alyssa

His shoulders loosen almost imperceptibly. "They're gonna hate interviewing me."

"They're going to love interviewing you."

"They're gonna ask me what it feels like to be nominated."

"And?"

"I don't know."

"You tell them the truth."

He looks back towards the theatre entrance, where another nominee disappears through the doors beneath another storm of camera flashes.

"...Which is?"

"Whatever you're feeling."

He's quiet for a beat, rubbing the pad of his thumb absent-mindedly against the seam of his jacket sleeve. "...That it mostly feels terrifying."

You laugh softly. "Joe."

"What?"

"You know that's exactly why people like you, right?"

He frowns. "...Because I'm scared?"

"Because you're honest."

He looks as though he isn't entirely convinced by that either, but before he can answer, someone in a black headset lifts a clipboard and points towards the carpet.

"Joe! You're up."

He glances at you once - just once - as though silently checking you're still there.

You slip your hand into his for a brief second, giving it a reassuring squeeze before the cameras find him.

"You've got this."

He smiles, still looking faintly bewildered that he's ended up here at all.

"...I really hope you're right."

Then he steps out into the lights.

The ceremony passes the way dreams often do: in fragments.

Applause that seems to roll endlessly around the theatre. Commercial breaks that arrive almost before you realise another category has finished. Presenters laughing at jokes nobody will remember by morning. People leaning across linen-covered tables to congratulate one another before awards have even been announced, each conversation blending seamlessly into the next beneath the warm glow of chandeliers and television lights.

Joe spends most of the evening with one knee resting lightly against yours beneath the table. Whenever another category approaches, his hand finds yours almost unconsciously, his thumb tracing absent-minded circles across your knuckles while his attention remains fixed on the stage. Every now and then, you catch him tapping the stem of his water glass against his thumb or smoothing invisible creases from the napkin in his lap, little nervous habits that only ever surface when he's trying very hard to look calm.

"I'm just happy to be here," he murmurs once, leaning close enough that only you can hear.

You believe him.

That's the thing.

Most people say those words because they're expected to. They practise them in mirrors, tuck them away beside acceptance speeches they secretly hope to deliver one day.

Joe means every syllable.

He genuinely can't imagine wanting anything more than to keep making music with the people he loves. The nomination already feels like more recognition than he's ever expected.

Winning has never really been the point.

Then they read his name.

For a heartbeat, he doesn't move.

You feel his fingers tighten around yours - not painfully, just enough to tell you he's forgotten how to breathe. Around the room, applause erupts almost immediately, chairs scraping backwards as people turn to smile in his direction, but Joe stays exactly where he is, staring at the stage as though he's misheard.

Someone at the next table leans over to clap him on the shoulder.

He barely notices.

Instead, he looks at you.

Not the stage. Not the cameras already searching for his reaction.

You.

His expression is almost impossibly boyish, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"...Did they-?"

You're already laughing through the tears gathering in your eyes.

"They did."

"Oh..."

The word escapes him on a breath.

He stands so slowly it's almost funny, as though getting to his feet too quickly might somehow reveal there's been a mistake after all. You catch his hand before he can take his first step towards the stage, your fingers wrapping around his for the briefest moment.

Leaning close enough that nobody else can hear, you whisper,

"I'm so proud of you."

For just a second, everything else seems to disappear.

The applause. The cameras. The thousands of people watching.

He looks at you with an expression you've never quite seen before. It isn't triumph, or excitement, or even relief.

It's something smaller. Quieter. Almost frightened by the sheer weight of his own happiness.

He squeezes your hand once, unable to find the words, then gives a tiny nod before finally turning towards the stage.

His speech isn't polished.

He stumbles over names, laughs at himself halfway through a sentence, forgets the order he'd planned to thank people in, and has to stop twice simply to collect himself. Somewhere near the end, he admits, to the obvious delight of the audience, that he's completely forgotten where he's supposed to be looking.

The theatre laughs with him.

Not because he makes mistakes.

Because they're unmistakably real.

Watching him beneath those impossible lights, microphone clutched in both hands as though it might otherwise drift away from him, you realise something quietly wonderful.

He isn't trying to become somebody else up there.

He isn't performing confidence or pretending he belongs in a room full of people he's admired for years.

He's just Joe.

The cameras have simply followed.

When he finally returns to his seat, Grammy balanced carefully between both hands, he stares down at it for several long seconds before slowly turning to look at you again.

"...Did that actually happen?"

You laugh, brushing your thumb across the back of his hand.

"I think so."

"I blacked out a little."

"I could tell."

"I forgot, like... half my speech."

"You definitely did."

He winces. "...Was it awful?"

Your smile softens. "It was perfect."

He lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like relief, looking back down at the Grammy with the same faint bewilderment he's worn all evening.

"Oh." Another pause. "...Good."

The smile that spreads across his face afterwards is almost shy.

Small. Embarrassed.

Completely, unmistakably happy.

The after-party is somehow louder than the ceremony itself.

The ballroom hums with the strange, glittering energy that only seems to exist after awards shows, all champagne flutes and orchestras replaced by live bands tucked into corners, conversations layered so thickly over one another they become little more than a constant murmur beneath the music. Waiters drift effortlessly between clusters of guests carrying silver trays balanced on one hand, while photographers still linger around the edges of the room, forever hoping to catch one more candid smile before the night's over.

Joe barely makes it ten steps before somebody stops him.

Then somebody else.

Then another.

Congratulations blend together until they almost become the same conversation repeated over and over again. One producer introduces him to a songwriter he's admired for years. An artist he'd grown up listening to shakes his hand and tells him he loves the record. Someone he's never met hugs him as though they've been friends for decades.

Joe accepts every conversation with the same quiet sincerity.

He listens more than he speaks, laughs whenever somebody makes a joke, thanks every single person who comes over to him with the kind of earnestness that makes it obvious he still can't quite believe they're taking the time.

Watching him from across the room, you realise he hasn't once looked at the Grammy he's won.

He's tucked it beneath one arm almost absent-mindedly, like he isn't quite sure what else to do with it.

As the evening wears on, though, you notice the smile beginning to tire around the edges.

Not because he isn't grateful.

You know he is.

But gratitude and exhaustion aren't mutually exclusive, and Joe has never been somebody who thrives in rooms full of strangers, no matter how famous those strangers happen to be.

Every new introduction demands another version of himself. Another handshake. Another thank you. Another conversation that starts with the award and never quite reaches the music.

Twice, you catch him searching the room while somebody else is still talking to him.

The second your eyes meet, something in his shoulders loosens almost imperceptibly, as though simply knowing where you are allows him to exhale again.

It takes another twenty minutes before he finally manages to escape.

He appears beside you carrying two untouched glasses of champagne, offering you one with a smile that looks equal parts apologetic and relieved.

"I think..." he says carefully, glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody is already heading in his direction, "...I might be done pretending to be sociable."

You can't help smiling.

"I was wondering how long it'd take."

"I made it almost two hours."

"I'm incredibly proud."

"I shook hands with a producer whose name I forgot before he finished introducing himself."

"You'll survive."

"Remains to be seen."

He takes a tiny sip of champagne before quietly setting the glass back onto the nearest table, having barely touched it.

For a moment he simply stands beside you, looking out across the room.

The music. The laughter. The cameras that still haven't entirely disappeared. The endless cycle of congratulations continuing without him.

Then he looks back at you.

"...Can we go home?"

The word settles somewhere warm beneath your ribs.

Home.

Not because the hotel feels anything like home, but because, somehow, wherever the two of you end up together always seems to become one.

You slip your fingers through his.

"I thought you'd never ask."

The relief that crosses his face is almost immediate.

Neither of you bother finishing the champagne.

He leaves the Grammy tucked securely beneath his arm, laces his fingers more tightly through yours, and together you slip quietly out of the ballroom before anybody else has the chance to stop him again.

The lift doors close, and the world goes quiet. The after-party's roar - the clinking glasses, the shouted congratulations, the endless hands reaching for Joe - cut off like a door slammed on a hurricane. In the sudden hush, the lift's hum fills the space. Polished brass and cool marble. The faint ghost of perfume from someone else's evening.

Joe's hand finds the small of your back. Not guiding. Gripping. His fingers pressing into the emerald silk of your gown, curling like he's anchoring himself to something real. You turn into him, your palm flat against his chest, over the starched white shirtfront. Under all that tailored composure, his heart pounds a wild, uneven rhythm against your fingers. He's still vibrating. Still living in that moment onstage - the roar, the blinding lights, the weight of the golden gramophone in his hands. You feel every beat of it through his ribs.

"Joe." His name comes out soft, a question you already know the answer to.

He ducks his head, mouth brushing your temple. His breath is warm, unsteady. "Can you tell me what you said? Please?" he murmurs, voice wrecked, scraped raw. "What you whispered in my ear when they called my name."

The lift barely has time to chime before Joe is moving.

The doors slide apart and he's already taking your hand, gently but urgently tugging you out into the corridor, one hand still wrapped around yours while the other fumbles in the pocket of his tuxedo jacket for the room key. It catches on the lining, slips from his fingers, nearly hits the carpet before he catches it again with a quiet, exhausted laugh that sounds closer to a sigh.

The corridor is hushed after the noise of the ballroom, thick burgundy carpet swallowing your footsteps as the two of you hurry towards the room. Somewhere further down the corridor, a lift dings softly. A door closes. Otherwise, there's nothing.

Joe reaches the lock and presses the key card against the reader.

Nothing.

He tries again.

Still nothing.

"Oh, come on..." he mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand across his face. "Seriously?"

"Hey." You step closer, laying your hand lightly over his. "Let me."

He lets go immediately.

The card is warm from where he'd been gripping it too tightly. You guide it smoothly across the reader. The light flashes green, the lock clicks, and the door swings quietly open.

Neither of you says anything as you step inside.

The room is dark except for the glow of Los Angeles spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretching endlessly beyond the glass in ribbons of white and gold. Somewhere, a bottle of champagne waits in a silver bucket beside the sofa, condensation running lazily down the metal, and a folded card sits neatly on the coffee table with Congratulations embossed across the front in elegant gold script.

You barely notice either of them.

Your eyes drift instead to the Grammy still cradled in Joe's hands.

You reach for it almost absent-mindedly, but before your fingers touch the metal, he catches your wrist with surprising gentleness.

Without even looking at the award, he crosses to the table beside the door and sets it down.

It lands with a soft metallic clink.

He doesn't glance back at it.

"I don't really care about that right now."

You smile. "No?"

He shakes his head, already looking at you again, every ounce of the composure he'd worn all evening quietly slipping away now that there isn't an audience left to witness it.

"I just wanted to come home."

The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest.

Home.

Not because this hotel room bears any resemblance to one, but because you've long since learnt that home has very little to do with places and almost everything to do with people.

Standing hundreds of miles from your actual home, surrounded by borrowed furniture and city lights neither of you recognises, you know exactly what he means.

The door clicks shut behind him.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then Joe closes the distance between you in two quick steps.

His back comes to rest lightly against the door as he draws you in, both hands finding your waist almost instinctively, fingertips bunching the silk beneath his palms as though reassuring himself you're really there. His forehead drops gently against yours and he lets out a long, shaky breath that sounds as though he's been holding it since the moment his name was called.

When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"I need it."

You search his face. "What?"

"I..." He swallows, eyes dropping for a moment before finding yours again. "I think I need to hear what you said again."

Your hands rise almost automatically to cup his face.

The familiar scratch of evening stubble brushes your palms. Up close, you can finally see what nobody else had tonight - the faint exhaustion around his eyes, the tiny crease that always appears between his brows when he's overwhelmed, the way his breathing still hasn't quite settled. This isn't the man the cameras had watched standing beneath impossible lights with a Grammy in his hands.

This is simply Joe.

Still trying to understand what's happened.

Still quietly wondering whether he deserves it.

"You were perfect," you tell him softly, letting the words settle between you instead of rushing to fill the silence. "When they called your name..." You smile, remembering the look on his face. "I've never been so proud of anyone in my life."

He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. "I looked terrified."

"You did."

"I was."

"I know."

Your thumb brushes lightly along his cheek.

"But you still stood up."

He closes his eyes for a moment.

"You still walked up there anyway."

His grip on your waist tightens almost imperceptibly, not possessive, simply grounding himself in the reality of your touch.

"...I think I need to hear the rest."

His voice catches on the last word.

You nod.

"You won because you're brilliant," you say quietly. "Not because you were lucky. Not because somebody made a mistake. You won because you care more about the music than any of this." You gesture vaguely towards the city beyond the windows, towards the cameras and interviews and after-parties still happening somewhere below. "You work harder than anyone I know, and when you sing..." You smile. "You make people feel something they didn't know they were missing."

His eyes don't leave yours.

"I was sitting there watching you," you continue, your voice almost no more than a murmur now, "and my heart was so full I thought it might burst."

You lean forward until your foreheads are touching again.

"You deserved every second of tonight, Joe."

He kisses you. Not a gentle kiss - a desperate, fumbling, hungry kiss that tastes of champagne and adrenaline. His hands slide up your back, find the zipper of your gown, and pull it down without ceremony. The emerald silk slides from your shoulders, and you feel the cool air on your shoulders, on your spine. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the sound, swallows it, his tongue sliding against yours.

The gown pools at your feet. You stand in black lace, the diamond drop earrings still swinging against your neck. His hands find your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass. He's still wearing his tuxedo jacket, his shirt untucked now, and you push at the lapels.

"Joe," you breathe. "I need to see you."

He fumbles with buttons, pulls the cufflinks loose with shaking fingers. The jacket hits the floor, then the shirt, and you run your hands over his chest, the lean muscle, the faint sheen of sweat, the heat of his skin. His belt buckle clicks. His trousers drop with his underwear. He steps out of them, and then he's naked, all lean lines and coiled tension, his cock hard and aching between them.

You drop to your knees.

He makes a sound - a choked, surprised noise - as you take him in your hand, feel the weight and heat of him, the throb against your palm. You look up at him through your lashes, your wide eyes dark in the city glow.

"You deserve everything," you say, and you lean forward.

Your mouth closes over him. The taste of salt and skin, his sharp intake of breath, the way his fingers find your hair and grip, not guiding, just holding on. You take him deep, your lips sliding down his shaft, your tongue tracing the vein along the underside. He bucks against you, a small, involuntary movement, and you hear his breath quicken, hear the words falling out of him.

"Fuck, baby, that's- your mouth- "

You hum around him, and he shudders, his thighs trembling. You work him, slow and deliberate, your hands gripping his hips, your mouth taking him again and again. You can feel him swelling, know he's close, and you pull back just before the edge, your lips shiny with spit.

"Not yet," you say, your voice rough. "I want you inside me."

Joe reaches down and pulls you to your feet, his hands on your arms, his eyes dark and desperate. He walks you backwards toward the bed, his mouth on your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts above the lace. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you fall onto the duvet, the fabric cool against your skin. He follows you down, his body covering yours, his mouth finding your nipple through the lace, sucking hard. You arch against him, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

"You're so good," you whisper. "You care so much. About the music. About getting it right. That's why people love listening to you."

He groans against your skin, his hand sliding down your stomach, between your thighs. He finds you wet through the lace, slick and hot, and he pushes the fabric aside. His fingers slide inside you, and you cry out, your hips lifting to meet his hand.

"You feel that?" he asks, grinding against your thigh, his voice ragged. "That's what you do to me. You make all of this feel..." He searches. "...real. Less scary."

You feel his fingers curl, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. You grab his wrist, stopping him. "I need you," you say. "Inside me."

He shifts, his cock pressing harder against your thigh. He reaches down and guides himself, the head nudging your entrance, and you feel the stretch as he pushes in.

Slow. Deliberate. Inch by inch.

You feel yourself open for him, your cunt gripping him as he fills you completely. He stops when he's fully seated, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Look at me," you say.

His hooded eyes meet yours, and you see the raw gratitude in them, the vulnerability he shows no one else. You cup his face again, your thumb tracing his cheekbone.

"You're still you," you breathe. "That's my favourite part. I'm so proud of you."

He starts to move. Slow at first, a deep, grinding rhythm that makes you gasp. His hips roll against yours, and you feel every inch of him, the way he fills you, the wet sound of your bodies meeting. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he moans, a raw, unguarded sound.

"Say it again," he says, his voice breaking. "Please."

"That award didn't make you more talented," you say, your words coming in time with his thrusts. "It just means more people noticed."

Joe's pace quickens, harder, hungrier. The headboard knocks against the wall with each thrust, and you hold onto his shoulders, your nails raking his skin. You feel the tension building, the heat coiling in your belly, and you know he's close too - his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his jaw tight.

"Come for me," you whisper. "Come inside me, Joe. I want to feel you."

He cries out, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and full. The sensation pushes you over the edge, your cunt clenching around him as you come undone, your body arching off the bed, his name on your lips.

You lay tangled, breathing hard. The city lights paint faint patterns on the ceiling. You can feel his heart against your chest, still hammering, slowing. He's heavy on top of you, and you don't want him to move.

After a long moment, he lifts his head, his thick brown hair falling across his forehead, his eyes soft and raw. He looks at you like you're the only person in the world.

"I've never had that," he says, his voice a rasp. "Never had someone who-" He stops, swallows. "Everybody kept congratulating me tonight." He laughs quietly. "But you're the only person who looked at me like..." He swallows. "...like I was still just me."

"I love you," you murmur, the words arriving as naturally as breathing.

They aren't a revelation. They don't surprise either of you.

They're simply true, spoken the way they've been spoken a thousand times before - over sleepy cups of coffee, hurried phone calls before flights, quiet evenings on the sofa, and now here, in the middle of a hotel room with a Grammy sitting forgotten by the door.

Joe smiles before he kisses you again.

It's slow this time, unhurried, his forehead resting lightly against yours when he finally pulls away. His eyes are still damp, though he doesn't seem embarrassed by it anymore.

"I love you too." His thumb brushes lazily across your cheek. "Thanks for... reminding me who I am."

Your chest tightens. "You never stopped being you."

"I know." He lets out a quiet laugh. "I think I just needed to hear it from somebody who knew me before tonight."

You smile, brushing a strand of hair back from his forehead. "I'll remind you tomorrow, too."

"I'll probably need it tomorrow."

"You definitely will."

He laughs properly then, the sound soft and tired, before letting himself melt against you again. The weight of the evening finally seems to settle over both of you all at once - not just the award or the applause or the cameras, but the adrenaline of carrying an impossible amount of joy for hours without ever quite having the chance to feel it.

Tomorrow, the world will wake up, and Joe Keery will be a Grammy winner.

There will be headlines to read, interviews to give, messages to answer, and more congratulations than either of you can count.

Tomorrow will belong to everyone else.

Tonight still belongs to the two of you.

"Tomorrow you're going to be a very busy man," you murmur.

He shakes his head immediately, burying his face into the curve of your neck with the quiet certainty of someone refusing to let the outside world in for just a little longer.

"Tomorrow can have me."

His voice is muffled against your skin.

"But tonight..."

He tightens his arms around you just enough that you feel the smile against your shoulder.

"...I just want to be with you."

You don't answer straight away.

You simply hold him.

Your fingers drift slowly through his hair before tracing absent-minded patterns across the broad line of his back, feeling his breathing gradually deepen until it finally settles into an easy, familiar rhythm. Outside, Los Angeles continues glittering beneath the windows, somewhere beyond the glass, a city still celebrating, still talking, still chasing tomorrow.

Inside, the room has become wonderfully, blissfully quiet.

You feel him soft inside you, and he shifts, slowly pulling out with a careful tenderness that makes your chest ache. He rolls onto his side, one arm draping across your stomach, his face close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his skin. The stubble on his jaw catches the light, and you want to photograph him like this - unguarded, raw, the famous mask completely discarded.

"What are you thinking?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joe's lips curve into a small, tired smile. "That I don't want to move. Ever."

You laugh softly, your hand finding his on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his. "The hotel might have something to say about that."

"Let them." He opens his eyes, finding yours in the dark. "I'll buy the room. The whole hotel. I don't care."

"That's the Grammy talking."

"No." He lifts his head, propping himself on an elbow so he can look at you properly. "It's you."

The room settles into a silence that feels entirely different from the one waiting outside its door.

The city still glitters beyond the windows; Los Angeles spreads beneath you in a thousand tiny points of gold, but up here everything has finally slowed. The frantic rhythm of the evening has ebbed away, leaving only the steady sound of Joe's breathing and the distant hum of traffic somewhere far below.

He lies beside you without speaking for a long while, one arm draped lazily across your waist, his thumb moving absent-mindedly against your skin as though reassuring himself you're still there.

Eventually, Joe quietly breaks the silence.

"I think..." He lets out a quiet laugh. "...I think tonight was the first time I've actually had a second to process any of it."

You turn onto your side to face him. "And?"

His eyes finally open. "I still don't really believe it."

Your gaze drifts to the Grammy sitting on the table, catching the glow of the city lights.

"You should."

"I know." A beat passes. "I just..." He searched for the words. "Everybody kept congratulating me tonight."

"I noticed."

"And it was lovely." Another small pause. "But every conversation felt like it was happening to... Grammy Joe." He smiles awkwardly at the phrase. "I don't really know who that guy is yet."

You reach across, brushing a loose strand of hair back from his forehead.

"But you know who I saw tonight?"

He looks at you.

"Joe."

He smiles.

"The same idiot who apologises to furniture after walking into it."

He laughs.

"The same guy who still gets stage fright."

"...Yeah."

"The same guy who calls his mum after every tour."

His smile softens.

"And the same guy who still looks for me first whenever something big happens."

For a long moment he doesn't answer.

Then, quietly, "You're the first person I wanted to tell."

"You didn't have much choice. I was sitting next to you."

"I know." He smiles. "But even if you hadn't been..." His voice becomes softer still. "I would've found you."

The room falls quiet again.

Outside, somewhere beyond the glass, Los Angeles continues celebrating somebody who has just become a Grammy-winning musician.

Inside, there's only Joe.

Not the interviews. Not tomorrow's headlines. Not the photographs that will be printed before breakfast.

Just the man who has spent the evening trying very hard to accept that something wonderful has happened to him, and who now looks at you with the same expression he always has - as though coming back to you was the one part of the night he'd never doubted.

His phone buzzes once from somewhere beneath the discarded tuxedo jacket - his publicist, probably, or the label, checking in. He ignores it. You feel the vibration against the floor and smile.

Neither of you moves.

"You should probably check that," you murmur.

"...Eventually."

Another buzz. Then another.

He sighs dramatically before reaching over the side of the bed, fishing the phone from the jacket pocket just long enough to switch it to silent.

"There."

"Problem solved?"

He places it face down on the bedside table without even looking at the screen.

"Tomorrow can have me."

He slips back beneath the duvet, immediately reaching for your hand again.

"But tonight..." His fingers thread through yours. "...I just want to be with you."

You smile, lifting his joined hand to your lips.

"I think we can manage that."

He kisses your forehead, the gesture so instinctive it barely seems to require thought, before settling back against the pillows with a long, contented sigh.

Outside, the cameras will still be waiting by morning.

Tonight, though, there's no audience.

Only the quiet certainty that, award or no award, he still found his way back to the place he feels most like himself.

dividers: saradika-graphics