; you barely registered what you were putting on your plate.

Jess stared down at hers after sitting.

"I don't even know what I grabbed."

You looked.

"I think... chicken?"

"...Is it?"

"I genuinely can't tell."

"I'm too nervous to taste it."

"You have anxiety-induced taste blindness," Chloe declared.

"I don't think that's medically recognised."

"It is today."

A laugh escaped all four of you, cutting through the tension for a moment. The table settled into a comfortable silence as everyone picked at their food.

The room buzzed with conversations around you. Journalists compared notes, fans quietly admired each other's outfits. And every so often,  someone would notice another familiar face from online fan spaces and excitedly wave them over.

It somehow made everything feel even more real.

You swallowed a bite of food before setting your fork down.

"I'm starting to freak out."

"Starting?" Michelle laughed. "You've been freaking out since six this morning."

"I mean... properly."

She nodded.

"Yeah."

"I keep thinking..." you admitted, glancing toward the doors that led deeper into the venue. "She's actually here."

Your friends all followed your gaze instinctively. Not because they expected to see her, just because saying it out loud made it impossible not to think about.

"Somewhere behind those doors," Jess said softly.

"Probably doing interviews."

"Or getting ready."

"Or drinking coffee."

The image made everyone smile.

"I don't know why," Chloe said, "but thinking about celebrities doing normal people things always breaks my brain."

"You mean because she's probably just... sitting somewhere?"

"Exactly."

“Doomscrolling."

"Eating lunch."

"Talking to her team."

"And then in an hour she'll walk into that room and somehow become Lady Gaga."

You nodded slowly.

"That's the weird part."

Because that was the thing.

Stefani the person existed somewhere behind the scenes.

But the woman everyone had fallen in love with as Lady Gaga felt almost mythical. Larger than life. Like someone who belonged on stages and magazine covers instead of sitting backstage eating a salad.

Michelle leaned across the table, lowering her voice dramatically.

"So."

You immediately narrowed your eyes.

"...So?"

"The question."

Three pairs of eyes landed on you. You sighed.

"We're back to this?"

"We never left it."

"You have to ask something."

"I know."

"No," Chloe corrected. "You have to ask something memorable."

"I'm not trying to become a meme."

"Why not?"

"Because I enjoy living."

Jess smiled into her drink.

"I still think you should ask something sweet."

"I agree," Michelle said.

Chloe rolled her eyes.

"Sweet is boring."

"It isn't."

"It is."

She pointed her fork at you like she was making the final argument in a courtroom.

"You have the attention of Lady Gaga."

"Potentially."

"Potentially," she echoed. "You cannot waste that."

"I wasn't planning to."

"So ask something nobody else would."

You laughed, shaking your head.

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one standing at the microphone."

"No," she admitted with a grin. "Which is exactly why we're making you do it."

The table erupted into laughter again, the nervous energy spilling over into teasing instead of panic.

It helped, even if only for a little while. Because beneath every joke, every exaggerated suggestion, and every laugh, the same thought lingered in all four of your minds. Soon, the doors would open, and the woman whose music had filled your lives for years would finally walk into the room.

Lunch disappeared far quicker than any of you remembered eating it.

The nerves had turned all four of you into absent-minded diners, conversations constantly interrupted by someone stopping mid-sentence to quietly whisper,

"...We're really here."

Once the plates had been cleared away, the four of you drifted back into the foyer, lanyards swinging against your outfits as the venue continued to fill with more guests.

The atmosphere had changed. It no longer felt like people waiting for something to start; it felt like a community.

Every few steps, someone spotted a familiar face.

"You've got to be kidding me," Michelle suddenly gasped.

"What?"

She was already pointing discreetly across the room.

"No way."

Standing near one of the promotional displays was a girl you'd only ever known through a tiny profile picture on Twitter.

You'd spent years liking each other's concert photos, screaming over surprise performances, counting down album releases, and live-tweeting award shows together.

Neither of you had ever imagined meeting in person.

"You have to go say hi," Chloe insisted.

"What if it's not her?"

"It is."

"What if she doesn't recognise me?"

"She absolutely will."

Your feet carried you over before your brain had caught up.

"Hailey?"

The woman turned.

Her eyes widened almost instantly.

"No..."

She broke into a grin.

"No way."

Within seconds she was wrapping you in a hug, laughing just as hard as you were.

"I can't believe it's actually you!"

"I was literally just thinking the same thing."

Soon your friends were introducing themselves, and before long another familiar username wandered over after recognising the conversation.

Then another. Then another.

It was surreal watching profile pictures become real people. Names you'd read beneath thousands of tweets suddenly had voices. People who had celebrated albums, mourned cancelled shows, decoded cryptic Instagram captions and counted down music videos together were suddenly standing in one room.

"I’m obsessed with your posts."

"You always post the best concert videos."

"I knew I recognised your jacket!"

"I've followed you since the Born This Way Ball!"

The conversations flowed effortlessly. Nobody needed icebreakers; everyone already had one thing in common. Lady Gaga.

The afternoon settled into something wonderfully unstructured.

There was no rush, no strict schedule. Just enough time for everyone to soak in the experience before the conference began.

One corner of the venue housed a small merchandise area that quickly became impossible to resist.

"You absolutely do not need another hoodie," Jess said as you reached for one.

"I absolutely do."

"You already own..."

"I don't want facts right now."

Twenty minutes later, all four of you walked away carrying branded tote bags filled with posters, limited edition event prints, enamel pins and shirts that immediately became treasured possessions.

"I’m financially irresponsible," Chloe announced.

"You've been financially irresponsible since we booked flights."

"...Fair."

Michelle carefully unfolded one of the exclusive ARTPOP prints.

"They're never making these again."

"Don't tell me that."

"Why?"

"Because now I'm scared to touch it."

"You bought it."

"I know."

"But now it's precious."

"It was precious before."

"I've made it more precious."

Jess laughed.

"You two are insane."

As the afternoon wore on, staff members became easier to recognise. Some walked briskly through the venue carrying clipboards and headsets. Others stopped to chat with guests between preparations. One woman paused near your group after noticing the merchandise piled in your arms.

"You all finding everything okay?"

She smiled warmly, her event credentials hanging around her neck.

You nodded enthusiastically.

"This has been incredible."

"I'm glad."

She laughed at the sheer excitement written across all four of your faces.

"First Gaga event?"

"For some of us," Michelle admitted.

"It shows."

"...Is it that obvious?"

"In the nicest possible way."

She introduced herself as part of Gaga's event team, explaining she'd worked alongside the Haus for several years.

Nothing glamorous, she'd insisted.

Mostly logistics, making sure people were where they needed to be, keeping the day running smoothly.

Still, listening to her talk felt fascinating. She spoke about the organised chaos that came with live events, how much planning went into appearances like today, and how hard everyone behind the scenes worked long before guests ever arrived.

"She always wants people looked after," the staff member said with a smile. "That's something she really cares about."

Something about hearing that from someone who actually worked with her made your chest tighten.

It wasn't some interview quote. It wasn't promotional. It was simply someone talking about their boss with genuine affection.

Before she left, she wished everyone a wonderful afternoon.

"I hope you all get to ask great questions."

Your friends immediately looked at you.

The woman followed their gaze.

"...Should I be worried?" she joked.

You laughed nervously.

"I honestly don't know yet."

"I'll take that as a maybe."

She disappeared back into the growing crowd, leaving your group smiling after her.

"See?" Chloe nudged your shoulder.

"Even Gaga's team wants you to ask a question."

"That's not what she said."

"It's what I heard."

"You hear whatever supports your argument."

"Correct."

The venue had become noticeably busier now. Conversations echoed beneath the high ceilings, camera crews began filtering toward the conference room, publicists moved with increasing purpose.

Someone adjusted lighting near the stage entrance. Without anyone announcing it, the energy shifted. The relaxed afternoon was slowly giving way to anticipation.

People instinctively started drifting toward the auditorium doors.

Phones disappeared into pockets.

Merchandise was carefully tucked into bags.

The laughter softened into excited murmurs.

You looked around at the hundreds of fans and journalists gathering together.

Hours ago, you'd all been strangers. But now it felt like everyone was collectively holding the same breath.

Waiting for one set of doors to open.

The doors finally swung open, and the crowd's rush felt like a physical wave, pulling you and your friends out of your seats.

The room was a masterpiece of stark, avant-garde design. High-contrast lighting bathed the space in a clinical, futuristic glow, and the centre stage was framed by massive LED screens currently pulsing with the distorted, colourful imagery of the ARTPOP era. The air felt electrically charged, thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the collective, humming anxiety of hundreds of people.

As you sat down, the room began to settle. The chatter died down into a low, vibrating murmur. Every time a door opened, or a staff member moved with purpose, a ripple of excitement surged through the audience.

"I can't breathe," Jess whispered, her hand gripping the armrest so hard her knuckles were white.

"Breathe, Jess. Just breathe," Chloe replied, though she was unconsciously bouncing her leg at a frantic pace.

Then, the lights dimmed.

The transition was instantaneous. The room plunged into a deep, dramatic shadow, and the LED screens exploded into a blinding flash of white and neon. A heavy, distorted bass line began to thrum through the floorboards, vibrating in your chest, syncing up with the frantic beat of your own heart.

A single spotlight slammed onto the centre of the stage.

And there she was.

The collective gasp from the crowd was audible, a sharp intake of breath that felt like the room had suddenly run out of oxygen. Lady Gaga didn't just walk onto the stage; she claimed it. Her presence was magnetic, a concentrated force of charisma that pulled every eye in the room toward her.

She didn't speak immediately. She simply stood there for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the crowd with a knowing, playful smile.

When she finally stepped toward the microphone, the silence was absolute.

"Hello, my loves," she said, her voice warm, resonant, and echoing through the speakers.

The room erupted. The applause was deafening, a roar of pure adoration that seemed to shake the very walls of the venue. You found yourself cheering along with everyone else, your voice joining the chorus, though your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

The beginning of the conference was a blur of sensory overload. Hearing her voice live and not through a speaker in your bedroom, vibrating through the air, was an experience that felt almost spiritual. She spoke with a passion that was infectious, diving into the philosophy of ARTPOP, the intersection of music and image, and the bravery it takes to be an outsider. 

Every word she spoke felt like it was designed to empower, and you sat there, completely mesmerised, barely blinking.

As the presentation shifted toward the Q&A session, the energy in the room pivoted from admiration to desperation. Everyone wanted a moment of her time.

However, the process was highly organised. A few staff members began moving through the aisles, holding clipboards and checking the guest list. They weren't just picking random people; they were calling forward a pre-selected group of guests and journalists who had been chosen for the first round of questions.

"Excuse me," a staff member whispered, leaning toward you. "You're on the list. Please follow me."

Your heart stopped. You felt a sudden, sharp jolt of adrenaline that made your fingertips tingle.

"Oh my god," Michelle breathed, her eyes wide. "It's happening."

Chloe and Jess were practically vibrating beside you, their faces a mix of shock and vicarious excitement. As you stood up, your legs felt a little like jelly, but the sheer force of the moment pushed you forward.

You were led toward the side of the stage, joining a small queue of other selected guests. Standing there, just a few feet away from the stage, the scale of everything became even more intense. You could see the fine details of her outfit, the way her makeup caught the light, and the sheer power she radiated.

You stood in line, shifting your weight from foot to foot, your heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were moments away from the microphone. Moments away from her eyes meeting yours.

The staff member gestured you forward.

Your feet carried you the last few steps before your mind had caught up. The microphone stood waiting, stark and real, and beyond it Lady Gaga watched with patient curiosity. Up close, she was even more striking. The precise angle of her cheekbone, the deliberate chaos of her styling, the way she held herself like someone who had never once doubted her right to occupy space.

"Hi," you said, and the word came out smaller than you'd intended.

You cleared your throat. Tried again.

"Hi."

Better. Slightly.

Gaga's expression softened into something almost gentle. She didn't rush you. The room waited too, hundreds of eyes pressing against your back, but in that moment it felt like only the two of you existed. You were nervous and exposed; she was calm and waiting.

You took a breath. Letting it fill your lungs before releasing it.

Your question had sounded clever in your head this morning, rehearsed in the mirror while your friends laughed in the background. Now every version of it had fled completely, leaving only instinct and the strange boldness that came from having nothing left to lose.

"My question's easy," you heard yourself say, and your voice steadied as you spoke. "I just want to know — what would you do with my body?"

The room erupted. Screams and sharp intakes of breath, your friends' shrieks somewhere behind you, a wave of sound that crashed over you both.

Gaga didn't flinch. Her eyes held yours, and then that smile began. Slow, deliberate, entirely hers.

"Well, you know what?" she said, leaning into the microphone. "You're my kind of girl. So I would do a lot."

The crowd lost it completely. Your cheeks burned, but you forced yourself to hold her gaze, chin lifted slightly even as your pulse thundered in your ears.

"Is that right?" you managed, the words sounding far bolder than you felt.

Gaga's smile deepened. She stepped back from the microphone, circling the stage with the lazy confidence of someone who knew exactly what effect she had on a room.

"Oh, I don't think you heard me," she said, her voice dropping to something more intimate even through the speakers. She stopped walking and faced you directly. "I said a lot."

The room had gone quieter, people sensing the shift. This wasn't banter anymore. Gaga's eyes hadn't left yours, and there was something unmistakably serious in them. A deliberate choice to keep this going, to make sure you understood she meant it.

You felt the flush crawl down your neck but refused to look away. "I'm pretty sure I heard you."

"Good." She lingered on the word. "Then you'll remember."

She finally broke eye contact, turning back to the audience with ease, but not before you caught the slight arch of her eyebrow. A private signal, just for you.

The conference continued. Other questions were asked, other answers given. You floated back to your seat in a daze, your friends grabbing at your arms the moment you sat down.

"That just happened," Michelle hissed. "That actually just happened."

"She was serious," Jess whispered, eyes enormous. "That wasn't— she was actually serious."

"Did you see her face?" Chloe demanded, shaking your shoulder. "She was eating you alive."

You couldn't speak yet. Your hands were still trembling slightly, pressed together in your lap.

More questions. More answers. Gaga's attention moved through the room, professional and warm with everyone else, but you kept catching it. Brief flickers back to where you sat, enough to make your breath catch each time.

Then the conference ended. Applause, curtain, the chaotic energy of people standing and gathering belongings. Your friends were still talking over each other, replaying every second, when a man approached from the side of the room.

You hadn't seen him before, not among the staff you'd spoken with earlier. He wore simple black, no obvious credentials, and he moved with the unobtrusive efficiency of someone who belonged everywhere without needing to announce it.

He leaned close as he reached you, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

"Stefani asked me to find you." A pause, his expression giving nothing away. "Wait until the room clears. I'll take you backstage."

He straightened before you could respond, melting back into the crowd as quickly as he'd appeared.

Your friends had stopped talking. They were staring at you.

"What?" Chloe demanded. "What did he say?"

You looked down at your hands. They'd stopped trembling.

"He said to wait."

Inside, your brain had short-circuited completely. You kept replaying it. The deliberate way Gaga had held your gaze, the dropped intimacy in her voice, the eyebrow. That eyebrow. 

Part of you was convinced this was some elaborate prank, that any second someone would jump out with a camera and explain you'd been set up for a viral clip. Another part kept whispering that you'd hallucinated the entire exchange, that you'd simply collapsed from nerves and were currently being tended to by paramedics while your subconscious invented a better ending.

"Are you okay?" Michelle asked, peering at you. "You look like you're about to faint."

"I'm fine," you lied automatically.

"You're not fine," Chloe said. "You're whatever comes after fine. Transcendent. You're ascending."

The four of you stood in the aisle as the venue cleared around you, journalists packing equipment, fans lingering near the exits in dazed clusters. You felt untethered, like the floor beneath your feet had become theoretical.

"We saw this place on the way in," Jess said suddenly, pulling out her phone. "Italian, like two blocks down. We can grab a table, get wine, wait for you."

"You don't have to wait," you said, though the words felt mechanical.

"We're waiting," Michelle said firmly. "Text when you're coming out, and we'll all go home together."

"Home together," you echoed, nodding.

Chloe's grin turned wicked. "Or don't text. If you end up going home with Gaga tonight, we'll understand."

"Chloe—"

"I'm just saying. She made you an offer. A lot, specifically."

"Stop."

"Have a good night, either way."

She dodged your half-hearted swat, laughing as the three of them gathered their bags and merchandise. They hugged you in sequence, each squeeze tighter than the last, whispered encouragement and disbelief and one very inappropriate suggestion from Chloe that made Jess gasp.

Then they were gone, disappearing through the main doors, and you were alone in the rapidly emptying venue.

The silence felt enormous.

You stood there, phone clutched in your hand, wondering if you should text them now just to confirm you were still alive and this was still real. The staff had begun clearing chairs from the front rows, rolling up cables, the mundane aftermath of something extraordinary.

"Ready?"

You jumped. The man stood beside you in the same black clothes, the same unobtrusive presence, as if he'd materialised from thin air. You hadn't seen him approach.

"Stefani's waiting," he said, with the casual assurance of someone who said this daily.

Your throat went dry. "This isn't— she's actually—"

"Backstage," he repeated, gesturing toward the side entrance. "Follow me."

He began walking without checking if you would follow, and after a frozen moment, your feet moved.

The corridors stretched longer than you expected, a maze of concrete and exposed wiring that bore no resemblance to the polished venue above. Your footsteps echoed against the walls, passing doors marked with names you didn't recognise, until the man turned a final corner and the space opened into something larger.

You were underneath the stage. You could feel it. The weight of the structure above, the distant vibration of equipment being dismantled. Staff moved with purpose through the cavernous space, barely glancing at you. 

Then you saw them. Three people you recognised immediately from documentary footage and behind-the-scenes photos. Gaga's styling team, still in their element, discussing something with animated gestures as they packed garment bags.

One of them caught your eye, did a visible double-take, then smiled with knowing warmth. You flushed and looked away.

The man stopped at an unmarked door, indistinguishable from the others except for its complete anonymity. He pushed it open and stepped aside.

"Wait in here," he said. "Someone will join you shortly."

The room was small, functional, clearly a secondary space rather than anyone's primary dressing room. A couch against one wall, a mirror with bulbs that hadn't been turned on, a small table with water bottles and a wilting fruit platter. The door clicked shut behind you, and you were alone.

You sat on the edge of the couch. Stood up. Sat down again. Checked your phone, no signal. Picked up a water bottle and put it down without opening it.

The door opened.

A woman entered, perhaps mid-thirties, dressed in the kind of professional casual that suggested she hadn't planned to be here tonight. Dark blazer, neat trousers, hair pulled back efficiently. She carried a slim leather portfolio and wore the unmistakable expression of someone who had done this many times before.

"Hi," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Clara. I handle contractual matters for Stefani's personal engagements."

You shook her hand, your palm slightly damp, hoping she wouldn't notice.

"I need to be direct with you," Clara continued, opening her portfolio on the table. "Stefani is interested in spending time with you tonight. However, given her public profile, certain protections are required."

She withdrew a document, several pages, dense with text, and placed it before you.

"This is a comprehensive non-disclosure agreement. It stipulates that nothing discussed, witnessed, or experienced in Stefani's company can be shared with any third party. This includes but is not limited to: verbal statements, physical interactions, location details, duration of encounter, and any impressions or conclusions you might draw about her person."

She produced a pen, clicking it with deliberate sound.

"The agreement extends to social media, private messaging, future interviews, and any context in which you might be asked about your evening. Breach carries significant financial penalties and potential legal action. Additionally, you are prohibited from photographing, recording, or retaining any physical evidence of your time together. You may not request autographs, gifts, or professional favours. You may not disclose that you signed this agreement."

She looked up, her expression neither warm nor cold. Simply professional.

"Do you understand these terms?"

Your eyes had barely scanned the first paragraph. You thought of your friends two blocks away, waiting for a text. You thought of Chloe's joke, suddenly less funny. You thought of Gaga's voice, dropped to that intimate register, saying a lot.

"Yes," you said.

"Do you have questions?"

You picked up the pen. "Where do I sign?"

Clara indicated three separate lines without comment. You wrote your name, printed it, dated it. The pen moved smoothly, no tremor. No hesitation.

She reviewed the document, slid it back into her portfolio, and finally allowed something like approval to soften her features.

"Thank you for your discretion." She moved toward the door, then paused. "Stefani will be with you shortly."

The door closed. You pace the small length of the room, the silence pressing in on you. The adrenaline that carried you through the NDA is beginning to slow, leaving a hollow, fluttering nervousness. You stop in front of the mirror, the harsh bulbs casting a clinical glow over your reflection.

You reach up, tugging at the hem of your top to make sure it sits just right. Then, you turn, twisting your torso to look over your shoulder. You smooth the fabric of your shiny pants, checking the fit. 

The material clings to your curves, highlighting the line of your hips and the swell of your backside. You bite your lip, wondering if it's too much, or just enough.

You jump, nearly tripping over your own feet as the door swings open.

Your heart doesn't just race; it drops, plummeting into your stomach as Gaga steps into the room. She’s wearing a wide, genuine smile that reaches her eyes. She is still in her stage gear, a daring black bra that leaves little to the imagination and tight black pants that look like a second skin, perched atop towering high heels.

The sound of the heels on the linoleum is rhythmic and predatory. Gaga doesn't stop until she’s well within your personal space. The scent of expensive perfume and a hint of stage sweat hits you all at once.

"You're even more beautiful up close," Gaga says. Her voice is a low, melodic purr.

"I... thank you," you manage, your voice sounding breathy and thin.

Gaga doesn't move back. Instead, she reaches out and takes your hand. Her grip is firm, her skin warm. With a sudden, playful movement, she spins you around in a slow circle.

"I love these pants," she murmurs, her eyes travelling down and then back up. "They hug you in all the right places. Very bold. I like bold."

She steps closer, closing the remaining gap until your chests are nearly touching. She leans in, her lips hovering just inches from your ear. "You're shaking," she whispers.

"I'm just... This doesn’t feel real," you admit, a small, shaky laugh escaping you.

Gaga pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. She lets out a soft, delighted sound. "Hmm. It's actually very endearing. I love that I can make you this nervous."

She lets her hand slide from your palm, her fingers trailing lightly up your arm, sending a jolt of electricity through your skin.

You feel a spark of the boldness you'd shown on stage. You clear your throat and look up at the superstar. "Well, you did say you'd do 'a lot' with my body. I figured I should make sure I looked the part."

Gaga’s eyebrows shoot up. A slow, wicked grin spreads across her face.

"Oh," Gaga hums, the sound vibrating in her chest. "So you do have a bit of a bite. I think we're going to get along just fine."

Gaga lingers in your space, her eyes scanning your face as if she’s trying to memorise every detail. 

"Tell me," she says, her voice dropping an octave. "Would you be comfortable coming back to the penthouse I'm staying in for the night?"

The answer is out of your mouth before you can even process the question. "Yes. Definitely."

Gaga lets out a soft, melodic laugh, her eyes shimmering. She steps back just an inch, her expression turning a bit more serious, though the flirtatious glint remains. "Now, listen. I want to be clear—nothing has to happen tonight. No pressure, no expectations. I just... I’m genuinely fascinated by you. I’d love the company, and I want to get to know you better."

"I'd love that too," you reply, your heart still drumming against your ribs.

"Perfect." She reaches out, her fingers sliding into your hand, locking her grip with yours. 

She leads you back out into the maze of corridors. You feel the heavy, silent presence of the security detail following a few paces behind, their footsteps rhythmic on the concrete. You’re barely paying attention to them; your entire world has narrowed down to the warmth of Gaga’s hand in yours.

She guides you into her main dressing room, a whirlwind of sequins, makeup brushes, and garment bags. Her assistants are buzzing around, the air thick with the smell of hairspray and expensive coffee.

"I'm heading back to the penthouse," Gaga announces, not letting go of your hand.

The assistants stop in unison, nodding with efficiency. "Understood, Stefani," one of them says. "We've got the wardrobe sorted and the itinerary for tomorrow is confirmed."

"Good. Thank you, everyone."

She leads you further, through a side exit and into a dim, hidden parking area where an unmarked black sedan waits, its engine idling with a low, steady hum. The security guard opens the door for you both. He slides into the front passenger seat, leaving the expansive, leather-clad back area entirely to the two of you.

The door closes, sealing you both in a quiet, climate-controlled sanctuary. The city lights begin to blur past the tinted windows in a smear of neon.

Gaga doesn't sit across from you. She slides right next to you, her thigh pressing firmly against yours. She turns her body toward you, her curiosity practically radiating off her.

"So, tell me everything," she says, her eyes wide and searching. "Where are you from? What do you do? What goes through your head when you're looking at me like that?"

You find yourself talking. Really talking. Answering her questions with a mixture of nerves and growing confidence. She listens with an almost overwhelming intensity, nodding and humming in response, making you feel like you're the only person in the world.

"And please," she interrupts softly, a small smile playing on her lips. "Call me Stefani. When we're like this, there's no need for anything else. And once we get to the penthouse, I want you to make yourself completely at home."

As the car glides through the traffic, Stefani’s hand finds your leg. Her palm rests on the slick, shiny material of your pants, and then, slowly, she begins to stroke your thigh. 

The friction of her hand against the fabric sends a wave of heat straight to your core, and you realise that while she said nothing had to happen, the tension between you is already screaming.

The car pulls up to a sleek, towering residence of glass and steel. The security detail remains a silent, protective wall as they escort you through the lobby and into a private elevator. The ascent is fast and silent, a sudden surge of gravity that leaves you feeling weightless. 

When the doors slide open, you're led straight to the main entrance of a sprawling penthouse. The guard holds the door open for you both, and Stefani turns to him with a soft, genuine smile.

"Thank you so much. I've got it from here," she says.

The door clicks shut, and the sudden silence of the apartment is heavy and sweet. Stefani lets out a long, shaky sigh, her shoulders dropping as she finally relaxes. 

"God, it feels good to be home," she murmurs. She turns to you, her eyes brightening. "Are you hungry? I have some things in the fridge."

Before you can answer, she's leading you into a kitchen that looks like it belongs in an architectural magazine. All white marble and brushed gold. She opens the oversized refrigerator and pulls out a stunning platter of sliced exotic fruits, chilled and glistening.

"Here," she says, stepping close to you. 

She spears a piece of ripe mango with a silver fork. Instead of handing it to you, she holds it up to your lips. Her gaze is locked on yours, intense and searching. As you take the fruit from her, you see her tongue flick out, slowly licking her lips as she watches you chew.

"Mmm," she hums, a low sound of approval. 

Feeling a surge of confidence, you reach for the fork. You pick up a slice of strawberry and hold it out to her. Stefani’s eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before a wicked smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth. She leans in, taking the fruit from you with a slow, deliberate bite, her eyes never leaving yours.

"I like it when you watch me," she whispers.

She sets the platter aside and moves with fluid grace to the stove, preparing two mugs of herbal tea. The scent of chamomile and honey begins to fill the room, grounding you. By the time she hands you a steaming mug, the frantic drumming in your chest has settled into a steady, warm thrum.

You both migrate to the living area, sinking into a massive, plush velvet couch. You sit so close that you can feel the heat radiating from her skin. Up close, without the stage lights or the cameras, she is breathtaking. You find yourself tracing the line of her jaw, the soft curve of her neck, the way her eyes seem to hold a thousand secrets.

"You're staring," Stefani notes, though she doesn't sound like she minds. She leans back, her arm draping casually along the back of the couch, her fingers just barely brushing your shoulder.

"Hard not to," you reply, your voice steadier now, bolder. "I think I'm starting to realise that the stage version of you is actually the toned-down version."

Stefani lets out a delighted laugh, a rich sound that vibrates through the cushions. "Is that so? And what version am I right now?"

You shift closer, your shiny pants sliding against the velvet. You look her straight in the eyes, a playful smile on your lips. "The dangerous version. The one I should probably be worried about."

Stefani’s smile deepens, and she leans in, her breath warm against your cheek. "Oh, sweetheart... you should be." 

The next few hours melt into a blur of easy conversation and shared laughter. You find yourself opening up in a way you rarely do, talking about your life, your passions, and the strange, electric journey of the last few hours. Stefani listens with an intensity that makes you feel seen, her questions thoughtful and her responses honest. 

You keep returning to the fruit platter, the two of you taking turns feeding each other, the act becoming a playful, intimate ritual. Every time your fingers brush, or your eyes lock, a fresh wave of heat rolls through you. The tea in your mugs goes cold, forgotten, as you lean further and further into each other’s space.

Stefani throws her head back, laughing at a story you've just told, her hand resting naturally on your knee. In this moment, the global superstar is gone, replaced by a woman who is genuinely captivated by you.

Eventually, Stefani glances at the sleek digital clock on the wall. "It's already ten-thirty," she notes, her voice soft. She turns back to you, her expression warm. "Do you need a lift home tonight, or... would you be comfortable staying here?"

The invitation sends a jolt through you, but the answer is instinctive. "I'd love to stay."

Stefani’s smile is triumphant, a small, knowing glint in her eyes. "I'm glad." She pauses, her tone becoming considerate. "Do you need to let anyone know where you are? I wouldn't want your people worrying."

The words hit you like a bucket of ice water. Your eyes widen, and you nearly drop your phone as you scramble to find it.

"Oh my god," you gasp. "My friends. I completely forgot to text them!"

You imagine Michelle, Jess, and Chloe sitting in an Italian restaurant, staring at their phones in a state of escalating panic. You frantically open the group chat, your thumbs flying across the screen.

I'm okay! I'm staying the night at the penthouse! Please don't call the police!

The response is almost instantaneous. The phone buzzes violently in your hand.

Chloe: I KNEW IT! I CALLED IT!

Jess: OMG STAY SAFE QUEEN!

Michelle: We were actually starting to wonder, but we decided to order another bottle of wine, some pizza and just vibe. We're at the restaurant still.

Chloe: GOOD LUCK. DO EVERYTHING. I MEAN EVERYTHING. WE WANT DETAILS TOMORROW.

You let out a long breath of relief, a small laugh escaping you. "They're not mad," you tell Stefani. "They're actually... freaking out more than I am."

Stefani reaches over and gently takes the phone from your hand, setting it face-down on the coffee table. The movement is slow and deliberate.

"Good," she whispers, her gaze dropping to your lips. "Then there's nothing left to distract us." 

A short while passes, the air between you thick with an unspoken electricity. Stefani eventually stands, gracefully gathering the empty mugs and the fruit platter. 

The sound of the ceramics meeting in the kitchen is the only noise in the quiet penthouse. She returns to you, her expression soft and thoughtful.

"You've had a very long, very intense day," she says, her voice a gentle caress. "Would you like to take a shower? Just to freshen up and relax. No pressure at all, of course. I'll be right here in the main room if you need anything, and you can take your time getting dressed."

You look at her, really look at her. The way she’s standing, the daring cut of her stage outfit, the way she's giving you total control. Something inside you clicks, a final surge of that boldness you'd felt on stage.

"Actually," you start, your voice slightly trembling but clear. You pause, gathering every ounce of courage. "Do you... want to save water?"

Stefani freezes. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across her lips. She doesn't speak for a second, her eyes searching yours to make sure she’s understanding the invitation correctly. You nod slowly, stepping closer until you can feel the warmth of her breath on your skin.

"Can I finally kiss you?" you whisper.

Stefani doesn't answer with words. She reaches out, her hand sliding to the back of your neck and pulling you forward with a sudden, hungry intensity. When her lips meet yours, it isn't tentative. It's passionate, deep, and demanding, a release of all the tension that had been building since the moment you stepped up to that microphone.

A soft moan escapes your throat as you melt into her. She tastes like honey and desire. 

Without breaking the kiss, Stefani begins to guide you toward the bedroom. As you move, she reaches out and clicks off the main lights, plunging the penthouse into a soft, velvety darkness. She taps a switch on the wall, and the room is suddenly bathed in a warm, amber mood lighting that casts long, dancing shadows across the walls.

The makeout continues, becoming more urgent, more desperate. You're pressed against her, the friction of your shiny pants against her tight leggings creating a frantic, sliding heat.

Stefani pulls back just an inch, her forehead resting against yours. Her breathing is heavy, her eyes dark with heat. "Can I take your clothes off?" she asks softly.

"Yes," you breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Please."

As she begins to work on your top, you find your own hands reaching for the hem of her bra. "Can I... can I undress you too?"

"Please do," she whispers.

The clothes fall away in a blur of hurried movements and breathless gasps. The slick material of your pants slides down your legs, leaving you both completely exposed to one another. For a heartbeat, you both just stand there, admiring the sight of each other in the amber light.

Stefani takes your hand, her grip firm and leading, and guides you into the lush, oversized bathroom. The room is a sanctuary of white marble and gold accents. She reaches over and turns the handle of the walk-in shower.

The sound of the water filling the space is immediate, a steady roar. You both stand there in the growing humidity, watching the steam begin to curl and rise, waiting for the water to reach the perfect temperature. 

Stefani takes your hand and leads you under the spray. 

The heat hits your skin in a sudden, exhilarating rush. Stefani doesn't just stand with you; she immediately takes control. She reaches out, her hand gripping your waist and spinning you around, pressing your front firmly against the large, steamed-up mirror of the shower wall. 

Stefani steps up behind you, her body a warm, heavy weight against your back. She reaches forward, her fingers tracing the line of your shoulder before she grips your hair. Not enough to hurt, but enough to tilt your head back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat. 

"Look at yourself," she whispers, her voice vibrating against your ear. "Look at how you're shaking for me. You're so responsive. I love that." 

You gaze into the mirror, your vision blurred by the steam and the intensity of her gaze reflecting at you. You look flushed, desperate, and completely under her spell.

"F… Fuck..." you gasp.

"Shhh," she hums, her lips finding the sensitive skin just below your ear. She bites down. Hard enough to leave a mark, a deliberate claim. "You don't need to speak. Just obey. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you whimper.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Stefani."

"Good girl." The praise sends a fresh jolt of heat through you, more potent than the water.

She spends the next few minutes in a state of absolute body worship, but on her terms. She directs your hands, forcing you to touch her, to admire the curves of her body while she dictates the pace. When you try to speed up, her grip on your hair tightens just a fraction, a silent command to slow down. 

"Not yet," she murmurs. "We're going to take our time."

After washing you and making you watch her, she doesn't let you dry off completely. She leads you, dripping and shivering slightly, back into the bedroom. She doesn't take you to the bed. Instead, she steers you toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the glittering sprawl of the city.

The glass is cold against your back, a shocking contrast to the heat still radiating from your skin. Stefani pins your wrists above your head with one hand, her strength surprising you, locking you against the window. The city lights are a blur of gold and blue behind you, and the thought that someone, somewhere, might be looking up adds a sharp, electric edge to the moment.

"You wanted to know what I'd do with your body," she says, her eyes dark and predatory. "I think I'm starting to figure it out."

She begins lightly, parting you and feeling around. Exploring where your most sensitive areas are. 

After shuddering, whimpering, and bucking your hips against her fingers, she enters you with a sudden, authoritative thrust that steals the breath from your lungs. 

You arch your back, your chest heaving, your nails digging into her hand. Stefani doesn't let up. She sets a relentless, driving pace, but every time you get close to the edge, every time your breath hitches and your muscles tighten for the release, she slows down. 

She pulls back, teasing you, her lips grazing your neck.

"Do you want it?" she whispers.

"Please... Stefani, please!"

"Beg for it. Tell me how much you need it."

"I need it... please, I need you!"

Only when she's satisfied with your desperation does she let you break. You finish embarrassingly fast as she drives you over the edge with a ferocity that leaves you sobbing, your body shaking in a violent, beautiful release. 

But as you begin to come down, she doesn't stop. She shifts her angle, her fingers finding exactly where you're most sensitive, sparking a second, even more intense orgasm before you can even catch your breath.

Stefani doesn’t let you linger in the afterglow for long. Her grip returns to your wrist, firm and guiding, as she leads you away from the window and toward the massive, silk-sheeted bed. The moment your back hits the mattress, she’s on top of you, pinning your shoulders down with a sudden, commanding weight.

"I'm not finished with you," she whispers.

She descends on you like a storm, her lips finding every inch of exposed skin. She marks you with a frantic, hungry intensity. Deep kisses on your collarbone, biting the soft curve of your shoulder, leaving a trail of heat and ownership across your chest. Her hands slide down to your breasts, squeezing and teasing the nipples until you're arching your back, a series of broken whimpers escaping your throat.

You shiver beneath her, your skin hypersensitive, every touch feeling like an electric shock. Stefani pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes dark, her expression one of absolute hunger. She shifts her weight, sliding down your body until she’s hovering just above your lap.

"Now," she says, her voice dropping to a commanding velvet. "I want you to eat me. And I wanna feel you doing it while I ride your face."

The request sends a surge of heat straight to your core. You don't even hesitate. "Please," you gasp, your hands reaching up to grab her hips. "Please, let me. I want to."

Stefani doesn't move. She stays just out of reach, a small, wicked smile playing on her lips. She loves the desperation in your voice, the way you're practically begging for the privilege of serving her.

"Beg for it a little more," she murmurs. "Tell me exactly what you want to do to me."

"I want to taste you," you moan, your voice strained. "I want to feel you on my mouth... please, Stefani, I need to."

"Good girl."

She shifts, moving with a slow, deliberate grace until she is positioned over you. You can feel the heat radiating off her, and as she lowers herself, the scent of her fills your senses. She is absolutely soaked, the moisture glistening in the amber light.

The first contact is a shock of heat and wetness. Stefani doesn't just drop down; she settles slowly, her weight pressing firmly against your mouth and nose. She reaches down, her fingers locking into your hair, pulling your head back slightly to anchor you in place.

"Mmm... just like that," she hums, the sound vibrating through her entire body.

She begins to move, her hips grinding in slow, torturous circles. She isn't rushing; she's savouring every flicker of your tongue, every desperate gasp for air. She rests her hands on your knees, pinning your legs open wide, using them as leverage to push herself deeper against your face.

"You're so good at this," she whispers, looking down at you with a mixture of pride and lust. "I can feel how much you want to please me. Keep going. Don't stop."

She increases the pace, her movements becoming more erratic and urgent. She shifts her weight, grinding her clit directly against your lips, her hips snapping in every direction as she hunts for the peak. Her breathing becomes a series of sharp, jagged gasps.

"Oh... oh god... right there!"

She tightens her grip on your hair, pulling your head firmly into her as the first wave hits. Her body stiffens, a loud, guttural moan ripping from her throat as she cums violently across your mouth. 

But she doesn't stop. The first orgasm only seems to fuel her. She keeps grinding, her hips working in a relentless, rhythmic blur, pushing herself back toward the edge. You can taste the salt and the sweetness of her, your tongue working frantically to keep her coming.

"Fuck… more, I need more", she cries out, her voice breaking.

A second wave crashes over her, then a third, her body shuddering in a series of prolonged, intense releases.  Stefani remained heavy and warm against your face for a long moment, her breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. 

Just as you thought the intensity had peaked, she shifted. A low, predatory hum vibrated in her chest, and she pushed herself up, looking down at you with eyes still clouded by lust.

"I think it's my turn to make you scream again," she whispered.

Before you could even breathe a response, Stefani gripped your hips with a sudden, bruising strength and flipped you over. The mattress groaned as you landed on your stomach, the air rushing out of your lungs. Before you could recover, she was there, pressing her full weight down, her heat radiating directly onto your skin.

Stefani shifted, sliding her body lower until her clit was pressed firmly against the back of your thigh. She began to grind, a slow, rhythmic pressure that sent sparks through your nerves. Simultaneously, Stefani reached beneath you, her fingers finding your wetness. Two fingers slid inside you with a sharp, wet sound.

"Mmm, you're so soaked for me," Stefani whispered, her voice a low, dangerous rasp in your ear. 

She synced her movements, grinding her pussy against your thigh at the same pace as her fingers thrusting inside you. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a pincer movement of pleasure that left you breathless.

"Do you like that? Tell me," Stefani commanded, her voice tightening. "Tell me how it feels to have me taking you like this."

"Ah... please... it's so sensitive," you whimpered, your face pressed deep into the pillow.

"Oh baby… I haven't even started," Stefani chuckled. She reached forward, winding her fingers into your hair and pulling your head back sharply. The yank forced a gasp from your lips, exposing your throat to her.

Stefani’s free hand left your hip, her nails digging into the skin of your back. She dragged them down in long, stinging lines, leaving red scratches that burned against the friction of the sheets.

"You're shaking," Stefani murmured, her breathing becoming heavy and jagged. "Are you close? Tell me you're almost there. I want to hear you beg."

"Yes... Oh god, yes– Please!"

Stefani accelerated. The grinding became frantic, the fingering deeper and faster. Just as the peak surged, as the tension became unbearable, Stefani abruptly slowed down. Her fingers barely moved, and the grinding came to a teasing, agonising halt.

"Nnh! No! Don't stop!" you cried out, your hips bucking instinctively against her.

"Not yet," Stefani breathed, her voice dripping with malice and desire. "You stay right on the edge for me. You don't get to go until I say so. Do you understand?"

"Yes... please, Stefani, please!"

For several agonising minutes, she played with the tension, pushing you to the absolute brink and then pulling back, her dirty talk fueling the fire. She whispered filth into your ear, describing exactly how she wanted you to break for her.

"Now," Stefani groaned, her own voice breaking. "Now, baby, come on–"

Stefani slammed back into you, fingers pumping wildly while she ground her clit hard against your thigh. 

"Ahhh! Oh god!" 

"Mmmm, fuck yes!" 

You hit the peak together, a violent, shaking collision of pleasure. You screamed into the pillow as your walls clamped tight around Stefani's fingers, and Stefani let out a long, shuddering moan, collapsing against your back, both of you gasping for air in the sudden, heavy silence. 

For a long while, neither of you moved.

The room was quiet except for the sound of two uneven breaths slowly finding the same rhythm. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered against the night, distant enough to feel like another world entirely.

Stefani was the first to stir.

She brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face with remarkable gentleness, her fingertips lingering against your cheek.

"Hey," she murmured.

You managed a sleepy hum in response, eyes still closed.

"There you are."

A smile tugged at your lips.

"I'm not sure I ever left."

She laughed softly, the sound warm and low in the quiet bedroom.

"No?"

"No."

You finally opened your eyes to find her already watching you.

"You okay?" she asked.

You nodded immediately.

"Yeah."

She tilted her head, unconvinced.

"Yeah?"

"Better than okay."

Only then did the small crease between her brows disappear.

"Good."

She leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to your forehead before slipping carefully out of bed.

"I'll be right back."

You watched her disappear into the adjoining bathroom, returning a minute later with a glass of water and a soft towel she'd dampened with warm water.

"Sit up for me."

You obeyed without question.

She handed you the water first.

"Drink."

"You sound bossy."

"I am bossy."

"I noticed."

Another quiet laugh.

You took several long drinks before handing the glass back.

"There."

"Better?"

"So much."

She smiled with obvious satisfaction before gently dabbing the warm towel along your shoulders and arms.

"You really don't have to..."

"I know."

Her voice was calm.

"I want to."

The towel was comforting against your skin, her touch unhurried and attentive. When she'd finished, she tossed it aside and climbed back into bed beside you.

This time there was no urgency.

She simply opened one arm in silent invitation. You moved into it instinctively.

Your head settled against her chest as the duvet was pulled over both of you, shutting out the cool air that lingered in the room.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

You listened to the steady beat of her heart beneath your ear. It was strangely reassuring.

Not because it belonged to someone you'd admired for years, because it reminded you she was simply human.

Stefani rested her cheek lightly against the top of your head.

"You know," she said eventually, "you completely surprised me today."

"Oh?"

"I've answered thousands of questions."

"I figured."

"But nobody's ever looked at me the way you did before asking one."

You laughed quietly into her shoulder.

"I thought I looked terrified."

"You did."

She smiled.

"But underneath that... you were fearless."

You felt your face warm.

"I almost talked myself out of it."

"I'm glad you didn't."

She tipped your chin up with two fingers until your eyes met.

"I'm very glad."

She kissed you then.

Slowly. Without hunger. Just a soft meeting of lips that lingered for a heartbeat before she rested her forehead against yours.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For trusting me."

The words settled between you, simple and sincere.

You answered by curling a little closer, your fingers absentmindedly tracing lazy circles against her side.

Outside, the city carried on as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Inside the penthouse, wrapped in warm sheets and quiet conversation, it felt like time had decided to pause for just a little while longer.

Eventually, your eyelids grew heavy.

Stefani noticed almost immediately.

"Tired?"

"Mhm."

"Then sleep."

You smiled without opening your eyes.

"I don't think I've ever had a stranger day."

"The best ones usually sneak up on you."

You let out a sleepy laugh.

"I think my friends are going to think I made this whole thing up."

"They'll probably expect quite the story."

You grinned.

"They're definitely going to ask."

Stefani chuckled, pressing one last kiss into your hair.

"That's tomorrow's problem."

Nestled against her, warm and impossibly content, you let yourself drift. For the first time since waking up that morning in a hotel room full of nervous excitement and blaring music, your mind finally became quiet. And with her arms around you, sleep found you almost instantly.

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

That does it. Something in your chest loosens in a way you don’t have to earn. Don’t have to explain. 

You walk together.

No announcement, no transition. Just suddenly side by side in the fluorescent hum of the store, wheels of baskets whispering over tile. 

It’s easier here. That’s the simplest way to put it. Not lighter exactly, but less tight around the edges. 

Casey drifts into commentary almost immediately, like she’s narrating a life she’s mildly offended to be part of. 

“You’re buying the saddest-looking bananas I’ve ever seen. That’s impressive.” 

“They’re fine.” 

“They’re plotting something.”

You snort. “Is this fruit theory now?”

“I stay informed.”

She reaches past you at one point to grab something off the shelf, entirely unnecessary because she could’ve just asked, but she leans in close enough that you feel the movement more than you see it. 

“Also,” she adds, inspecting whatever she grabbed, “can I please help you with your terrible food choices?”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“You don’t have to.” A pause. “It’s a public service at this point.” 

There’s something in the ease of it that keeps catching you off guard. Not because it’s loud or bright, but because it doesn’t demand anything from you to continue existing in it. 

No reading between lines. No careful deliberation.

Just Casey, lightly orbiting you like she’s decided you’re worth staying near. And the worst part is how safe that feels. 

Because home has weight to it. Rules that don’t get spoken out loud but still press into everything you do. Even silence there feels monitored, like it might be graded later. 

Here, Casey is noise that doesn’t hurt. Noise that your chest yearns for.

At one point she pauses in front of a shelf of snacks, tilting her head 

“You ever just stand here and feel like the chips are talking to you?”

“I think that’s just you.”

She looks offended. “I’m deeply emotionally vulnerable in the chip aisle and this is how you treat me?” 

That pulls another laugh out of you, easier this time. More natural. Like it has somewhere to go. 

You move through the rest of the store like that. Not rushing. Not lingering too much either. Just existing in the same lane, basket wheels occasionally bumping when you drift too close, neither of you bothering to correct it. 

By the time you reach the register, the world feels less divided inside your head. 

The fluorescent lights are still too bright. The shelves still too orderly. 

But you’re not as split down the middle of it anymore. 

“You going to attempt self-checkout or do you trust humans today?” Casey asks, already steering toward a regular register. 

“I don’t trust self-checkout machines,” you admit. 

“Smart. They’re always watching.”

“That’s not–”

“Don’t question it.”

The line is short. Quiet. You end up side by side anyway, baskets resting on the belt at nearly the same time. The cashier barely glances up, scanning with practised rhythm. 

Casey leans slightly toward you, voice dropping like she’s sharing classified information. 

“If this card declines, I want it on record that I was morally supportive throughout this entire financial operation.” 

“You didn’t pay for anything yet.” 

“That’s a technicality. Emotional investment counts.” 

You shake your head, but you’re smiling.  It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be. 

Outside, the night air is cooler than the store. Cleaner. Less artificial. 

You walk out together, bags in hand, keys already appearing like it’s instinct rather than decision. The parking lot is mostly empty, streetlights pooling gold onto asphalt. 

Casey tilts her head toward your car first. “Alright. I’m supervising your loading process. I need to make sure those bananas survive.” 

“They’re fine,” you repeat. 

“They’re still plotting.” 

You both load your groceries at the same time anyway, cars parked close enough that the space between them feels temporary rather than final. Plastic bags rustle. Doors thud shut. Everything small and ordinary and oddly grounding. 

For a moment, neither of you moves to leave. Just the sound of distant traffic. The hum of the world continuing without asking anything from you. 

Casey leans lightly against her car door, watching you like she’s not in a hurry to turn this into anything other than what it is. 

“Hey,” she says, softer now. 

Not demanding attention. And somehow, that feels like the easiest thing in the world to answer. 

Then, without shifting her gaze from you, she says, “Can I ask you something?” 

The tone changes before the words even finish forming. Not sharp. Not heavy. 

“Yeah,” you say, but it comes out slower than you mean it to. 

Casey nods once, like she’s committing to not backing out of the question now that it’s out in the open. 

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” she adds, and that alone already feels like a kind of kindness you didn’t realise you were missing. 

A beat.

Then she asks, “Do you actually get to breathe when you’re there?” 

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. Because there’s no accusation in it. Just a question that sounds like it was built carefully, so it wouldn’t break anything while it was being asked. 

Your stomach tightens anyway. 

Guilt arrives fast and uninvited, thick enough that you feel it in your throat. Not because she’s wrong. Not because she’s right either. But because she’s noticed. Because she’s seen enough to ask. 

And because some part of you already knows the answer before you even try to form it. 

“I…” you start, then stop. 

Casey doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just waits, steady against her car door like she’s giving you room to exist inside the question without rushing you out of it. 

It makes it worse, somehow. And better. 

“I don’t know,” you admit finally, quieter than anything you’ve said tonight. 

It’s not the full truth. But it’s close enough to hurt. 

Casey’s expression shifts, just slightly. Not disappointment. Not surprise. Something more careful than either of those. 

“I figured,” she says, and there’s no satisfaction in it. Just understanding that lands too gently to argue with. 

Your chest feels too tight now, like everything you didn’t say at home has followed you out here and decided to speak at once. 

“I’m not trying to make it sound like…” you begin, then falter again, searching for a shape that won’t turn into something unfair. “It’s not simple.” 

“I didn’t think it was,” Casey replies. 

That does it. The steadiness in her voice cracks something open rather than pressing on it. 

You glance up at her. She’s still watching you, but not in a way that demands anything. It almost feels like she’s just… staying close to make sure you don’t disappear mid-thought. 

And that makes it harder. 

Because you can feel it now, clearly. What this is doing. What it’s not. 

The space between you tonight isn’t neutral anymore. It never really was. It just felt easier to stand in. 

“I should go,” you say, and it lands wrong in your mouth, like it belongs somewhere else but still insists on being said. 

Casey doesn’t react immediately. 

Then she nods once. Small. Controlled. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Okay.” 

A pause stretches between you, thin and fragile. 

You swallow, and it tastes like guilt. 

“Alex is waiting,” you add, as if that explains everything. As if it smooths the edges of what you’re doing here. 

It doesn’t. Casey’s eyes flicker at the name, just briefly, then settle again. 

You don’t know what she’s thinking. She’s never made it easy to tell. 

“I’m trying to work on things with her,” you say, and even as the words leave you, they feel vague. Not a lie. Not fully a truth either. Just something soft enough to carry you out of the moment without breaking it completely.

Casey nods again, slower this time.

“Alright,” she says. 

Not cold, but not warm either. Just accepting in a way that somehow makes your chest ache more than if she’d argued. 

You open your driver’s door.

The sound is more final than it should be. And still, neither of you moves right away, like the moment hasn’t decided what it wants to become next.

“Okay,” she repeats, softer this time. “Drive safe, yeah?” 

You should leave on that. You know you should. But your body doesn’t move towards the seat. Neither does hers. It’s like the space between you is holding its breath, waiting to see which way it collapses.

Then Casey steps forward.

Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just a quiet closing of distance that feels deliberate in a way she’s trying not to make obvious. 

“Hey,” she says again, and this time it’s gentler. “Come here.” 

It isn’t a question, but it also doesn’t feel like a demand. Something in your chest gives way before you even decide. 

You walk into her. 

The hug lands warm and real and immediate, like your body recognises something your mind has been arguing with all night. Casey wraps her arms around you in a way that feels steady, not tight, just sure. Present. 

And for a second, everything else falls away. 

The parking lot, the car, the weight of what you just said, what you didn’t say, all of it loosens its grip. 

She smells faintly like clean fabric and something soft underneath it, warm and familiar in a way that makes your thoughts stumble. Your hands hover for half a second before settling against her back, like you’re testing whether you’re allowed to hold on. 

You are. Her hold doesn’t change. It just stays there, like she’s decided this moment gets to exist fully before it ends. Then your mind does something treacherous with the quiet. 

It drifts.

Not in a way you want it to. Not in a way you asked for. 

Just a flicker of awareness. The feel of her close enough that you can’t ignore how solid she is, how real. The way your body reacts before your thoughts catch up, a confusing heat that makes your stomach tighten with something that feels too close to vulnerability to name properly. 

You hate it and don’t at the same time. Your breath stutters slightly against her shoulder. Casey shifts, just a fraction, like she feels it even if she doesn’t comment on it. 

You lift your head without meaning to. She’s already looking at you. 

Her expression is softer than it’s been all night. No teasing now. No jokes tucked behind her eyes. Just something steady and aware, like she understands exactly what this moment is doing to you without needing it spelt out. 

For a second, neither of you speaks. Then Casey smiles. Small. Not triumphant. Not sad either. Just knowing in a way that doesn’t push. 

She lifts one hand and gently guides your head back to her shoulder, not forcing, just encouraging, like she’s reminding you where you chose to be a moment ago. 

“There you go,” she murmurs. 

It isn’t patronising, but grounding. Like she’s acknowledging the fracture in you without trying to widen it. 

“I know,” she adds quietly, after a beat. “This is hard.” 

Your grip tightens slightly at her back, because it is. Because she’s saying it out loud makes it harder to pretend it isn’t. 

“But I’m not going to make it harder for you,” she continues, voice still low, still close. “Even if I want to.” 

It’s not pressure you’re dealing with; it’s restraint. It’s care that has a line it refuses to cross.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself stay there just a second longer than feels safe. 

Then, slowly, you pull back. Casey lets you go without resistance, her hands falling away like they were never holding on too tightly to begin with. 

“Go on,” she says gently. “Before I change my mind and start giving you unsolicited snack recommendations again.” 

A faint laugh slips out of you, shaky at the edges. 

“Wouldn’t want that.” 

“Too late,” she says. “Already planning it.” 

And somehow, even with everything still tangled inside you, you manage to turn toward your car. 

The car door shuts with a soft, final click that feels louder than it should, and for a moment, you don’t start the engine. 

Your hands just rest there on the steering wheel, like your body hasn’t caught up with the fact that the hug is over. 

Casey’s warmth still clings to you in fragments. Not in any physical sense anymore, but in the way your chest doesn’t quite settle back into its usual shape. Like something was pressed into place and hasn’t fully released. 

You exhale slowly. Your breath as warm as your body’s growing.

The parking lot light hums above you. The world outside the windshield looks ordinary again, almost insultingly so. Other cars. Empty trolleys. The quiet churn of a place that doesn’t know anything important just happened in it. 

You start the car. The engine turns over gently, and that alone feels like a decision. 

Driving home stretches time in a strange way. 

The roads are familiar, too familiar. Every set of lights feels like an interruption rather than a pause. Your mind keeps slipping back without permission.

Casey’s voice first. Not the words exactly. The tone. The steadiness of it. The way she didn’t rush you even when you were clearly already halfway gone. 

Then the hug. 

Not as a thought you can examine properly, but as a feeling your body keeps replaying in small, disobedient echoes. The safety of it. The lack of pressure. The way it didn’t ask you to be anything other than yourself.

And that’s what makes it stick, because nothing at home feels like that.

At some point you realise you’ve been gripping the wheel too tightly. 

You loosen your fingers. 

The guilt follows after the warmth, slower but heavier. It doesn’t arrive as a single thought, just a layered awareness that builds quietly in the background. Alex. The expectations. The version of you that knows how things are supposed to be. 

And then Casey again, uninvited, not as an argument, but as a contrast you can’t unsee. 

By the time your street comes into view, you’re hyper-aware of the throbbing at your core.  You park. Taking a moment to deep breathe, as if that’ll remove the specific ache Casey has left within you. 

The house is there, lit in the familiar way it always is, as if it has been waiting for you without changing its expression. 

You don’t move right away. Your hand stays on the key for a second too long. Because whatever you left in that parking lot with Casey, it didn’t stay there, and you’re not entirely sure yet what you’re supposed to do with that. 

The porch light spills across the driveway in a warm amber glow. Home. 

You'd pictured coming back here the entire drive, trying to prepare yourself for the shift. For the invisible weight that always seemed to settle over your shoulders the closer you got. 

You hadn't realised how obvious that feeling had become until tonight. 

The grocery bag handles bite into your fingers as you make your way to the front door. Your keys jingle softly against the lock before the familiar click echoes through the quiet house. 

The smell of home greets you first. A candle burning somewhere in the living room, laundry detergent lingering faintly in the air. Normal. Comfortingly, painfully normal. 

“Hey?”

Alex's voice carries from the kitchen before you've even managed to close the door. 

She rounds the corner a second later, phone abandoned on the counter the moment she sees you. 

"There you are." 

Her smile is immediate. 

"I was starting to wonder if you'd gotten lost." 

You feel your stomach tighten. 

"I ran into someone," you say, setting the bags down by the island before your arms have a chance to protest. 

Alex nods easily. 

"Oh?" 

"It was Casey." 

Something flickers across her face. It’s not suspicion; it’s recognition.

“The ADA?”

You nod.

“We ended up talking. We recognised each other from events we’ve met at.”

“Oh.”

It’s such a small word. She doesn’t ask how long, doesn’t ask about what. 

Instead, she walks over, already reaching for two of the heavier bags before you’ve even straightened up.

“I managed to finish up everything I needed to do,” she says lightly. “You should’ve called when you were almost here; I would’ve helped you get inside.” “I was okay.”

“I know.”

She smiles again, softer this time.

“I still would’ve.”

The words settle somewhere uncomfortably warm inside your chest. 

She turns toward the kitchen, unpacking almost automatically. Frozen vegetables disappear into the freezer, milk into the fridge, bread onto the bench. 

You can’t remember the last time she unpacked for you; rather, she’d always watch from a distance, finding anything to scrutinise. 

"You seriously saved dinner tomorrow," she says over her shoulder. "Thank you." 

"It's just groceries." 

“I know.”

She closes the freezer and looks back at you. 

"But you still went out this late." 

A small shrug. 

"I appreciate it." 

The guilt presses harder, because she’s trying. You can see it. Not in grand gestures or rehearsed apologies, but in little things that would be easy to miss if you weren't looking. 

You help finish unpacking, settling cans into the pantry while Alex slides containers around in the fridge to make room. 

For a few quiet minutes, the rhythm is easy. Plastic rustles, cupboard doors open and close. Neither of you says much. Then Alex laughs quietly to herself. 

“I remembered.”

You glance over.

“What?”

“I forgot to tell you, I picked up that peppermint tea you like a couple of days ago.”

She points toward the cupboard beside the kettle. 

"The one you could never find last week." 

Your eyes follow her hand, and sure enough, the familiar box sits neatly on the shelf. 

"I figured..." She rubs the back of her neck, suddenly looking almost shy. "You always seem calmer after a cup." 

The words catch you off guard. Not because they’re extraordinary, but because they’re observant. You can’t think of the last time she noticed. The last time she remembered. The last time she tried. 

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

Alex closes the pantry door and lets out a satisfied little sigh. 

"There." 

Then she looks at you properly for the first time since you walked in. 

“You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

She steps closer. Her hands find your waist first before sliding around your back, drawing you into a familiar embrace. 

You melt into it automatically. Years of habit. Years of knowing exactly where your arms fit around her. 

Her chin rests briefly against the top of your head before she presses a gentle kiss against your forehead. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs again. 

“I’m really glad you’re home.”

You close your eyes. The hug is warm. It’s loving; it’s home. But somewhere inside it, you become aware of yourself. 

Your hands, your posture, whether you’ve hugged her back tightly enough, whether you’re holding on too long. 

Whether she can feel how distracted you’ve been all evening.

The thoughts arrive without permission, one after the other, quiet as breathing. 

With Casey…

They hadn’t.

For one impossible moment in that parking lot, you'd forgotten to think about yourself at all. 

The realisation lands so softly it almost escapes you. Not because Alex is doing anything wrong. 

She's holding you exactly the way she always has, but the difference isn’t in her. It’s in the version of yourself that only seems to exist when someone asks nothing of you except to be there. 

Alex pulls back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing lightly across your side.

"You okay?" 

You open your eyes. She looks genuinely concerned. 

“Tired,” you say with a small smile.

“It’s been a long day.”

Alex studies you for half a heartbeat before nodding.

“Then let’s make some tea.”

Another kiss to your forehead. It’s gentle, it’s affectionate, but somehow the guilt hurts more than if she hadn’t tried at all. 

 Alex doesn’t push. 

She never has, at least not when she can see you're running low on whatever energy you had left to give that day. 

Instead, she offers you a small, understanding smile, the kind that reaches her eyes even if there's still a flicker of concern sitting quietly behind it. 

"Tea," she says again, her voice gentle enough to smooth over the silence that had settled between you. "Then bed?" 

You nod, managing a tired smile of your own. 

“Yeah.”

The kettle hums softly as it comes to a boil, filling the kitchen with a familiar domestic rhythm that you've heard so many times it almost fades into the background. Alex moves around the space with a warmth about her, reaching into the cupboard for your peppermint tea before pausing with the box in her hands. 

“Honey?”

You glance up from where you’re leaning against the counter. 

“What?”

“In your tea,” she clarifies, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’ve been putting honey in it lately.”

You hadn’t realised she’d noticed.

“I have been,” you reply with a quiet smile. “Please.”

She stirs it without another word before carrying the mug over to you, waiting until your fingers had wrapped securely around the warmth before letting go. 

“There.”

The mug feels comforting between your hands, the heat seeping into your palms as you lift it for a careful sip. The peppermint is familiar, soothing in a way that makes your shoulders loosen just slightly, even if it can't quite reach the knot that's been sitting stubbornly in your chest all evening. 

Alex watches you for a second, seemingly satisfied that you're actually drinking it before nodding toward the hallway. 

"I'm going to get changed," she says. "Take your time." 

Lights are switched off one by one as you make your way through the kitchen. The dishwasher hums quietly beneath the counter after Alex loads the last of the mugs inside, and somewhere in the living room, a lamp is left on just long enough for one final check that the front door is locked before the rest of the house falls into a comfortable quiet. 

By the time you finish your tea, only the bedroom light remains. 

When you step into the room, Alex is already in bed. 

She's sitting comfortably against the headboard with a book resting open across her lap, reading glasses slipping just slightly down her nose in a way that always makes her look softer somehow. 

She looks up as soon as you appear in the doorway. 

“There you are.”

A smile spreads easily across her face.

“Feeling any better?”

“A little.” 

“I’m glad.”

She doesn't ask what happened, and she doesn’t ask why you’re quiet.

Instead, she slides a bookmark between the pages of her book before setting it carefully on the bedside table. 

“I was waiting for you.”

Something inside your chest tightens almost immediately. 

You disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth, changing into one of Alex's old university T-shirts on the way back. It had somehow become yours years ago, one of those small exchanges that happened so gradually neither of you could remember when it started. 

When you climb beneath the covers, the mattress dips gently beneath your weight. 

Alex reaches over to switch off the bedside lamp, leaving only the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the curtains to illuminate the room. 

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence doesn’t feel awkward; both of you know you’re equally tired.

“You cold?” Alex asks eventually. 

You shake your head, moving closer to her.

“No.”

“You sure?”

Before you can answer again, her hand finds your waist beneath the blankets, her fingers stroking gently on your skin as though she'd done it a thousand times before. 

Because she has.

Her thumb strokes lazily across your back, slow and absent-minded, the kind of touch that comes more from habit than intention. 

"I worry about you sometimes," she admits quietly, her voice barely above a whisper in the darkness. 

"You've seemed... somewhere else lately." 

The words land softly, but they still find their mark. 

You tighten your fingers around hers without thinking. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey.”

She shifts a little closer, just enough that her legs touch yours more.

"You don't have to apologise, I know it’s been hard lately.”

“I know.”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind.”

Another slow stroke of her thumb. 

“We’ll figure it out.”

Alex lifts your hand just enough to press a gentle kiss against your knuckles before letting them settle back onto the mattress. 

“I love you.”

The words come easily.

They always have.

You turn your head just enough to meet her eyes in the darkness.

“I love you too.”

You mean it. Entirely. 

Alex shifts closer until you're tucked naturally against her, one arm draped loosely around your waist while the other remains beneath her pillow. She continues tracing slow, absent circles against your side, the movement gradually slowing as sleep starts to pull at her. 

Within a few minutes, her breathing deepens. 

You lie awake listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, staring into the darkness while your thoughts quietly drift back over the evening. 

The groceries. The tea she’d remembered. The way she’d thanked you more than once. The forehead kiss. The patient questions she never pushed you to answer. Every small thing she'd done tonight had been another way of saying I'm trying. 

You can see it now. You can feel it. 

And still, when you search your memory for the moment your shoulders had finally relaxed, for the moment your mind had stopped racing long enough to simply exist…

You find yourself standing beneath amber streetlights in an almost-empty parking lot. 

"Come here." 

The memory is painfully gentle.

Not because of the embrace itself, but because, for a few brief minutes, you'd forgotten to monitor yourself entirely. 

You hadn't been wondering whether you were saying the right thing, whether you were reacting correctly. Whether someone needed something from you. 

The guilt arrives almost immediately afterwards. 

You turn carefully toward Alex, taking care not to wake her. 

In sleep, every trace of worry has disappeared from her face. She looks younger somehow, softer, the crease that had settled between her eyebrows earlier in the evening completely gone. 

You reach up, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear with the lightest touch you can manage. 

"I'm trying," you whisper into the darkness. 

You aren't entirely sure whether you're saying it to Alex, to yourself, or to the version of your life that suddenly feels far more uncertain than it did yesterday. 

Eventually, exhaustion wins. 

Curled safely in Alex's arms, with your heart still divided between gratitude, guilt, and something you aren't ready to name, you let sleep find you. 

Morning arrives slowly. 

You wake before your alarm, the room still washed in the pale blue light that comes just before sunrise. For a few quiet moments, you don't move, letting yourself drift somewhere between sleep and consciousness as the house remains perfectly still around you. 

Alex stirs beside you with a sleepy sigh, burying her face a little further into your shoulder before her arm instinctively tightens around your waist. 

"Mmm..." she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep. "You're awake." 

“Barely.”

A sleepy smile brushes against your skin. 

“Liar.”

You can’t help smiling back.

Her hair is a mess, flattened on one side where she'd spent the night curled against you. Without her glasses and before she's fully awake, there's something disarmingly soft about her. Younger, somehow. Less guarded. 

She presses a lazy kiss against your shoulder before tilting her head up to find your face. 

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

Another kiss. 

This one lands at the corner of your mouth, lingering just long enough to make you laugh quietly. 

“What?”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Kiss everywhere except my lips first.”

Alex hums thoughtfully, pretending to consider it. 

“I’m building suspense.”

You roll your eyes with a smile.

“For a kiss?”

“For an excellent kiss.”

“Oh, naturally.”

She finally closes the tiny gap between you, kissing you properly this time, slow and familiar and unhurried. 

When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours. 

"I like mornings with you," she murmurs. 

The words should settle warmly inside your chest. 

Instead, they make something ache. 

Because you like mornings with her too. You always have. But this is the first time since you can remember that Alex chose to stay in with you, rather than immediately leave her side cold. 

You close your eyes for a moment, gathering courage that suddenly feels much harder to find in daylight. 

“Alex?”

“Mhm?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

She opens one eye dramatically.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Normally, you would’ve laughed.

Instead, you take a slow breath. 

"I think..." Your fingers twist slightly in the fabric of the blanket. "I think maybe we should see someone." 

Alex blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“A marriage counsellor.”

The change is almost imperceptible. Her body doesn’t pull away, but it stills. Completely. For a few long seconds, she simply looks at you.

Then she exhales through her nose.

“...Why?”

"I just..." You search for words that won't sound like blame. "I think we've been trying really hard on our own, and maybe having someone objective could help us communicate better." 

Alex sits up a little, leaning back against the headboard. 

"I don't think therapy fixes relationships." 

You remain quiet. 

"I think," she continues, rubbing a hand across her face, "people go to therapy because they want someone else to tell them they're right." 

"That's not what I want." 

"No?" 

She gives a small, humourless laugh. 

"They ask a bunch of questions, you talk in circles for an hour, and then they tell you to use 'I feel' statements and charge you two hundred dollars." 

There's an edge to her voice now. It’s not loud, but you definitely recognise the tone.

"You know how many couples I know who've done counselling?" 

You shake your head. 

"They're all divorced." 

You swallow. 

"I don't think that's because of the counselling." 

"I just don't see the point." 

You watch her as she speaks. 

Her shoulders have lifted, her jaw’s tight. She isn’t angry; she’s defensive. 

The certainty in her voice feels almost rehearsed, as though these opinions have been waiting for an opportunity to justify themselves. 

Your gaze drops to the duvet pooled across your lap. 

“Oh.”

It’s only one syllable, but it comes out smaller than you intended. 

Alex notices immediately. 

The room falls quiet.

You don’t argue. 

And you certainly don’t try to convince her. 

You simply nod once, staring down at your hands.

“Okay.”

The defeat in your voice hangs between you. Alex’s expression changes almost immediately.

The tension leaves her shoulders as quickly as it arrived.

“...Hey.”

You don’t look up. 

She reaches for your hand.

When you don’t pull away, she threads her fingers through yours.

“I’m sorry.”

You finally meet her eyes.

The defensiveness is gone.

In its place is something much more vulnerable.

“I…” she sighs, shaking her head at herself. “I think I panicked.”

A faint, self-conscious smile appears.

“I heard ‘marriage counsellor ’, and my brain translated it into ‘our marriage is failing.’”

“It isn’t,” you say quickly.

“I know.”

She squeezes your hand.

“Or… I know you weren’t saying that.”

She looks down for a moment before meeting your gaze again. 

"If this is something you think we need..." she says carefully, "...then I'll go." 

"Alex..." 

"No." 

She gives your hand another squeeze. 

"I'm serious." 

There's no resignation in her voice now. 

"I don't have to believe it'll help." 

A small smile tugs gently at one corner of her mouth. 

"But I do believe in us." 

Your throat tightens. 

"So if sitting in an office once a week helps us understand each other better..." 

She shrugs lightly. 

"...then I'll do it." 

She leans towards you, resting her forehead against yours once more. 

"I'll do a lot of things for this marriage." 

Her voice is barely above a whisper. 

"I just don't ever want you to think I'm not willing to fight for it." 

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. 

Then you lift your free hand to her cheek, your thumb brushing gently across her skin. 

"Thank you." 

Alex smiles, this one tired but genuine.

"Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"If the therapist tells me I have to start using phrases like 'holding space,'" she says with the faintest hint of a grin, "you're buying me dessert afterwards."

A surprised laugh escapes you.

The heaviness doesn't disappear.

But for the first time since the conversation began, it feels like something you're carrying together.

The next week passes in a blur.

Not the kind of blur that comes from peace or routine, but the kind that happens when every hour already belongs to someone else before the day even begins. 

Alex’s re-election campaign consumes everything. 

The mansion, once quiet enough that you could hear the floors creak beneath your footsteps, becomes a constant stream of movement. 

Assistants come and go with folders tucked beneath their arms. Campaign managers take over the dining room table with laptops, schedules, and printed drafts of speeches. Marketing teams fill the living room, discussing branding, polling numbers, and public perception while cleaners work around them, trying to keep the house looking untouched despite the number of people constantly moving through it. 

The entire place starts to feel less like a home and more like a campaign headquarters wearing the disguise of one. 

Alex is everywhere. 

She wakes up early for interviews, spends hours at meetings, attends community events, shakes hands, remembers names, smiles for cameras, and stays awake long after midnight approving messaging for the next day. 

You’re there for most of it.

You attend the fundraisers, you stand beside her at events, you listen as campaign advisors explain what version of Alex the public responds to best.

You review speeches, you approve photos, you sit through conversations about what colours work better on camera and which words sound too aggressive in a statement. 

It’s all important. 

You know that. 

You know how much this means to her. And you can see how hard she’s trying.

She still makes sure you eat when you forget. She still texts you when meetings run late. She still reaches for your hand beneath tables when cameras aren't watching. 

But there’s a difference now. A small one.

The version of Alex the world sees is taking up more and more space. 

The polished smile, the perfect answers, the carefully controlled reactions. 

Sometimes you catch yourself looking at her across a crowded room and wondering if she even gets a chance to turn that version of herself off anymore. 

And then there’s Casey.

You try not to look. You really do. But Casey has a way of making herself impossible to ignore. 

At every event, she’s just herself. Laughing with people, making small jokes with staff, helping wherever she can. 

She exists without needing the room to adjust around her.

And every time you see her, you remember how easy it felt to stand beside her in a grocery store aisle and not have to think about who you were supposed to be. 

You hate that. Not Casey. You hate what the comparison reveals. Because you’re trying. You’re trying to choose your marriage. You’re trying to believe that love can be rebuilt if both people are willing to show up.

Alex is showing up, which makes it harder. It would be easier if she stopped caring, easier if she gave you another reason to walk away. 

Instead, she keeps trying to hold everything together with both hands, even when her grip is slipping. 

By the end of the week, everyone’s exhausted. Especially Alex. 

The campaign has fallen behind on a major round of messaging before an upcoming debate, and the entire house feels the tension before she even says anything. 

You know something is wrong the second she walks through the door. 

Her heels hit the floor harder than usual. 

Her expression is tight. 

Her phone hasn't stopped buzzing since she stepped inside. 

"How bad?" you ask carefully. 

She drops her bag onto the kitchen island. 

"Bad enough that everyone suddenly thinks deadlines are suggestions." 

You watch her rub her temples. 

"The team’s fixing it." 

"They should have fixed it before it became a problem." 

There’s an edge there. You recognise it.

The part of Alex that appears when she feels like things are slipping out of her control. 

"I know you're stressed," you say gently. 

Her eyes lift to yours. 

"I don't need you to tell me I'm stressed." 

The response is immediate.

You go quiet. 

"I was just saying..." 

"I know what you were doing." 

Your eyebrows pull together. 

"What does that mean?" 

Alex exhales sharply, already frustrated. 

"It means every time something gets difficult, you try to manage my emotions instead of actually listening." 

The words sting because they’re unfair. Not completely false, but enough. 

"I'm not trying to manage you." 

“Really?”

Her laugh is quiet, but there’s no humour in it. 

"Because it feels like lately everyone has an opinion about how I should be handling things." 

The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. 

"I was trying to help." 

"I didn't ask you to." 

There it is. 

That familiar shift. 

The one where the conversation stops being about what happened and becomes about winning. 

You stare at her. 

“Alex.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

Her expression hardens. 

“Doing what?”

"Turning this into something else."

"No, I'm telling you how I feel."

"No, you're telling me what I did wrong."

The silence that follows is sharp.

Alex looks away for a moment, jaw tightening.

"I don't have time for this tonight."

Your chest tightens.

"You don't have time for a conversation with your wife?"

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make me the villain because I'm under pressure."

The words land harder than she probably intends.

You step back slightly.

"I'm not making you anything."

"Then stop acting like I’m the only one who has problems."

The unfairness of it sits between you. Because you know you have problems, you know you’re part of this.

But you’re tired of feeling like every difficult conversation becomes something you have to carefully navigate while Alex decides whether you’re allowed to be upset.

"I asked you to go to counselling," you remind her quietly.

"And I agreed."

"After you told me it was pointless."

"Because I was scared."

"Then why does it feel like you're still fighting me?"

Alex goes still.

For a second, you think she might hear it. Really hear it.

But then the walls come back up.

"I’m not fighting you."

"You are."

"I am trying to keep our lives from falling apart."

"And I'm trying to tell you that I feel like I'm falling apart inside of it."

The words leave before you can stop them.

Alex stares at you.

The room goes completely silent.

For one brief moment, there’s something like hurt in her expression.

Then it disappears beneath control.

"You're being dramatic."

And that’s the moment something in you breaks.

The thing you have been trying not to name. The thing Casey made you feel in the absence of it. 

Being heard.

Being allowed to exist without having to prove that your feelings were reasonable first.

Your hands curl at your sides.

Your voice shakes.

"You want to know why I feel like I can't breathe around you?"

Alex opens her mouth.

You don't let her answer.

"You want to know why I keep feeling like I'm disappearing?"

Her expression changes.

A warning.

A plea.

You’re past both.

"Because I kissed Casey!"

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

hey! for all those still here and still wondering-- yes, i'm alive. feel free to skip my boring explanation!

right after i posted my last oneshot, i came down with the worst sickness i've ever had. my mystery sickness absolutely killed me for over a month, and there was absolutely no way i could've written with the amount of pain i was in.

on top of that- i got a full time job! my first real big girl job :) that's been quite time consuming since my training is 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, but i'm gonna be an emergency medical call taker very soon! if anyone has to call 000, dw i'll look after you.

i also got an 8 week old kitten, who i'm sure a lot of you know is very time consuming. not only is the only thing she wants to do is play, but she's also extremely adorable and impossible to say no to.

thank you for sticking around if you're still here. my goal is try and post at least once every weekend in order to get back into a routine, and also not go insane from how suddenly busy my life has gotten recently. i love you guys, your comments truly keep me going and thinking about you all the time. thank you for bearing with me <3333

word count: 6.6k

The shoot turns into a day of staged intimacy that keeps slipping into something real. Rehearsed near-kisses, playful interviews, and workplace tension expose growing jealousy and undeniable attraction.

Read on AO3

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑬𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 - 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝑩𝒊𝒕𝒆

The walk back to your room is slow, neither of you in any real hurry. 

The hotel hallway is quiet, your footsteps softened by thick carpet, the warm lights casting everything in a sleepy glow. Stefani stays close beside you, close enough that your arms brush every now and then, but neither of you reaches for the other. You don't need to. 

"So," you say, glancing over at her. "How many people do you think have already made conspiracy theories about that TikTok?" 

She laughs under her breath. "Oh, we're well past conspiracy theories." 

"Oh?" 

"We're probably secretly married by now."

You grin. "Only probably?" 

She nudges your shoulder with hers. "Give it another hour." 

You laugh, shaking your head as you pull your room key from your pocket. 

"I should've known posting it was a bad idea." 

"You absolutely knew," she says, smiling wider. "You just didn't stop me." 

"I tried." 

"Barely." 

"I sighed dramatically." 

"You enabled me." 

"I witnessed you." 

"You filmed me." 

You hold up a hand. "Okay, that one's fair." 

She laughs again, the sound softer this time, and you can't help noticing how different she looks when she’s truly relaxed.

The little crease between her brows is gone. 

Her shoulders have relaxed. 

She's stopped overthinking every little thing she says, settling back into the easy, playful version of herself that only seems to appear when it's just the two of you. 

You swipe your keycard against the lock.

"Let's see if Mia actually managed to find my outfit." 

"I'm sure she did," Stefani replies. "She's annoyingly good at her job." 

The lock clicks. 

You push the door open. 

"...I am keeping up." 

The voice stops both of you in your tracks. 

It's Mia. 

She's standing out on the balcony with her back to the room, the glass door left slightly open behind her. One hand grips her phone tightly against her ear while the other rubs at her forehead. 

Her voice is tight. Frustrated. Trying very hard to stay professional.

"I know the schedule," she says, speaking over whoever's on the other end before immediately stopping herself. "...No, sorry." 

Silence. You can't hear the response. 

Whatever her boss is saying, though, is enough to make Mia's shoulders tense. 

"I said the delivery was delayed," she says carefully. "Not that it wasn't done." 

Another pause. 

"I've already reorganised tomorrow three times." 

Longer silence. 

"No, I don't need reminding that other people could do this job." 

Your stomach sinks. 

"I know I'm replaceable." 

The words come out quieter than everything else she'd said. 

Stefani goes completely still beside you. You don't have to look at her to know she's heard it too. 

Mia lets out a slow breath. 

"I'll sort it," she says. "Everything will be ready before the shoot. I promise." 

Another pause. 

"...Okay." 

She lowers the phone slowly, resting both hands on the balcony railing before dropping her head for a second, taking one long, steadying breath. 

Stefani shifts her weight ever so slightly beside you, and when you glance at her, her expression has hardened. Not with anger, but with protectiveness.

Her jaw is set, her eyes fixed on Mia like she's already deciding whether she needs to step in. Before she can speak, you gently reach across and rest your fingers against her wrist. 

You give the smallest shake of your head when she looks at you. Not yet. You want Mia to have a moment. 

Stefani studies you for a second before letting out a quiet breath through her nose. She doesn't look any less unhappy about what she just heard, but she lets the impulse to intervene settle. 

Outside, Mia straightens herself, smoothing the front of her shirt like she's trying to put herself back together. 

Then she turns around. The second she sees the two of you standing there, her eyes widen. 

"Oh my God." 

She puts the phone away in her pocket and takes a hurried step inside. 

"I'm so sorry," she says, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I was literally leaving. My phone rang just as I got to the door and I thought I'd just take it outside. I didn't mean to..." 

"Hey." You smile gently, cutting her off before she can spiral. "It's okay." 

She looks between you and Stefani, still clearly mortified. 

"Really," you continue. "You don't have to apologise." 

"I just didn't want to interrupt your..." 

She trails off, deciding she doesn't actually know what she'd interrupted. 

"You didn't interrupt anything," you reassure her. "We're just glad you're okay." 

Something in her shoulders loosens, just a little. 

Stefani, who'd stayed quiet until now, steps forward. 

"What happened?" she asks, her voice calm but unmistakably concerned. "Who was that?" 

Mia lets out a small sigh, rubbing the back of her neck. 

"My boss." 

She laughs once, but there's no humour in it. 

"She's just... stressed, I guess." 

"Didn't sound like stress," Stefani replies. 

Mia looks down at the floor for a moment. 

"The outfit delivery was delayed because of traffic, then one of the call sheets had to be updated. Everything's sorted now, but she..." She shrugs, searching for the right words. "She likes reminding people that someone else could always do their job." 

Your chest tightens. 

"It wasn't anything I haven't heard before," Mia adds quickly. "She just gets... intense before shoots." 

Stefani's expression hardens. 

"That's not okay." 

"It's fine." 

"No," Stefani says, shaking her head. "It isn't." 

Mia gives her a tired smile. 

"I appreciate it, honestly. She's just like that." 

Stefani folds her arms loosely. 

"If you want me to have a conversation with her, I will." 

Mia's eyes immediately go wide. 

"Oh, God, please don't." 

Stefani raises an eyebrow. 

"I mean it." 

"I know you do." Mia smiles sheepishly. "But I really don't want to ruffle feathers. I like working on this team. I like what I do. I just... want to keep my head down." 

"You shouldn't have to put up with being spoken to like that." 

"I know." 

She says it quietly. 

"But sometimes it's easier." 

The room falls silent. 

Without really thinking about it, you step closer. Before she can question it, you wrap your arms around her in a quick, gentle hug. 

For half a second she freezes, caught somewhere between surprise and professional instinct. Then she melts into it. 

Just enough that you feel the tension leave her shoulders as she lets herself breathe. 

"It's going to be okay," you say softly. "And for what it's worth, you've been amazing. I don't think anyone here would disagree."

When you pull back, Mia blinks a couple of times. 

A shy smile finds its way onto her face, and a faint pink colour rises across her cheeks. 

"Thank you," she says, almost laughing at herself. "I... I think I needed that." 

"I think everyone needs a hug sometimes." 

"I'll try not to make it a habit," Mia jokes, still blushing. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Stefani watching the exchange. She isn’t frowning; if anything, she looks amused. Mostly.

"You're very generous with your hugs," Mia says lightly. 

You glance over at Stefani. There's a smile on her face, but something else sits just underneath it. 

"So I've noticed." 

Mia looks between the two of you, suddenly looking like she's wandered into a conversation she doesn't quite understand. 

"I should probably..." She gestures vaguely towards the door. "Actually leave this time." 

You laugh.

“Probably”

She picks up the garment bag she'd left by the wardrobe and heads towards the door.

"Thank you," she says, looking at both of you. "For... all of that." 

"Anytime," you reply. 

"I'll see you both at the shoot." 

"You will," Stefani says with an easy smile. 

Mia gives one last small wave before slipping out into the hallway, the door clicking softly shut behind her. 

The easy laughter from the hallway feels strangely far away now, replaced by the quiet of the room.

She leans against the edge of the desk, watching the closed door for another second before finally looking at you. 

There’s nothing sharp in her expression, just something that looks suspiciously like quiet jealousy. Tucked carefully behind a crooked little smile. 

"I feel awful for her," you murmur. 

“So do I.”

Stefani’s voice is quieter now.

You turn to find her still leaning against the edge of the desk, arms folded loosely across her chest. She isn't looking at you. She’s looking at the door Mia just walked through.

"I didn't realise her boss was like that." 

"Neither did I." 

Then, almost absent-mindedly, Stefani tilts her head. Her crooked smile works its way back into her expression. 

"You two seem to get along really well." 

You glance up?

“Me and Mia?”

She shrugs one shoulder.

“Mm.”

The sound is deliberately casual.

“You hugged her.”

You smile a little.

“She looked like she needed one.”

“I noticed.”

There’s no bite to the words.

No anger.

If anything, they’re delivered with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You study her for a second.

“...Is that a problem?”

Stefani lets out a tiny laugh.

“What? No.”

She walks past you towards the wardrobe, running her fingertips over the garment bag Mia had left behind. 

“I’m just saying.”

She looks over her shoulder.

“You’d make a cute couple.”

You laugh.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

She busies herself unzipping the garment bag, far too interested in the outfit inside to actually be interested in the outfit inside. 

“She’s sweet.”

“Stef, come on.”

“Kind.”

“Stefani.”

“Cute.”

You can’t help laughing.

“Oh, so you think she’s cute, hm?”

Stefani can’t hide her laugh either, sighing and turning her head toward you.

“I think she’d appreciate someone who’s generous with hugs.”

You can’t help but cover your smile. There it is. Not annoyance, not insecurity, but jealousy. Plain, irrational jealousy.

She’s wrapped it up so neatly that if you weren’t paying attention, you’d mistake it for teasing.

You walk over until you’re standing beside her.

“You know… you say softly, “that’s a very interesting thing to say.”

Finally, she looks at you.

“What is?”

“The little test you’re giving me.”

A smile threatens to escape her.

“I’m not testing you.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m just making an observation.”

“You’re testing me.”

You get closer, placing a hand on her shoulder from behind her. Her eyebrows lift, all practised innocence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You slip an arm around her stomach. “Oh, really?”

She holds your gaze for another second before she stops hiding her smile, letting it curl at the corner of her mouth.

“...Maybe a little.”

She looks back down at the outfit before adding, almost under her breath,

“I don’t particularly enjoy seeing other people blush because you hugged them.”

The admission is so quiet you almost miss it.

Almost.

It hangs between you, honest in a way her teasing hadn’t been. 

“There’s the real reason.”

She lets out a quiet huff, already pretending she’d never said it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Mhm.”

You wrap your arms around her tighter. She’s still facing the wardrobe, fingers absent-mindedly smoothing the fabric of the garment bag, determined to look anywhere but at you.

Very gently, you spin her around.

“Hey.”

She looks back to the garment bag.

“I wasn’t jealous.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So  this is just a random conversation about how cute Mia is?”

“...Maybe.”

You laugh quietly.

“Stef.”

She sighs.

“I know it’s ridiculous.”

“It is.”

“I know.”

You place your hand lightly against her cheek.

“Look at me.”

For a second, she resists, stubbornness written all over her face. As you brush your thumb slowly across her cheekbone, her expression softens into something more vulnerable.

“You’re allowed to be jealous,” you say gently. “You know that, right?”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“It makes me sound possessive.”

“It makes you human.”

She searches your face for a long moment.

“I wasn’t hugging Mia because I wanted to hug Mia,” you continue. “I hugged her because she’d just been torn apart by someone who should’ve known better.”

Stefani nods faintly.

“I know.”

“And if it helps…”

You slide your other hand a little more securely around her waist.

“...there’s only one person I wanted to come back to this room with.”

The corners of her mouth lift.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She studies you for another moment before letting herself relax completely into your touch.

“I think I just needed to hear you say it.”

“I’ll happily say it again.”

A quiet laugh escapes her.

Your thumb strokes her cheek one last time before you lean in, giving her plenty of time to meet you halfway. 

Your lips brush hers in a slow, gentle kiss.

It’s soft and reassuring. The kind that asks nothing except, I’m here.

When you begin to pull away, you barely make it an inch. Stefani catches your face in both hands and kisses you again.

This time there’s nothing tentative about it.

She smiles against your lips before kissing you more deeply, lingering just a little longer, as though making up for every insecure thought she'd had over the last few minutes. 

When she finally eases back, her forehead rests against yours. 

“Better?” you ask.

“So much better.”

She smiles. Then a familiar glint appears in her eyes.

“...Hypothetically.”

You immediately narrow yours.

“Hypothetically?”

"How mad would you be if I gave you a hickey right before the shoot?" 

Before you can answer, she dips her head towards your neck with the world's least convincing attempt at subtlety. 

"Oh, absolutely not." 

Laughing, you press your palm against her forehead and push her away before she gets anywhere close. 

She dissolves into giggles, making one last exaggerated attempt to lean towards your neck. 

“For artistic expression?”

“No.”

“For science?”

“No.”

“For the fans?”

You laugh harder, gently steering her face away again.

“The fans can survive.”

“They’re very demanding.”

“They’ll cope.”

She lets you push her back with an exaggerated sigh.

“You’re no fun.”

"I am specifically preventing you from making my life significantly more complicated." 

"I think it'd be memorable." 

“I think the makeup artists would have a heart attack having to cover it with makeup.”

That earns another laugh.

“Fair point.”

The last of the tension melts away between you.

Stefani reaches over and pats the garment bag she'd been using as a distraction. 

“So…”

“So.”

“You wanna see what all the panic was about?”

You grin.

"I was wondering when we'd actually open it." 

Together, you unzip the garment bag, carefully pulling the outfit into view for the first time. 

You hold the outfit up in front of yourself, turning slightly to catch it in the mirror.

“Mia wasn’t kidding,” you said.

Stefani smiled from beside you.

“No. She has good taste.”

“So do you.”

“I hired her.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Of course that’s your takeaway.”

She laughed, taking the hander from your hands.

“Come here.”

You stepped onto the small platform in front of the mirror while she carefully unzipped the back of the outfit.

“Arms.”

You slipped your arms through the sleeves, feeling the cool fabric settle against your skin. Stefani worked patiently behind you, smoothing each section into place instead of rushing through it.

"You know," she murmured, concentrating on the zip, "I've discovered something." 

“Hm?”

"I quite like helping you get dressed." 

You caught her eye in the mirror. 

“That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“I distinctly remember you enjoying helping me get undressed.”

Her hands paused for exactly one second before she laughed. 

"I can enjoy both." 

"I never doubted it." 

She finished fastening the zip before gently brushing an invisible crease from your shoulder. 

"There." 

You turned to face her. 

“So?”

Stefani looked you up and down without saying anything at first. 

The corner of her mouth lifted. 

“I hate to admit it…”

“What?”

“...you’re going to make my job very difficult today.”

“Oh?”

“I have to concentrate.”

You grinned.

“Poor you.”

“I know.”

She reached for her phone from her bag. “My outfit should be downstairs by now.”

A few taps later, she lifted it to her ear.

“Hey, Sorry to ask, but would you mind bringing my garment bag up here? To room 214”

A pause. “No, no rush.”

She glanced at you with a smile.

“Thank you.”

The call lasted less than a minute.

True to form, Stefani’s primary assistant appeared a few minutes later with the garment bag slung carefully over one arm.

You rarely see Stefani’s assistant; you assume she has the busiest job in the world. You smile at her as you peek your head around towards the door. She smiles back.

“Thank you so much.”

“Looking incredible. I’ll leave you to it.”

The door clicked shut again. You looked at Stefani.

“My turn. Lift your arms.”

She smirks. She slipped out of the clothes she'd been wearing, carefully stepping into the outfit before turning her back to you. 

“I forgot how many fastenings this thing has.”

“Stand still.”

“I’m standing.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I am not.”

You smiled to yourself as you worked your way up the back of the outfit, fastening each clasp one by one. 

"You know," you said, "I've discovered something." 

She smiled.

“You’re impossible.”

"I quite like helping you get dressed." 

“Oh yeah?”

“I can see the appeal.”

She laughed softly.

“Told you.”

Once everything was secured, you smoothed the fabric over her waist before stepping back to admire your work. 

She turned towards the mirror. You were rendered speechless looking at her.

“You look…” You started.

“I know.”

She smiled at your reflection.

A familiar ringtone broke the moment. Stefani reached for her phone, answering immediately.

“Hey.”

She listened for a few seconds before nodding.

“Perfect. We’ll head down now.”

Another pause.

“Thanks.”

She ended the call and slipped the phone into a small clutch.

“Our car’s here.”

You picked up the room key from the desk, giving the room one last glance to make sure neither of you had forgotten anything. 

“I think that’s everything.”

Stefani reached for your hand without really thinking about it. Her fingers found yours naturally.

“Let’s go.”

Together, you stepped out into the hallway, the hotel door clicking shut behind you. 

The lift ride down was quiet, filled with the kind of anticipation that settled before something important. Neither of you said much. Every now and then your eyes met in the mirrored walls, each look accompanied by a small smile. 

When the doors opened, Mia was already waiting in the lobby. 

"There you are," she said, smiling as she looked the two of you over. "Right on time."

She led you outside where a black SUV waited by the entrance. 

The driver stepped forward to open the rear door. 

Stefani gestured for you to get in first.

You slid across the leather seat, Stefani following a second later as Mia climbed into the front beside the driver. 

The door closed behind you.

The hotel disappeared through the tinted windows as the car pulled away from the curb, carrying the three of you towards the photoshoot. 

The city slides past the tinted windows in soft, unfocused shapes. Glass towers, early traffic, streetlights still holding on like they forgot to switch off. The SUV moves smoothly through it all.

Stefani sits beside you in the back seat, relaxed but thoughtful, one hand resting loosely near yours without quite touching. Mia is up front, scrolling through her phone, posture careful in that professional way that makes it look like she’s trying not to take up too much space. 

You glance at Stefani once.

There’s still a trace of earlier in her expression. Not tension exactly, just awareness. Like her thoughts are moving slightly faster than the conversation. 

Then she speaks.

“So,” she says, leaning forward just a little so her voice reaches the front, “how long have you been doing this kind of work, Mia?”

Mia looks up, a little caught off guard. 

“Oh. Um, a few years now. Four, I think. I’ve done different tours, mostly assistant and production work.” 

Stefani nods like she’s actually picturing it. 

“That’s a lot of moving parts to manage.” 

Mia gives a small, tired laugh. “Yeah. You kind of stop seeing it as chaos after a while. Or you just learn to work inside it.” 

“That sounds like a skill,” Stefani says. 

“Or survival,” Mia replies, half-joking. 

That gets a quiet smile from Stefani. 

You notice it then. The way she’s not performing the conversation. She’s just in it. Listening properly, asking things that don’t feel like checks or tests, just curiosity. 

“So what do you actually like about it?” Stefani asks. 

Mia hesitates for a second, thinking. 

“I guess when it all works,” she says. “When nothing breaks, when everyone’s where they’re supposed to be, and no one’s yelling. It’s rare, but it feels good when it happens.” 

Stefani hums softly. “Yeah. People only notice you when something goes wrong.” 

“Exactly.”

The conversation starts to loosen after that. 

Mia relaxes a little in her seat. Her answers come easier. Stefani keeps it going, not pushing, just following where Mia leads. At one point she even laughs at something Mia says about chasing lost wardrobe pieces across three different venues in one night. 

You find yourself easing into it without meaning to. 

“So basically you’re the reason everything doesn’t fall apart,” you say lightly. 

Mia glances back at you, a little shy. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

“I do,” Stefani says immediately, simple and certain. 

Mia blinks, then smiles despite herself. “Thank you.” 

After that, it feels different in the car. 

Not perfectly relaxed, not suddenly close, but shared. Like the space between everyone has stopped feeling split into sides. You still catch yourself watching Stefani sometimes, wondering if this is another layer of something unspoken, but it doesn’t feel sharp anymore. Just thoughtful. 

By the time the SUV slows, the city opens out into a large industrial-looking space. Steel beams, wide glass panels, crew members already moving in organised bursts like they’ve been running since dawn. 

The car stops. 

The shift is immediate. 

Doors open. Cold air spills in. Voices overlap from outside. Someone calls Stefani’s name. A production assistant appears almost instantly with a clipboard, already mid-sentence. 

“Hair and makeup is ready for both of you,” they say quickly. “We’re slightly ahead of schedule, so we’re trying to keep momentum.” 

“Of course,” Stefani replies smoothly. 

Mia is already stepping out, adjusting her earpiece, slipping back into work mode like she never left it. 

Inside, the space is already alive. Lights warming up, racks of clothing being wheeled past, mirrors catching fragments of movement, people weaving around each other with practised urgency. 

A stylist appears at your side almost immediately. 

“This way,” they say. “Hair first, then makeup. We’ll get you ready with Stefani after.” 

You glance back once. 

Stefani catches your eye across the moving crowd for a second. 

Then someone guides her in the opposite direction, and she disappears into the flow of people, already being pulled toward her own station. 

Just like that, the quiet from the car is gone, and the shoot begins to take over everything around you. 

Hair and makeup passed by in a blur. 

Not rushed, not chaotic, just steady and professional in a way that makes time feel slightly unreal. Someone brushes powder across your cheekbone while talking about the weather. A stylist hums quietly while pinning something into place. Stefani ends up in the chair a few stations away from you, visible in fragments through mirrors and moving bodies, her reflection catching your eye every now and then. 

There’s polite small talk that doesn’t really stick in your memory afterwards. Compliments about skin tones, casual questions about coffee, someone laughing gently at something that probably wasn’t that funny. Everything is soft-brushed and slightly distant, like you’re watching your own preparation from a few steps outside your body. 

By the time they bring you both onto set, the space has transformed. 

Lighting rigs overhead. Camera rails on the floor. Marked positions taped down with clean precision. A controlled openness, like a stage pretending to be spontaneous. 

Someone claps once. 

“Alright, we’re setting for the video first. Let’s bring them to marks.” 

You find your position without needing much instruction. 

Stefani does the same.

There’s a moment where you both glance at each other across the marked space, and it feels less like rehearsal now and more like memory. Like your bodies already know the shape of what is about to happen. 

The director leans in from behind the monitor. 

“Okay,” they call out. “We’re going to run the near-kiss first. Same as rehearsed. Don’t overthink it. Just follow instinct and stay with each other.” 

You nod slightly.

Stefani gives a small, confident smile. 

And then it starts.

Music plays through hidden speakers, low enough to feel more like atmosphere than sound. The camera rolls. 

You lean in. So does she. It’s almost unsettling how easy it is.

No hesitation. No searching for timing. You both move like you’ve already done this a hundred times in some alternate version of the day. The distance between you closes in a slow, deliberate arc. Eyes locked. Breath controlled but not hidden. 

You lift a hand near her face without touching. 

She leans into it like she’s been waiting for it. 

The choreography they once taught you now feels rewritten by something quieter and more personal. When you reach the point of the near-kiss, everything narrows down to just the space between you. 

Close enough to feel it, not close enough to cross it.

Your lips hover near hers, and for a second it almost stops being performance entirely. Just presence. Just intention. 

Her eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

The camera keeps rolling.

“Perfect,” the director calls out immediately, voice bright with excitement. “That is exactly it. Don’t move.” 

Someone behind the monitors lets out a small, impressed laugh. 

“Yeah, that’s the one,” another voice says. “That’s the campaign right there.” 

They don’t cut.

They let it sit for a second longer, capturing the stillness, the almost-ness of it.

When you finally break apart, it’s slow, like neither of you wants to disrupt what just happened. 

“Okay,” the director says, already animated. “We’re doing a few more takes just to be safe. Same energy, same positioning. Let’s just explore it a little.” 

You reset. Stefani resets in front of you.

You can tell something’s changed. Not in the blocking, but something in her. You feel it almost immediately when she looks at you again.

There’s no uncertainty in her expression now. No rehearsal-thinking. Just focus, sharp and unfiltered, like the performance has stopped being something she is doing and started being something she is feeling. 

And underneath it, something hotter. More intent. Hungry in the way her gaze holds yours. 

You catch it instantly, the feeling of her eyes on you immediately sending heat between your legs.

Neither of you comment on it before the next take starts. If anything, it’s worse in the best possible way.

The space between you disappears faster this time. The near-kiss lands more confidently, more deliberately. Her hand brushes your waist for a fraction longer than choreography requires. Your breath catches slightly, and she notices, because of course she does. 

The director is practically glowing behind the monitor. 

“Yes. Yes, that’s it. Keep that.” 

Someone in media is already recording behind-the-scenes footage, phones lifted, capturing the shift that everyone in the room can feel but no one is interrupting. 

By the third take, it stops feeling like repetition. 

It feels like escalation.

Each reset brings you back into the same position, but neither of you returns to baseline. Something accumulates in the pauses. In the looks between cues. In the way Stefani’s attention doesn’t fully leave you even when the camera resets. 

She’s now closer than she needs to be. Not breaking rules, but bending them until they almost mean something else to everyone in the room.

When the director finally calls cut for the last time, there’s a collective exhale from the crew. 

“Okay,” they say, clearly satisfied. “We’ve got it. That’s everything we need for video.” 

A few relieved laughs ripple through the team. 

For a second longer, you just stand there in the aftermath of it, the air still charged, like the room hasn’t fully caught up to what it just witnessed. 

Then someone claps, breaking it. 

“Photos next,” a producer calls out. “Let’s reset the space and bring in the interview setup after.” 

The energy shifts again, practical and efficient. And just like that, the video shoot dissolves into preparation for something friendlier.

Hair and makeup step in almost immediately once the director calls for a reset. 

The energy on set shifts from performance-high to practical again, like someone turning the volume down on a song that was just playing too loud. Hands are light but efficient as they check both of you over, smoothing fabric, fixing stray hairs, adjusting shine under the lights. 

“Just small touch-ups,” one of them says gently. “You’re both good, we just want you camera-ready for photos and interview.” 

A cool brush of powder along your cheekbone. A quick re-line of gloss. A pin you didn’t realise had shifted being reset with careful fingers. Stefani gets the same treatment a few feet away, standing still while someone checks her look with focused precision. 

Someone hands you water. 

You take it gratefully, the first real pause you’ve had since the video shoot started. 

Stefani does the same.

For a few minutes, neither of you speaks much. The room is still busy, but not urgent anymore. Just controlled movement and quiet conversation between stylists. 

It feels like a reset button. 

A chance to breathe after how close everything had just been. 

You catch Stefani glancing at you over the rim of her water bottle. There’s still that heat there, but it’s softer now. Managed. Like she’s putting it back into a box she’s not quite done with yet. 

You raise your brows slightly. 

She looks away first. 

That alone makes you smile.

As you’re finishing up, you step slightly to the side and spot Mia near one of the production stations. 

She’s standing off to the edge of the space, not directly involved in the touch-ups anymore, a clipboard hanging loosely in one hand. The other she’s using to fan herself. 

It’s not hot in here. The air conditioning is definitely doing its job. 

And yet she looks flushed.

A little pink in the cheeks. Slightly flustered in a way she is absolutely trying to hide but not succeeding at. 

You watch her for a second longer than you mean to. Then you realise what she’s reacting to.

The video shoot.

You hide a small smile behind your water bottle. 

Of course she enjoyed that.

Mia glances up just then, catches you looking, and immediately straightens like she’s been caught doing something unprofessional. The clipboard stops fanning. 

You just give her a calm, harmless smile. 

Stefani returns to your side a moment later, freshly adjusted and looking fully set again, though there’s still a trace of something in her expression that hasn’t fully cooled down. 

“You look entertained,” she says quietly. 

“I am,” you reply.

She follows your gaze briefly toward where Mia had been standing, then back to you. 

“...You can tell me later.”

A producer calls for you both again, guiding you back into position as the set shifts once more. 

The chairs for the interview are already set up now, lights adjusted, cameras angled, the space rearranged into something calmer but no less intentional. 

Stefani walks beside you as you head back in. 

The interview setup feels calmer than everything before it. Not less important, but definitely different.

The lights are softer now, more flattering than intense. Two chairs angled toward each other like a conversation someone decided to make official. Cameras sit behind glass and metal, quiet and waiting. There’s still a sense of being watched, but it’s less about performance and more about narration. 

You settle into your seat across from Stefani.

 She adjusts her posture once, smooth and effortless, like she’s clicked into a version of herself built specifically for this. 

The interviewer smiles.

“Alright,” they begin. “Let’s start simple. The tour so far, how’s it been for both of you?” 

Stefani answers first, easy and composed. 

“Busy,” she says with a small smile. “But in a good way. It’s been really connected. The shows feel alive.” 

You lean back slightly.

“She’s being polite,” you add. “It’s been so busy I barely know where I am right now.”

A couple of people behind the camera laugh politely.

Stefani glances at you.

“Thank god I know where we are then.”

“I agree,” you insist.

The interviewer grins. “And are you both managing the pace well?” 

“Oh absolutely,” you say immediately. “I’ve developed a deep and meaningful relationship with melatonin pills and instant noodles.”

Stefani nods thoughtfully.

“I think she’s bonded with every hotel kettle so far.”

“I have,” you agree. “We’re in a committed relationship now.”

That gets another laugh from the crew.

The energy loosens further. 

Next question shifts slightly. 

“There’s been a lot of attention around your onstage chemistry,” the interviewer says carefully. “Fans are very invested in your dynamic. How do you both see it?” 

You immediately smile during a brief pause in the room. 

Stefani glances at you, then back to the interviewer. 

“We work well together,” she says simply. “There’s trust there.” 

You lean forward a little. 

“Yeah,” you add. “It’s easy. We don’t really have to overthink it anymore. It just works.” 

“And offstage?” the interviewer asks. 

You smile again. Bigger this time.

“Oh, she’s actually worse offstage.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think about it for a second longer than necessary. 

“In the way where she acts like she’s very controlled and professional,” you say, “and then suddenly has very strong opinions about things like… timing, formations, whether I’m standing close enough to my mark and what noodle flavour I should get instead.” 

A ripple of laughter moves through the room at your deadpan but frustrated delivery, particularly about the noodles. 

Stefani doesn’t break character, but her eyes narrow slightly in amusement. 

“I think I behave very professionally offstage.” 

“You do,” you say, nodding. “Right up until you start lecturing me about how instant noodles are nothing compared to what you’ve eaten in Japan… I’ve never been to Japan, lady.”

That gets a bigger laugh. 

Stefani lets out a small huff of amusement. 

“I prefer to call that helpful advice.” 

“I prefer to call it rich people advice.” 

The interviewer grins, trying to steer it back in. “So would you say there’s a lot of tension between you two offstage?” 

You glance at Stefani like you’re considering how honest to be, then lean back in your chair. 

“Tension is a strong word,” you say lightly. “Let’s say she has a habit of standing just a little too close when she doesn’t need to.” 

The room reacts immediately with knowing laughter. 

Stefani turns fully toward you now. 

“I stand exactly where I’m supposed to stand.” 

“Mm,” you hum. “Sure.”

She smiles, slow and dangerous in the way only you would notice. 

“I think you just notice me more than you should.” 

The laughter softens into something more amused, less loud. 

You don’t miss a step. 

“I think you make it very hard not to.” 

That lands perfectly. 

The interviewer’s grin widens as they try to contain it. “So you’d describe the relationship as… distracting?” 

You immediately gesture between the two of you. 

“I’d describe it as her being very good at pulling focus without trying. She’s Lady Gaga for god’s sake.”

Stefani smiles, resting her chin near her hand like she’s thinking about her rebuttal while the room continues to hum with laughter.

The room feels like everyone understands the rhythm now. The questions shift again, lighter.

Favourite tour moments, favourite cities, funny backstage stories.

You carry most of the answers without even thinking about it, joking through your own exhaustion, turning small chaos into something entertaining. Stefani follows your lead more than usual, letting you take the conversational space and stepping in only when she wants to sharpen or soften a moment. 

At one point, the interviewer asks, “What’s something people would be surprised to know about your dynamic?” 

You don’t even hesitate. 

“I do most of the emotional damage control.” 

Stefani looks at you.

“That’s not true.”

“It is emotionally accurate.”

She smiles sarcastically.

“I think she just likes saying things with confidence.” 

“I do,” you admit. “Fake it ‘til you make it. How do you think I got the job dancing with you?”

The room relaxes further into laughter. Even the crew behind the cameras looks like they’ve stopped bracing for anything and are just enjoying it now. 

The final stretch of questions circles back to the upcoming visuals, the shoot, the collaboration, how it all came together. 

Stefani answers that one more seriously, her tone softening just slightly. 

“It felt natural,” she says. “We didn’t have to force anything.” 

You glance at her when she says it. 

She meets your eyes briefly, just long enough for it to mean something without needing to explain it. 

Then she looks back to the interviewer. 

“And that’s rare,” she finishes. 

There’s a small pause after that. Not dramatic. Just real.

Near the end, the interviewer smiles knowingly.

“Last one. What’s something the other person does that drives you a little bit insane?” 

You don’t miss a beat.

“Oh, she’s so tuned in to everything. Like she always knows what's going on and she notices everything. She never lets me be the first one to notice something or come up with an idea. 

Stefani chuckles and immediately looks at you.

“That’s not a flaw.”

“It’s definitely irritating.”

“It’s efficiency.”

“It’s intimidation.”

She leans in slightly, eyes narrowing playfully.

“You’re lucky I like you.”

The room laughs. You grin.

“I’m very aware of that fact.”

Stefani’s gaze lingers a second longer than necessary before the interviewer notices their time slot is finished.

“Alright,” they say gently. “That’s perfect. We’re good.” 

The cameras keep rolling for a few extra seconds, capturing the last bits of laughter and movement as the energy slowly decompresses. 

You lean back in your chair slightly, exhaling. 

Stefani shifts just a little closer beside you, not touching, but near enough that it feels intentional anyway. 

And for the first time since the shoot started, nothing is rushing you. 

A crew member steps forward with water and quick thanks, breaking the spell properly. 

“Great work, both of you. That’s a wrap for the interview. We’re just moving back into final photos now.” 

“Got it,” you say automatically. 

Stefani nods once. 

As people start resetting the space again, you stand together, chairs being moved back, lights adjusted, the set shifting from conversation to composition.

Stefani glances at you briefly as you both get repositioned. That familiar look is back now.

You bump her shoulder lightly as you pass. 

“Behaving yourself?” you murmur.

She looks at you like she’s deciding how honest to be.

“...Mostly.”

You smile.

“That’s scarily vague.”

She leans in just slightly as you walk.

“You liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“It’s strategy.”

That earns a small laugh from her, soft enough that only you really hear it.

Then the set pulls you apart again into positions for photos. 

The photographers call out directions, lighting shifts, and suddenly it’s all movement again. It feels easier now, more like being shaped than being watched.

Stefani stands close as instructed, turning slightly, but her eyes find you between cues more often than they need to. Each glance is brief. Controlled. Familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to the room. 

A photographer calls out, “Final couple shots, let’s go a little closer on these.” 

This time, there’s no need to rehearse what closeness looks like. 

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

Equipment lights blink in low amber and blue, the speakers breathe out a steady loop of instrumental, and somewhere in the corner, a forgotten jacket slumps over the back of a chair like it gave up hours ago. 

It’s just the two of you now.

You’re curled into the couch, one leg tucked under you, phone glowing faintly against your palm. Emails, mostly. Things that feel urgent enough to answer but not important enough to matter tomorrow. Your thumb moves automatically, scrolling, typing, deleting, rewriting. Half your attention lives there. 

The other half doesn’t.

Across the room, Stefani stands at the mic, headphones hanging loose around her neck. She’s not fully recording, not yet. Just working something out. Testing the shape of it. One hand lifts absently as she listens, fingers keeping time against the air like she’s conducting something only she can hear. 

The instrumental loops again. Soft. Hypnotic. A low pulse under everything. 

She leans in slightly, voice quiet at first, like she’s not ready to let the room hear it. 

“like an old desire that you know too well…” 

It almost blends into the track. You barely register it, just another fragment floating through the space. Your eyes stay on your phone. You reply to an email you won’t remember sending. 

The loop resets. 

She shifts her weight, pushes her hair back, tries again. A little louder this time. More certain. 

“spinnin’ round in circles ‘cause she rung your bell…” 

Your thumb pauses mid-scroll. 

Not for long. Just a second. Then it keeps moving. You tell yourself you weren’t really listening. 

But something about the phrasing sticks, trailing after your thoughts like a loose thread. 

The instrumental rolls on, steady as a heartbeat. 

She hums this time, working through the melody, then dips back into it, softer again, like she’s chasing something just out of reach. 

“see the violet in her eyes, body so ethereal…” 

That one lands differently. 

You don’t look up. Not yet. But your focus slips. The words settle somewhere just beneath the surface, not loud enough to demand attention, but familiar in a way you can’t quite place. 

You reread the same sentence in your email three times before realising you haven’t processed a single word. 

Across the room, she exhales quietly, adjusts the mic stand by an inch, like that’ll make the line fall into place. 

The track loops again, and this time, when she sings, there’s something sharper threaded through it. 

“her beauty comes with a bite…”

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

It’s small. Barely noticeable. But it’s there.

Your phone dips slightly in your hand, screen still glowing, email half-written and forgotten.

The instrumental keeps playing.

Stefani doesn’t say anything else right away. She just stands there for a second, listening to what she just put into the room, head tilted slightly like she’s trying to decide if it belongs.

You tell yourself it’s just a song.

Just another late night, another unfinished idea, another line she’ll probably change tomorrow.

But the words don’t quite let you go.

They circle. Quiet. Persistent.

And without meaning to, you start listening a little more closely than you were before.

The track loops again, softer now, like it’s settling into the walls.

Stefani lingers in the booth for a beat longer, head tilted, lips pressed together in thought. Then she exhales, pushes the headphones fully off, and steps out, bare feet quiet against the floor.

The shift is subtle, but you feel it anyway.

She crosses the room without saying anything, snagging a fork from the coffee table and dropping onto the couch beside you with the kind of familiarity that comes from doing this a hundred times before. The cushion dips under her weight, warm, close. Not touching. Not quite.

Close enough to notice.

“God,” she mutters, glancing at the clock on the wall, “what is it, like… two?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just huffs a quiet laugh to herself and takes a bite of whatever’s left in the takeout container. Then she reaches for her notepad, flipping it open to a page crowded with half-lines and arrows and circled words.

The instrumental keeps playing behind you, low and constant.

She hums along under her breath as she chews, tapping the pen against the page, then scribbling something down, crossing it out immediately after. Not stuck, but refining. Rearranging. Like the lyrics already exist somewhere and she’s just trying to line them up exactly right.

“Words are easy,” she says absently, more to the page than to you. “It’s where they sit that matters.”

Her shoulder brushes yours for half a second as she shifts, adjusting her position, and it’s nothing. It’s always nothing.

Except it isn’t.

You try to focus back on your phone. The email still open. Cursor blinking like it’s waiting on you to get your life together.

You don’t type.

Because now she’s right there.

Black sweats, loose at the hips, the fabric soft and worn in that way that makes them look like they belong to her more than anything else she owns. A cropped top that fits close, catching the low light every time she moves, every shift of muscle, every quiet breath. Her hair’s down, falling naturally around her face, a little messy from the headphones, framing her in a way that feels unfair.

She’s not trying.

That’s the problem.

She’s just sitting there, eating leftover takeout and rewriting lyrics like it’s nothing, humming pieces of the melody under her breath, completely focused, completely herself.

And somehow that makes it worse.

You’ve seen her dressed up, styled within an inch of her life, lights and cameras and all of it. You’ve seen the version of her the world gets.

This? This is different.

This is the version that leans into you without thinking about it. The one who steals your food, forgets what she was saying mid-sentence, hums when she’s concentrating. The one who looks like this at two in the morning, half-lit by studio lamps, completely unaware of the effect she has.

Your chest tightens again, but not the same way as before.

Warmer. Sharper.

You swallow, glance back down at your phone like that’ll fix it.

It doesn’t.

Beside you, she hums again, softer this time, testing the cadence.

“shape of a woman…”

She pauses, scribbles, shakes her head, tries again under her breath.

You shouldn’t be paying this much attention.

You definitely shouldn’t be noticing the way her mouth curves around the words, or how her voice drops when she’s thinking, or the way her knee shifts just slightly closer to yours without her even realising.

But you do.

And it settles somewhere low and complicated, tangled up with everything else you’ve been trying not to think about.

The instrumental loops.

Her pen taps once more against the page.

And without looking up, she nudges your arm lightly with her elbow.

“You’re quiet over there,” she says, casual, like it’s nothing. “That email really that serious, or are you just pretending to work so you can judge my songwriting process?”

There’s a hint of a smile in her voice.

She still hasn’t looked at you.

You huff out a quiet breath, dragging your attention back down to your phone for half a second like you can pretend you’ve been focused this whole time.

“I’m not judging,” you mumble, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. “I’m… enjoying listening to you. Like I always do.”

It comes out softer than you meant it to.

Honest, in a way that makes your chest feel a little too open.

For a second, there’s just the loop of the instrumental filling the space between you.

Then she finally looks up.

Really looks at you.

And it’s ridiculous how much that alone is enough to throw you off balance.

The low LED lights catch in her eyes, tint everything in soft gold and violet, tracing the edges of her face in a way that feels almost unreal. Her hair falls loose around her cheeks, a little messy, a little perfect. There’s a faint crease between her brows from concentrating, her lips parted just slightly like she’s about to say something but doesn’t.

You’ve been this close to her a thousand times.

So why does it feel different now?

Her gaze lingers a second too long. Not intense, not heavy. 

Present.

It makes your stomach flip in a way you can’t quite justify.

“Yeah?” she says, quieter now, like she’s meeting you somewhere you didn’t mean to go.

You nod, a little too quickly, dropping your eyes back to your phone even though you’re not reading a single word on it.

“Yeah.”

There’s the faintest hint of a smile in her voice when she exhales, like she’s filing that away somewhere.

“Okay,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The pen taps once against the page.

Then something clicks.

You can see it happen. The shift. Like a puzzle piece finally sliding into place.

She straightens slightly, energy sharpening, attention snapping back to the notepad in her lap. The hum returns, more certain this time, her voice threading into the instrumental with a quiet kind of confidence.

“Woah, woah…”

She pauses just long enough to catch the rhythm, pen already moving.

“Remember when you fell in love with the—”

Her head tilts, listening, adjusting, and then, there it is.

The chorus lands like it’s been waiting all night.

“Shape of a woman… (woman) Shape of a wo-woman…”

Her voice lifts just a touch, fuller now, the melody opening up, filling the room in a way the earlier lines didn’t. It’s still intimate, still close, but there’s something brighter threaded through it now. Something undeniable.

She repeats it, softer the second time, like she’s testing how it feels on the way down.

“Shape of a woman… (woman) Shape of a wo-woman…”

The last note lingers, dissolving back into the loop.

You forget to breathe.

Because suddenly the song isn’t just something in the background anymore.

It’s right here. Sitting between you. Pressing into the space where your shoulders almost touch, where her knee is still just barely brushing yours, where her voice hasn’t quite faded from the air yet.

She glances down at the page, underlining something quickly, then looks up again, eyes flicking to you without thinking.

“Too on the nose?” she asks, casual on the surface, but there’s something underneath it. Something searching.

Like she actually cares what you think.

Like she always has.

The instrumental keeps looping.

And for some reason, your answer feels like it matters a little more than it should.

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Because the answer is there, somewhere, but it’s tangled up in everything else suddenly crowding your head. The lyrics, the way she’s looking at you, how close she is, how easy it would be to say the wrong thing and crack something open you’ve both spent years pretending isn’t there.

“It’s—” you start, then stop, a quiet breath catching halfway up your chest. “It’s good. It’s really good.”

Too quick. Too thin.

Even you hear it.

Your gaze drops back to your phone, but the screen might as well be blank. The words blur, your reflection faint in the glass, eyes a little too wide, a little too bright. Your pulse has picked up somewhere along the way, sharp and uneven, and now you’re aware of it in places you don’t want to be.

You try to rein it in.

Focus. Breathe. Say something normal.

But your thoughts don’t listen. They loop, just like the track behind you. Snatches of lyrics, the warmth of her shoulder, the way she looked at you a second ago, like she was waiting for something more than a casual answer.

Remember when you fell in love with the—

You swallow hard.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your phone. You don’t notice you’ve stopped moving entirely.

Beside you, the couch shifts.

It takes you a second to realise she hasn’t gone back to writing.

The pen isn’t tapping anymore.

The humming has stopped.

“Hey.”

Softer this time.

Closer.

You look up before you can stop yourself, and she’s already turned toward you fully now, notepad forgotten somewhere on the table, body angled in, attention narrowed down to just you like the rest of the room has dimmed out.

Her brows knit slightly, not dramatic, just enough to show she’s paying attention.

“You okay?”

It’s not a demand. Not a probe.

You shake your head automatically. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just—”

Your voice betrays you, thinning out at the edges.

She doesn’t let you finish.

Not in a cutting-you-off way. In a stepping-in way.

“Hey,” she repeats, quieter, and then she moves.

It’s immediate, instinctive.

Her hand finds your arm first, warm, grounding, thumb brushing lightly like she’s checking if you’re really there. Then she shifts closer, closing the small gap that wasn’t supposed to matter but suddenly does, turning toward you fully so you can’t quite hide behind your phone anymore.

“C’mere.”

There’s no hesitation in it.

Gentle, but certain.

Her hand slides from your arm to your back, guiding, not forcing, just enough pressure to invite you in. When you don’t resist, she pulls you closer, tucking you into her side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like it’s something she’s done before.

Maybe not like this.

But close enough.

Your shoulder presses into her, then your forehead dips, almost without permission, finding that small, steady space near her collarbone. The fabric of her top is soft under your cheek, warm from her skin, her breathing slow and even beneath it.

She doesn’t say anything right away.

Just settles her hand at your back, fingers splayed, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like she’s smoothing something out you can’t quite reach yourself.

The instrumental keeps looping behind you.

Quieter now. Further away.

“You don’t have to do that,” she murmurs after a moment, voice low, right above your head.

“Do what?” you manage, barely.

“Pretend you’re fine.”

There’s no judgment in it. No edge.

Just quiet certainty.

Her other hand comes up, gentle against the side of your head, fingers slipping lightly into your hair, brushing it back from your face in a way that makes your chest ache for reasons you don’t want to unpack.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

It trembles on the way out.

And for the first time since it started, the noise in your head falters, just a little, under the steady rhythm of her breathing and the warmth of her hand anchoring you in place.

You let yourself lean into her a little more before you realise you’re doing it.

Like your body decided before your brain could argue.

Her hand stays steady at your back, slow, absent circles that don’t demand anything from you. Just there. Just constant. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask questions. 

For a minute, neither of you says anything.

The track hums on.

You focus on that instead of the way your chest feels too tight, too full, like something’s been sitting there for too long and finally decide it’s not going to stay quiet anymore. 

“I just…” you start, then stop.

Your voice sounds smaller than you expect.

You swallow, shifting slightly, but you don’t pull away. If anything, you stay right where you are, forehead still near her shoulder, like distance would make it worse. 

“I called it off. With Kayla. Again.”

It comes out flat. Casual, almost. 

Like it doesn’t matter.

Her hand doesn’t pause. Not even for a second.

“Oh,” she says quietly, not surprised, not prying. Just acknowledging it. “Okay”

You let out a breath that feels heavier than it should. 

“It wasn’t–” you shake your head against her, frustrated with yourself already. “It wasn’t even bad. That’s the thing. She was… fine. Nice. Normal.”

The word normal sits wrong in your mouth.

Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your own sleeve. 

“I just–” you huff a quiet, humourless laugh. “I couldn’t do it. Again.”

Silence stretches for a second, filled only by the low loop of the track.

You expect her to ask something. Who. Why. What happened.

She doesn’t.

She just shifts her hand slightly higher on your back, thumb brushing once, grounding.

So the words keep slipping out.

“I keep thinking it’s gonna be different, you know?” Your voice dips, softer now, less controlled. “Like this time it’ll just click. And it never does.”

Your throat tightens. You push through it anyway. 

“And then I’m the one who has to end it, and they look at me like I’m–” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening. “Like there’s something wrong with me for not feeling it.”

Her hand stills for a second this time.

Not pulling away, just resting there.

“Hey,” she murmurs, a little firmer now, her hand resumes its slow movement, a little more deliberate. “No.”

You shake your head quickly, like you can outrun it.

“It’s just– it keeps happening,” you insist, quieter, more strained. “I keep trying, and it’s like there’s this–” You hesitate, searching, frustrated. “This disconnect. Like I’m waiting for something that never shows up.”

The words come out faster now, less filtered.

“And I don’t even know what I’m waiting for anymore, Stef. I just know it’s not there and I can’t fake it and I’m so tired of–”

You stop abruptly, breath catching.

Of almosts.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to.

The silence that follows is heavier, but not uncomfortable. 

Her hand slides up slightly, fingers brushing at the base of your neck now, warm, steady. 

“You don’t have to force something just because it looks right on paper,” she says softly.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I know. I just–” Your voice wavers, then steadies again, quieter. “I don’t get why it’s so easy for everyone else.”

That one hurts more than you expect.

‘I keep ending up in the same place. Like I’m… almost there, almost feeling it, almost wanting it, and then–” You shake your head again, small, frustrated. “Nothing.”

Your grip tightens slightly, like you’re holding onto something invisible.

“And they deserve someone who actually feels it. So I leave. And then I just–” A hollow laugh slips out. “Do it again with someone else a few months later like that’s gonna fix it.”

This time, when she moves, it’s more deliberate.

Her hand leaves your back for a second, just long enough to gently tip your chin up, not forcing, just guiding until you’re not hiding in her shoulder anymore.

“Okay,” she says again, quieter now, but there’s something steadier underneath it. Something grounded.

Her eyes find yours. There’s no pity, not confusion.

“That doesn’t make you broken.”

The words land gently, but they don’t feel light.

Her thumb brushes just under your eye, catching the edge of something you didn’t realise had gathered there.

“It just means you haven’t felt what you’re supposed to feel yet.”

You don’t mean to say it, but it slips. 

“I have felt it,” you murmur, voice barely there, like admitting it might make it less real. Your eyes flicker down for a second, then back up, caught in hers. “Just… With someone inaccessible.”

The word hangs between you.

Inaccessible.

It lands heavier than anything else you’ve said so far.

Her hand stills at your jaw. Not pulling away, not tightening. She’s paused like something inside her is recalibrating.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The track loops again, soft and distant, like it’s happening in another room. 

Her gaze doesn’t leave yours.

There’s a flicker of something there. Recognition, maybe. Or realisation catching up to something she already knew. 

“Yeah?” she asks quietly.

Not pushing, but not letting it go either.

Your throat tightens. 

You should backtrack. Laugh it off. Change the subject. Do anything but stay right here in this moment where everything feels a little too exposed, a little too close to being named.

You don’t. 

Instead, your eyes drop briefly to her mouth. It’s instinctive. Unthinking. And when you look back up, she’s already noticed. 

Of course she has. 

The air shifts.

Your hand lifts before you fully decide to move it, fingers brushing lightly against a strand of her hair where it’s fallen forward again. You tuck it back, slow, careful, your fingertips grazing her temple, lingering for half a second longer than they should. 

She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t say anything. Just watches you.

Close enough now that you can feel the warmth of her breath, steady, measured. Close enough that if you leaned in— 

You don’t think about it.

You just do it.

The kiss is soft. Hesitant. Almost questioning.

Like you’re waiting, even as it happens, for something to stop you.

Nothing does.

For a second, she kisses you back.

Gentle. Present. But restrained, like she’s holding something in check, something bigger than the moment. 

It lasts barely a heartbeat before reality crashes in. 

You pull back too quickly, breath catching, eye wide. 

“Oh my god–” Your hand drops immediately, like you’ve been burned. “I’m– I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to– I just–”

You’re already shifting, trying to put space back between you, panic rising sharp and fast now, flooding out everything else. 

“I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry, I just—” 

You don’t get very far. 

Her hand catches your wrist. 

Firm.

“Wait.” 

It stops you mid-motion.

You look at her, startled, breath uneven, words still half-formed and falling apart on your tongue.

There’s no hesitation in her now.

None of that earlier restraint.

Something’s changed.

Before you can react, her other arm slides around your waist and pulls you back, guided easily until you’re not just beside her anymore, but on her, the movement smooth, deliberate, like she’s already decided you’re not going anywhere. 

The shift knocks the breath out of you more effectively than anything else.

“Stop,” she murmurs, softer this time, but it lands heavier.

Not a command.

A grounding.

Your hands hover awkwardly for a second, unsure where to go, your heart racing too fast, your thoughts scrambling to catch up.

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean to mess anything up,” you manage, quieter now, the panic slipping into something more fragile.

Her hand comes up again, gentler this time, fingers brushing along your jaw, steadying.

“You didn’t,” she says.

Simple. Certain.

And then she closes the distance again.

This time, there’s no hesitation.

The kiss is deeper, more intentional, not rushed but not questioning either. Like she’s choosing it, fully, meeting you where you are instead of holding back from it.

Her hand stays at your jaw, anchoring you there, while the other rests firm at your waist, keeping you close in a way that makes it impossible to mistake this for anything accidental.

For a second, your body doesn’t know how to respond.

Then it does.

The panic quiets, not all at once, but enough to let something else take its place. Something steadier. Warmer. Real.

The kiss isn’t just a collision anymore; it’s a conversation you’ve been terrified to have for years. You melt into her, your hands abandoning their protective barrier to tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, desperate to bridge every remaining inch of space. 

She makes a low, vibrating sound in her throat as her hand at your waist slides higher, her palm firm against the small of your back. 

“Finally,” she whispers against your lips, the word breathy and thick with relief.

You can’t even find the air to laugh. You just groan, a broken, needy sound, and tilt your head back as she drags a trail of kisses along your jawline, down the sensitive column of your throat. 

Her touch is grounding, purposeful, stripping away the layers of anxiety that have defined your life for years.

Every time she grazes your skin, it feels like she’s marking you as hers, finally claiming the space she’s been hovering around for so long.

“Stef,” you gasp, your voice thin, fragile. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to ruin things.”

She stops, pulling back just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and heavy with a focus you’ve only ever dreamed of seeing directed at you. Her thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip, dragging slowly, possessively.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she murmurs, her voice rough, a stark contrast to the gentle way she starts to undo the buttons of your shirt, her fingers steady and sure. “Just let me. Just feel it.” 

You nod, a small, shaky movement, trusting her completely. 

As the fabric parts, the cool air of the room hits your skin, instantly replaced by the searing heat of her palms. 

When her hand finds the curve of your breast, your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that leaves your lips before you can stifle it. 

She watches your face, drinking in your reaction, and the look in her eyes is intoxicating. It’s not just desire; it’s tenderness, raw and unfiltered. 

She guides your hand to her body, and when you finally press your palm against the warmth of her chest, feeling the frantic, mirroring thrum of her heart against her ribs, the last of your resistance crumbles. 

“You’re so warm,” you whisper, barely audible, leaning into her touch as she leans into yours.

“Only for you,” she replies, her mouth finding yours again, hot and demanding, kissing you with the weight of every silent moment, every missed opportunity, every secret yearning of the last five years. 

Stefani guides you backwards, the movement fluid and intentional, until you’re lying flat against the cushions. She hovers over you, the weight of her body a welcome pressure, before she reaches up and takes both of your wrists in her hands. She pins them gently against the surface above your head, a soft, grounding weight that holds you still, locking your gaze to hers.

“Stay,” she commands, her voice a low, rough murmur.

It’s not a challenge; it’s an invitation. You give a shaky nod, your heart hammering against your ribs, and she smiles before dipping her head. 

Her lips are a warm, frantic trail against your neck, nibbling, tasting, sending jolts of electricity straight down to your toes. You arch into her, a soft, breathless gasp escaping you as she finds the pulse point that always gives you away. 

She eases your shirt off, the fabric sliding away to leave you exposed. The air in the room is cool, but your skin is burning. 

When her hands find the straps of your bra, she doesn't rush. She pulls the fabric back with a deliberate, agonising slowness, exposing the pale skin of your chest. She doesn’t just kiss; she leaves marks, small, darkening hickeys against your pale flesh that bloom under her mouth. 

Every time her teeth graze you, you squirm, your hips lifting off the cushions, a needy, desperate sound caught in your throat. 

“You’re so good,” she praises, her voice thick and gravelly against your skin, her eyes dark as she watches the way you react to her touch. “You’re doing so, so good, baby.”

She kisses her way down, her lips hot against the sensitive skin of your stomach, moving with a patience that borders on torture. Your hands, freed from her grip, move instinctively to her, clutching at the fabric of her t-shirt, pulling at it with trembling fingers. 

“Take it off,” you plead, the words tumbled and breathless. “Stef, please. I need you.”

She stops, looking up at you, her own breathing ragged, her eyes blown wide with the same hunger you feel. 

You help her, your hands working with hers to tug the hem of her shirt upward, peeling it off over her head until her skin is as bare as yours. You keep going, your hands shaking as you help her push the sweatpants down, your fingers brushing against her skin, slick with a newfound heat. 

With her help, you kick off your own pants, the discarded clothes pooling on the floor until only the thin, delicate lace of your underwear and bras separates you. She settles back over you, pinning your wrists again, her skin pressing flush against yours, heart to heart, breath to breath. 

“Finally,” she whispers, the word a promise, before she crashes her mouth onto yours again, and this time, you don't even try to hold anything back. 

She shifts, pulling you with her so she’s settled behind you, her body a warm, solid wall against your back. 

It’s a seamless adjustment.

She keeps her mouth locked onto yours, a deep, hungry kiss that swallows your soft whimper as you curl into her, seeking the heat.

Her right hand moves, abandoning the firm grip on your waist to sweep upward, her touch deliberate and maddeningly slow. 

Her fingers find the lace of your bra, brushing the fabric aside to stroke the crest of your breast. A sharp, breathy gasp catches in your throat, your head falling back against her shoulder as she circles your nipple with her thumb, teasing it until it’s hard and aching. 

She’s watching you, her eyes dark and heavy, drinking in the way your body betrays your need.

“You're so sensitive for me,” she murmurs against your jaw, her breath hot, erratic. She uses her hand to knead you, a grounding pressure that centres you, her nails grazing your skin just enough to send shivers cascading down your spine. 

Your hips rock back instinctively, seeking more, seeking that friction that feels like coming home. You’re melting, the boundaries between you and her dissolving entirely. 

Every nerve ending is alight, focused entirely on the point of contact where she meets you.

“Stef,” you gasp, the name a plea for release, for more, for everything.

“I know, baby,” she whispers, her voice a low vibration that you feel in your very bones. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Her hand drifts lower, sliding along the curve of your hip, her fingers firm, possessive. She doesn't rush, letting the anticipation build until the air in the room feels thick, charged with static. 

Then, she dips into the lace of your underwear, her fingers slipping beneath the elastic to find you. 

The contact is electric, a shock of pure heat that makes you gasp. She hooks her arm around your waist, reaching around to touch you, her fingers sliding to your clit. She strokes you, a steady, rhythmic pressure that makes your vision swim. 

“Look at you,” she hums, her voice thick with pride, her middle finger circling, finding exactly what you need. “So ready. So beautiful.” 

You moan, a high, shaky sound, your hands clenching into the couch cushions. 

The world narrows down to her touch, the slick and wet heat of her fingers, the solid strength of her body against yours. 

You’ve wanted this for so long that the reality of it feels almost overwhelming, a tide you’re finally, gladly drowning in. Every touch is a reminder that the waiting is over, that she is here, and she is yours. 

The thought of her being yours has you right there, hovering on the precipice, your breath coming in jagged hitches. Your body is wound so tight you’re sure you’re going to snap. 

Just as the sensation becomes unbearable, just as you’re ready to tip over the edge, Stefani slows her rhythm. She pulls her fingers back, just a fraction, leaving you desperate and aching in the sudden void. 

“Wait,” she murmurs against your neck, her voice wet and commanding. “I want to enjoy you, baby. We’ve got all night. Don’t go without me.”

You let out a frustrated, needy whimper, your hips bucking uselessly against her, but you don’t fight her. You can’t. 

Instead, your hand finds its way behind you, fingers trembling as you slide them beneath the lace of her underwear. She’s already so slick, her legs already open for you. 

You dip inside, and the sound she makes shivers through your own skin, grounding you even as you feel like you’re spinning.

You start to stroke her, your rhythm frantic, matching the way she’s pushing into you. It’s a dizzying feedback loop. She gasps, her head falling back onto your shoulder, and she begins to grind her hips down onto your fingers. 

The friction is absolute torture, the best kind of madness. You’re pushing into her, she’s pushing into you, and the sensation of her body sliding against your hand, of her hips working against your touch, drives you to the brink again. 

The room seems to tilt. You can feel the heat radiating off her, the desperate, unpolished hunger that has been buried between you for years finally clawing its way to the surface.

“Stef,” you gasp, your head lolling back against her shoulder, your vision swimming. 

“Together,” she growls, her hand picking up the pace, her fingers swirling against your clit, merciless and perfect. “Look at me. Stay with me. Now.”

She shifts, pressing her pelvis down hard against your hand, her own fingers pressing against you.

It hits you both at once, a tidal wave that pulls you under. 

You cry out, the sound ragged and raw, as the orgasm tears through you, a blinding, white-hot release that makes your fingers spasm against her.

You feel Stefani shudder violently against you, her own hips bucking as she finishes with you, a series of sharp, rhythmic gasps turning into long, soul-deep moans that vibrate right through your spine. 

You collapse forward, breathless and shaking, your arms wrapping around her as she sinks into the cushions behind you, both of you clinging to each other like lifelines, waiting for the world to stop spinning. 

You stay like that for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the world reduced to the quiet aftermath and the steady rhythm of the track still looping somewhere in the background. 

Her arms tighten around you first, not urgently. Not like before. Just to hold you, just to ground you. 

Your body is still trembling, little aftershocks you can’t quite control, and she feels all of it, one hand sliding slowly up and down your arm, the other pressed warm and steady at your waist.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, softer now, her voice back to that familiar, anchoring tone. “Breathe.”

You try.

It comes out shaky at first, uneven, but she matches you without saying anything, her chest rising and falling against your back until your breathing starts to sync with hers.

The room settles around you again. 

The music fades back in properly, no longer drowned out by everything else, the soft loop of the instrumental filling the quiet space like it never left. 

You let your head fall back against her shoulder, eyes half-lidded, completely spent. 

For a while, neither of you speaks. 

You just exist there, tangled together on the couch, her thumb still tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin like she’s memorising you. 

Eventually, you let out a small, breathy laugh. 

It surprises you as much as it does her. 

“That was…” you start, then trail off, shaking your head a little. “Wow.” 

She huffs a quiet laugh against your temple, pressing a soft kiss there.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah, it was.”

There’s a lightness to it now. Not breaking the intimacy, but easing it.

You turn slightly in her arms, enough to look at her properly.

Her hair’s a mess, her lips a little swollen, her expression softer than you’ve ever seen it. Not guarded. Not careful. Just open. 

It hits you all over again, but this time it doesn’t overwhelm you. 

“You okay?” she asks, quieter now, searching your face.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “I’m… really okay.”

Her shoulders loosen just slightly at that, like she didn’t realise she was holding any tension until now.

“Good,” she says, brushing a stray piece of hair back from your face. “C’mere.”

She shifts you gently, pulling you fully into her this time, your head tucked under her chin, her arms wrapped securely around you. It’s not heated anymore. Just warm. Steady.

You stay like that for a while, drifting in that quiet space between exhaustion and contentment.

Soft kisses get traded without thinking.

Your hand finds hers, fingers lacing together loosely.

At some point, you mumble, half into her shoulder, “You know this complicates everything, right?”

There’s a beat.

Then she snorts softly.

“Everything was already complicated,” she replies. “We just stopped pretending it wasn’t.”

You can’t help it, you laugh properly this time, the sound a little muffled but real.

“Fair.”

Her chin dips slightly, nudging the top of your head.

“Hey,” she adds, softer. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at her.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A small smile. “We can just… be here for a minute.”

That sounds dangerously perfect.

So you nod.

“Okay.”

Eventually, the practical world nudges its way back in.

You shift, a little reluctant, and she helps you sit up, both of you moving slower now, like neither of you wants to break the quiet spell too abruptly.

Clothes are gathered from the floor in a half-laughing, half-awkward shuffle.

At one point you toss her shirt at her and she misses it completely, staring at you instead, distracted.

“Focus,” you tease, cheeks still warm.

“I am focused,” she shoots back, grinning. “Just not on my shirt.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

Dressing becomes its own soft, domestic moment.

She helps you with a sleeve without making a big deal out of it. You tug her waistband straight when she fumbles it. Small touches linger longer than they used to.

Once you’re both mostly put together again, she disappears for a second and comes back with two bottles of water.

“Drink,” she says, handing one to you.

You obey without argument, the cool water grounding you further, pulling you fully back into your body.

She watches you take a few sips, then nods, satisfied, before taking her own.

“Better?”

“Mm,” you hum. “Yeah.”

You settle back onto the couch together almost automatically, like there’s no other option.

This time, it’s easier.

You curl into her side, her arm draping around you without hesitation, your head finding its place against her shoulder like it was always meant to be there.

The instrumental is still looping.

Faint. Familiar.

She hums along absentmindedly, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your arm again.

After a minute, you glance up at her.

“Hey, Stef?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate, then smile a little.

“That song…”

She raises an eyebrow slightly. “Yeah?”

“…it’s really good.”

She studies you for a second, something knowing flickering in her eyes.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I think it finally is.”

You don’t ask what she means by that.

You don’t need to.

Instead, you tuck yourself a little closer, her hand tightening around you just slightly in response.

And for the first time in a long time, nothing feels like an almost.

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