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You’d tried to bury it. Tried to convince yourself it was over when the plane landed. But then your phone rang.

He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t sent word through your dad. He’d called. 

Said he was working on something new. Thought you might have the right ear for it. His tone was casual, like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t spent a week learning each other’s skin. Just hearing his voice again had sent you spiraling.

You didn’t know what you expected. Honestly you weren’t sure you’d ever hear from him again. But he called. And you came.

Now you stood outside his studio, heart in your throat, the London air thick with the smell of rain. You weren’t sure how he’d look at you. Or worse, how you’d handle looking at him.

You raised your hand and knocked before you could lose your nerve. The door swung open and every bit of air left your lungs. 

There he was. 

Right in front of you again. Just as good looking, maybe even more so now that you hadn’t seen him in a while. He looked relaxed. More at ease than the night you’d stumbled through the door and found him moping in the dark all those months ago.

His eyes caught yours and for a split second, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, he smiled and stepped forward, pulling you in.

Your heart twisted. The feel of him was so familiar it almost hurt. You wanted to stay there, to fold yourself against him, breathe him in, let the weeks of missing him collapse into nothing. But you forced yourself to settle for a polite squeeze in return.

When you stepped back, you avoided his gaze, letting your eyes roam the room instead. The studio looked mostly the same. Just a few more posters on the walls, a few more memories wedged between them.

At least you weren’t alone. Noel’s producer was there and you were grateful for the buffer. It took the edge off of…whatever this was.

Noel introduced you and you exchanged a quick hello before he gestured down the hallway.

“Kitchen’s down that way if you want—”

“I remember,” you said before you could stop yourself. It came out softer than you intended, almost wistful, and the weight of the words hung in the air.

For a moment, one you suspected wouldn’t be the last tonight, you wondered if you’d made a mistake coming here.

Noel cleared his throat, mouth twitching as he looked away. “Right then,” he said, slipping back into his professional tone. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

Hours passed. 

The song wasn’t really a song. More of a rough sketch. Just a recording of him strumming and singing softly, lost in thought. 

You’d always loved how he sounded acoustically. There was a certain quality to his voice that never seemed to be fully captured in the recordings. It made him sound more raw. Real. Sexier. 

Hearing that voice through the headphones, so close it felt like it was brushing the inside of your ear, had you near your wits end. There was an added layer of intimacy you hadn’t expected. 

And then there were the lyrics. The song, If Love Is The Law, gave you pause. It couldn’t be about you. Of course it wasn’t. But some of the lines…they landed too close to home. If he noticed the way you’d gone quiet, he didn’t say anything. 

At some point he reached for his guitar again and you caught yourself watching. You couldn’t help it. The way he played was hypnotic. It wasn’t just the music. It was him. The focus, the small frown of concentration, the way his lips parted slightly as he hummed along. You didn’t even realize you were staring until he looked up and caught you.

By the time the track had enough bones to stand on its own, it was late. The producer had slipped out an hour ago, leaving the two of you alone. Now the air felt heavier without anyone else there to absorb the tension.

Noel pushed his chair back with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “That’ll do for tonight,” he said. His voice had softened, no longer carrying the professional edge he’d kept all evening.

You nodded, leaning back in your seat. Your whole body felt wired and loose all at once, not quite sure what to do next.

He looked at you for a long moment. You saw the hesitation flicker across his face. The urge to say something. The decision not to.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breath. “Guess I should—”

“You could stay,” he said.

Something in you bristled. Half with warning, half with want. “And do what, exactly?”

His mouth curved, slow and knowing.

And just like that, you knew the vacation hadn’t been a singular thing. It wasn’t going to be neatly filed away. 

You hesitated, every instinct warning you not to re-open the wound. It was still healing after all. 

“Noel, I…” you started, but you were at a loss of words. You couldn’t get into why it was a bad idea. Not without revealing what you felt. Letting him see how deep it had gotten for you.

Just a fling. The words you’d uttered to him months ago echoed in your head, mocking you. You’d been so stupid to think you could get away unscathed. That you could touch him, get to know his warmth, the weight of his body against yours, and just walk away from it. 

You forced yourself to look up. His eyes met yours and whatever resolve you had began to crumble. There was lust there, yes, but also something softer. Understanding. Longing. It shook something loose in you.

You exhaled, a little shakily. “Okay,” you relented. “You got anything stronger than tea here?”

He smiled, slow and sure, and that was all it took.

Stupid indeed. 

A few whiskies later all caution had been thrown to the wind. 

Why did it matter, really? There was a handsome, charming man at your disposal and his focus was solely on you. And god it felt good. 

Good to laugh. Good to be looked at like that again. By him. 

There had been no others in the months that had passed. You hadn’t wanted anyone else. Hadn’t even bothered to try.

At first you’d wrinkled your nose when the only bottle he found was an expensive whiskey that was gifted to him. You and dark liquor did not mix well. But you still accepted when he poured it, his brow lifting in amusement.

He’d laughed when you tossed back the first glass in one go, eyes glinting as he refilled it. “It’s meant to be sipped, you know,” he’d said, that faint teasing lilt you’d missed so much.

Your cheeks had warmed at your own naivete, but the fondness in his gaze quickly melted it away. 

Unfortunately, the steep price tag did make it slide down smoother than the cheap stuff you’d learned to stay away from. Bastard. He was teaching you to crave a taste you couldn’t afford.

The studio after dark had a different sort of vibe to it. The lights were dimmed, casting everything in a faint golden glow. Music drifted out of one of the vast speakers. It was almost serene.

You and Noel had been on the couch for hours talking. Or rather, he had been talking. About the new album, the genre shifts, the inspirations that had been haunting him lately. You nodded, half listening, mostly using his long winded explanations as an excuse to watch him. Observe him. The way he leaned forward when he got passionate. The small frown when he searched for the right word. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips after a sip.

The warmth curling low in your stomach should've been a warning sign. But you leaned into it instead.

At first you’d kept a respectable distance. But somewhere along the way, that space had vanished. He was speaking slower now, his voice dipping lower, that Mancunian accent curling more and more around every syllable. You couldn’t tell if it was the whiskey making him speak softer or if he was doing it on purpose, but either way, it worked. The more he talked, the more you found yourself leaning in to hear.

Your pulse had settled somewhere low and steady. Your skin felt too warm. From the drink yes, but also from him. From the weight of his gaze. The implication that you both knew what your staying here really meant.

You were mid-sentence when the song changed and you gasped suddenly, springing to your feet.

“I love this song,” you said, the words a little too slurred as the opening chords filled the room.

Noel chuckled at your sudden outburst, but you could feel his eyes on you as you began to sway to the music. Your hips moved slow, your voice soft as you sang under your breath.

Then your eyes found his. You held his gaze, something playful flickering there as you extended a hand toward him.

“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” you murmured, the words half lyric, half invitation.

He leaned back against the couch, watching you with an unreadable expression. It was enough to sober you. The movement in your hips slowed, your hand faltered midair before falling back to your side. Embarrassment crept up your throat. You were making a fool of yourself.

But then you heard the soft clink of a glass being set down. And before you could process it, his hand was on your waist, settling warm and heavy like it had every right to be there.

His other hand reached for yours, fingers curling around your palm as he lifted it. You looked up, breath catching in your chest. The blue of his eyes had gone stormy, almost gray in the low light.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You just stood there, holding something fragile between you. Then he gave the faintest nod toward your free hand.

You blinked, realizing what he wanted, and lifted your hand to rest against his arm. You hoped he didn’t notice the faint tremor in your fingers as they brushed over the firm muscle beneath the fabric. And then, unbidden, came the flash of a memory. The same arm pinning you against him in that infamous shower when he touched you for the first time. The recollection twisted low in your stomach, heat curling through you.

Slowly, he began to move. You followed, the motion easy but unbearably intimate. He led you with surprising ease. You’d never pictured him as the dancing type, but maybe it was the whiskey. Or the song. Or the soft quiet that wrapped itself around you both. Whatever it was, it had brought him here. Into your arms.

Your eyes stayed locked on his. It was almost too much. The faint spice of his cologne, the steady pull of his body guiding yours, the familiar lines on his face. You had to fight the urge to look away. The sheer weight of his gaze made you feel small and seen and wanted all at once.

You didn’t even notice the distance closing until you felt the solid heat of his chest press against yours. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it. 

His thumb traced a small circle against your hip. A thoughtless motion, but enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin. His eyes searched yours, flicking from your mouth to your throat and back again. The look in them was equal parts question and confession.

You wanted to move, to close that gap, but something held you still. It felt inevitable though. Like every word, every glance tonight had been leading here. 

Then he leaned in, just the slightest bit, and the faintest brush of his nose grazed your cheek. The touch was featherlight, almost not there, but you felt the tremor of it all the way down to your knees and knew you were a goner.

He paused, so close you could feel the ghost of his breath, the warmth of his lips hovering just inches away. Every single nerve in your body was tuned to him. The world narrowed to the space between your mouths.

Your lips parted, aching for him, and you leaned in, just barely. Almost unconsciously. Like your body was chasing him before your mind could catch up. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, and you saw it there. The same need, the same hesitation.

Then finally, finally, he closed the gap. 

The world spun when his lips brushed yours. It was nothing more than a sigh, a whisper of contact, but it ripped through you all the same. It lasted two seconds, maybe less, before he pulled back.

He didn’t go far. He lingered, breath mingling with yours, like he was trying to convince himself to stop.

A small sound escaped you, like he’d taken something vital when he pulled away. The loss of it ached in your chest. Until he closed the distance again.

This one was different. More sure. Like you’d both barely gotten a taste and needed more. 

You were glad to give it to him.

The minute you melted into him, his breath shuddered out through his nose and his lips pressed harder against yours. His hand at your waist tugged you closer, the other cradling your face.

The world outside the studio ceased to exist. There was only him, only this. The faint taste of whiskey on his mouth, the heat of his lips, the shiver that ran down your spine.

Your hands found the back of his neck, threading through his hair as you drew him closer. You kissed him like a woman starved, like all the time you’d spent yearning was finally catching up to you.

Each slick slide of his lips against yours pulled you deeper, made you crave more. It was an echo of the vacation, the nights you’d replayed in your mind, the ache that had lingered since. And now it was real, present, and impossibly alive.

You pressed closer until there was no space left between you. A small voice in the back of your mind whispered about consequences, about what this meant, but the slide of his tongue against yours was enough to smother it.

When you finally broke apart, you hovered there, breathless, foreheads almost touching, still tasting the ghost of his lips.

Neither of you spoke. He just looked at you, eyes half lidded, thumb brushing over your hip. A quiet hum left his throat, like a sigh or a curse, you couldn’t tell.

Then, softer this time, he leaned in again. His lips traced the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot just below your ear. You felt your pulse spike as heat bloomed heavy in your stomach.

Your fingers slid further into his hair almost without thought. You shouldn’t. You knew that. But his breath was warm against your skin. His voice was even warmer when he murmured something low against your ear. You couldn’t make out the words, but the tone cut straight through you. 

It wasn’t teasing. It was want. Dangerous, urgent want.

You weren’t sure who moved first. One second you were just breathing each other’s air, and the next, his mouth was on yours again, hungrier this time.

A small, broken sound escaped you, the kind you couldn’t have held back if you tried. He answered with a quiet groan that hit you somewhere low, his hand tightening on your waist.

Your fingers threaded deeper into his hair, tugging lightly for balance. He pressed closer, deepening the kiss until you weren’t sure where his mouth ended and yours began.

Everything blurred. All that existed was the pull of him, the taste of his lips, and the damning realization that you had never stopped wanting him.

The next thing you knew, you were on the couch, still warm from where you’d been sitting earlier. His weight pressed you into the cushions as you kicked your shoes off. Every inch of space between you was claimed in seconds.

His hands were everywhere. In your hair, tracing the curve of your waist, gripping with the kind of need that left you trembling. It was a frenzy of lips and teeth and want.

He shifted, pressing himself against you, and the shock of heat made you gasp into his mouth. Hard, impossibly hard, against the seam of your jeans. The slow, torturous grind of his hips had you shuddering beneath him. 

A helpless sound escaped you. That’s what you were. Helpless. Helpless to the gravity that pulled you toward him. Helpless to the inevitability of your bodies intertwining. Deep down, you’d known this would happen the moment he’d called.

And yet, with each press of his lips to your neck, with each blissful grind of his body against yours, you surrendered to it. Because you needed it. Needed him. With a ferocity that almost frightened you.

You didn’t stop him as he stripped you of your clothes. Didn’t pause when your hands found his belt buckle. Couldn’t think beyond the throb of your core. 

He pressed kisses down your chest, across your stomach, until he hovered just above where you ached for him most. His warm breath ghosted over you, and you couldn’t help but squirm.

Then his lips closed around your clit, and a long, shuddering moan ripped from your throat as your head fell back against the couch cushion. Your body fell limp beneath his touch. His hand found your hip, steadying you, holding you open to him, making you feel utterly exposed and utterly wanted. 

Your brain went numb as he nipped and sucked at you, the sound filthy in the quiet of the room. Then he slipped two fingers inside of you.

“Noel, fuck,” you gasped, the first words you’d uttered since this had begun, tearing out before thought could catch them.

You could’ve sworn you felt him smirk against your skin before he began working you open with expert fingers. The way he touched you with such familiarity was heady. Every glide of his fingers, every press and curl, was practiced and sure, drawing every small, messy sound from your throat.

One particular curve hit so sharply you gasped and jerked uncontrollably, a pleasure so keen it teetered on overwhelming.

And then he was gone altogether. The absence of him was almost as strong as his touch. Your eyes flew open in protest, your breath catching in a frustrated, needy sound.

But then you saw him. Stroking himself, positioning back over you. 

You blinked rapidly, hardly believing this was happening again, but then his mouth was on yours again. The taste of yourself on his lips sent a familiar fire burning right through you. You shifted, urging him closer, desperate for friction. 

At that, he pulled back slightly, eyes locking on yours. Then he pressed forward again, guiding himself toward you. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, and you faltered, pausing to catch your breath. The stretch felt unfamiliar. It had been months since you’d had anyone.

He cursed softly at your tightness, but he stilled, holding himself there despite the need thrumming through him. You responded, shifting closer to hook a leg around his back. Your lips met again and he pressed his firm against you, reassurance laced in each kiss and you melted into him.

Slowly, he sank deeper, moving with a steady rhythm. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. One of his hands brushed your hair back, gentle and attentive, and the small intimacy of the gesture made your chest tighten.

You realized you were trembling slightly, overwhelmed by feeling and sheer emotion. He paused, pulling out just enough to make you gasp, then pushed back in until he was fully seated inside you.

You felt so full. Of him. His whole being. You were engulfed in it. Your body seemed to hum with recognition, remembering what it had been missing. It’s him.

Your arms curled tighter around him as you began moving, seeking him, matching his rhythm. The closeness, the warmth, the press of him against you. It made the rest of the world vanish.

It was slow. Sensual. Every motion slick as he rocked into you, twin sounds of pleasure escaping your mouths.

It felt like coming home. Like a piece of you had been missing until now, waiting for this. His head dropped to your shoulder, arms tightening around you as his hips picked up pace. He had you gripped in a vice, body locked beneath him. 

Your fingers dug into him, clinging as he drove you further into a pleasure so intense you thought you might black out. Every moan, every press of his against you, every tiny friction, became impossible to control. Your shoulder was damp from how heavily he breathed into you, and you could feel your own heat soaking into him as the rhythm built, unrelenting and perfect.

Your body clenched around him, holding on as he hit that perfect spot again and again. And then it happened without warning, you shattered completely, your release tearing through you. Pleasure radiated throughout your entire body so hard you couldn’t breath. 

He followed almost immediately, a low, muffled cry escaping as he trembled against you, his release spilling into the taut heat between you.

For a long moment, you both remained still, limbs tangled, bodies pressed together. Slowly, you realized both legs were hooked around his waist, your heels digging into his back as though your body hadn’t gotten the message yet. It was an intimate, almost tender position. Too tender. The realization sent a flicker of panic through you. You hadn’t even noticed how close you’d been holding him.

You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm the riot in your chest. Slowly, he slid out of you and slumped beside you in the tight confines of the couch. The air felt heavy with the remnants of everything you’d just done but already cooling.

“Missed that,” he murmured, tilting his head to press a lazy kiss to the back of your hand. 

Your heart shattered into a million pieces. Did he mean you? Or was it just the sex?

Your throat went tight. You wanted to ask, to make him say it plain, but the words wouldn’t come. You closed your eyes, biting down hard on your lip to keep the sudden tears at bay.

“You were good today,” he said softly, voice easy. “Why don’t you stay on for the whole album, hm?” He leaned in, brushing a kiss against the top of your head like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

The ache in your chest hardened into something sharp. Because you knew what this was now. What it wasn’t. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, he just didn’t realize that he already had. He could roll over and talk about studio plans while you were still shaking from having him inside you. He could separate the two. You couldn’t.

Your heart raced. The panic began to bubble up, desperate and ugly. This was exactly what you’d feared. He was being casual about it. Normal. Like you should be.

But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t be around him without wanting him. Without needing him. And now that you’d crossed that line, there was no going back. It would happen again. And you couldn’t survive that kind of pain.

You sat up abruptly, forcing air into your lungs.

“Noel, I can’t just drop everything for you,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be, but it was the only way to stop yourself from breaking. “I have a life. A job.”

He stilled, eyes searching your face at the sudden edge in your tone.

“This was a mistake,” you said finally, quieter now. “I’m sorry.”

You pulled away from his warmth, the air immediately colder against your skin. You rolled out of his embrace and fumbled for your clothes, every movement clumsy, rushed. Your hands shook despite your best efforts to stay composed.

“A mistake? What d’you mean?” His voice carried both disbelief and something else. Something unspoken that made your chest tighten.

You froze for a second, staring at him. You wanted to believe that tone meant something. That maybe he understood. But the ache in your chest reminded you otherwise.

“Why did you call me here, Noel?” you demanded, your voice breaking on his name. “To play me this song about love? Tell me to stay? That you missed me?” You shook your head, breath coming out uneven. “We can’t keep doing this and you know it.”

He looked away then. Just a simple turn of his head, but it felt like a door closing. The silence that followed said more than any excuse ever could. That pause stretched out, confirming what you already knew deep down.

He wanted to keep it casual. Easy. Detached.

And you…you were the fool who’d gone and fallen in love.

You felt it sink through you like a slow, sick realization. The kind that left no air in your lungs, no fight left to give.

When he finally lifted his gaze again, it was too late. Whatever he meant to say was already swallowed by the quiet.

You were already pulling your jacket around your shoulders, forcing your trembling fingers through the sleeves.

“Wait—” he started, voice low, but you didn’t stop.

You were halfway to the door before he could even stand, ignoring the sound of your name echoing behind you.

He called. Waited a week to do it, but he called. 

You ignored it. 

It was easier that way. If you heard his voice, you’d give in. You knew you would. You were weak when it came to him. Soft in ways you didn’t even recognize in yourself until he’d found them.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That one missed call wasn’t a big deal. That he’d forget about it and move on. But then he called again.

You’d stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering over his name. You’d almost answered.

The third time, you sent him straight to voicemail pretending you weren’t waiting for it to buzz again. Pretending you didn’t check for a message even though you already knew he hadn’t left one.

Eventually he got the hint. 

You kept replaying that night in your head. The way you’d clung too tight. Some nights, you cringed at yourself, hating how desperate you’d been for something he was never offering.

Other nights you hated him for chasing you when he knew he didn’t want anything real. For letting you believe it could be more.

But most nights…most nights, you hated yourself. For wanting him anyway. For missing him even now.

You couldn’t stop staring at it. 

It stared right back at you, the glossy cardstock reeking of self importance. His name printed in big, unassuming letters that made your stomach twist.

Your heart had dropped the moment you’d spotted it while rifling through your mail. The embossed gold edge caught the light like it was mocking you.

You're invited to the release party of Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds’ newest album: Who Built The Moon.

You read it twice. Then again, as if it might suddenly say something else. As if it might suddenly acknowledge you personally. But it didn’t. It just sat there, impersonal and pristine.

You dropped it onto the kitchen table and stared after it. It felt like it was staring straight back. Almost like it was watching you. Reporting back to its owner on your reaction. 

Was she angry? Hurt? Did she still care?

A dozen answers tangled in your chest. None of them kind.

You told yourself you didn’t care. That you’d moved on. But your hands betrayed you. They were shaking as you picked it up again.

A flurry of emotions surged all at once, but one was stronger than all the rest.

Anger.

It was easy to feel angry at him. He probably didn’t even know he’d sent it. Your name was probably still listed somewhere and some poor assistant didn’t even realize the damage they’d done.

Your chest tightened. You pressed your lips together, giving the fancy card one last look before ripping it clean down the middle. Then again. And again. Until it was nothing but scraps for you to toss in the bin.

Only when it was gone did you let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

If only it were that easy. 

You should’ve known better. Given your family’s history with him, it was inevitable that they’d been invited too. You’d made the mistake of mentioning that you weren’t going to your dad during one of your weekly calls.

“What d’you mean you’re not going?” he’d said, his tone a mix of disbelief and irritation. When you couldn’t give him a decent explanation, grasping for words that didn’t sound childish, he’d only doubled down.

“You can’t just not show up. It’s a big night for him. The least you can do is support him.”

Right. Support him. What absolute bullshit.

You’d stood your ground for as long as you could, clinging to that small piece of dignity. But then Emily got involved and you caved. You always did when it came to her. At least she’d be there. That was the only reason you’d finally relented.

You’d thought about telling her about what happened at his studio. She knew, after all. At least about the trip. But the way she’d reacted when she’d found out kept you quiet this time.

In the end, she all but dragged you there kicking and screaming, muttering every excuse you could think of along the way.

“Em, please,” you hissed the second you stepped out of the car, looking at her with pleading eyes. “I’m begging you, please don’t leave me alone tonight.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she said with an exasperated sigh before scanning your face. Her brows furrowed like she’d seen something. Some flicker of panic you couldn’t quite hide.

It took her all of three seconds to put it together.

The teasing dropped from her expression, replaced with quiet understanding. “Okay,” she said softly. “I won’t.”

Only then did you breathe again, a shaky exhale leaving your chest. You managed a small, grateful smile before following her inside.

The room was dim and humming with low chatter, laughter, the faint clink of glasses. It was a stunningly gorgeous venue. But that couldn’t distract you from the thought of him. He was here. Somewhere. 

You kept your back to him the entire night. It took every ounce of discipline you had. Whenever his voice drifted too close, you turned. When the crowd shifted, you shifted too. New faces. New conversations. You didn’t look over your shoulder. Not once.

When it came time to sit and listen to the album, you chose the farthest seat in the room. And when the song you helped on began to play, you fixed your eyes on the table, willing your expression to stay neutral as the familiar chords filled the room. But your mind betrayed you, conjuring up memories of the night you’d heard it for the first time.

Of course things didn’t go how you’d planned. They never did when it came to him.

Emily had only stepped away for one second, one single second, and somehow that was all it took. When you looked up again, he was there. Standing beside you like he’d materialized out of thin air.

“You look nice,” he said quietly.

It shouldn’t have affected you. But some pitiful, traitorous part of you warmed at the words. You’d spent hours deciding what to wear to this stupid thing. 

You smothered the reaction as soon as it surfaced. Anger was easier. Anger kept you strong.

“Fuck off,” you said flatly, eyes locked on some distant point across the room.

You could feel him shifting his weight uncomfortably beside you.

“I tried calling you—”

“I know,” you cut in, raising your glass to your lips. The champagne was too sweet, cloying in your throat. It didn’t suit the bitterness you felt.

He hesitated, then stepped in front of you. You stared at the ground, but when your eyes flicked up, the look you saw there made you freeze. There was something guilty and wounded there. Like your silence had actually hurt him. 

It made your throat tighten.

You blinked, suddenly unsure, but before you could say anything, he straightened, eyes fixed on something behind you. You saw it happen in real time. The shift. The retreat behind that calm, practiced mask he wore so well.

“Emily,” he said suddenly, tone light, too light. “How you been?”

Emily appeared at your side. One look at you, rigid, clutching your glass too tightly, told her everything she needed to know.

“Fine,” she said tersely. 

The air went heavy. Noel’s gaze moved between the two of you, lingering on Emily. Something unspoken passed between them before a look of understanding washed over him.

She knows.

“Okay then,” he said finally, voice distant now. “Take care.”

He turned and walked away before you could exhale.

It should’ve felt good. Triumphant even. You’d wanted him gone, hadn’t you? Instead, you just felt hollow.

Emily didn’t say a word when you drained the rest of your drink in one go and made a beeline for the bar.

2019

You didn’t see him again after that night. Not for a long time.

Life had a funny way of moving on when you didn’t feel ready for it. The weeks bled into months, then years. Work got busier. You got busier. And then, against all odds, you met someone who made you forget. Really forget. He was kind. Patient. The sort of man who was easy to love. Who loved you without fail. You were happy. Truly, blissfully happy. 

Until you found out he’d been loving someone else too. 

It nearly broke you. You spent weeks on Emily’s couch, barely able to move from sheer heartbreak. Apparently, you were starting to put a damper on her own relationship because she eventually sat you down, gave you the tough love talk, and kicked you out.

It was time though. Spending that much time around her had turned you back into bickering teens.

But when you packed up your things and went back to your empty flat, the silence was brutal. It wasn’t just your ex you were grieving, it was everything. All the versions of yourself that had tried so hard to love and be loved. Every person you’d pinned your heart on who’d managed to walk away. And, inevitably, your thoughts circled back to Noel.

You hated that they did. You hadn’t thought about him in years, but he still had a hold somewhere deep down. In that quiet part of you that never got closure.

And yet, even those memories had started to fade. He wasn’t the open wound he once was. Just a faint scar. One that didn’t hurt anymore, but still caught the light sometimes when you least expected it.

Life marches on. That’s what you told yourself as you called up some old friends from uni and rallied together for a girls night out. What you needed now was to get absolutely shitfaced. 

And shitfaced you got. 

London was alive that night, breathing new life into you in a way you hadn’t felt in months. Maybe years. You had no idea where you ended up, only that when you stumbled back to the bar for another drink, something, or rather someone, stopped you dead in your tracks.

Noel.

Of all people. Of all nights.

You froze. For a long moment you just…looked at him. Waited for that all too familiar ache to crawl up your chest, to remind you of everything that once was and never would be. But it didn’t come.

Instead, there was only stillness. A strange flicker of something warm, almost fond. Like a memory you could finally look at without flinching. 

You blinked, a little dazed by the realization. Maybe time really had done what you never thought it could. Maybe you were finally past it. Past him. Or maybe it was just the alcohol talking, the thrill of being someone new, someone untethered.

Before you could stop yourself, your feet were carrying you across the bar, weaving between tables until you were standing right in front of him.

“Well, if it isn’t the one and only Noel Gallagher,” you said, your voice teasing as you swayed slightly. 

He looked up sharply, brows knitting. Recognition flashed in his eyes, followed by something more cautious, almost wary. “What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low.

“What are you doing here,” you shot back, half slurring.

He sighed, glancing at the people seated around him who were pretending not to watch. A moment later, he was on his feet, his hand closing gently around your arm as he steered you away from the table.

You stumbled beside him, half laughing. “What’s with the first degree?” you said, catching his eye. “I just wanted to say hi.”

But he only looked at you, really looked, taking in the state you were in.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“What?” You blinked, thrown off by the softness in his tone. “I’m fine,” you said, dragging the word out, trying to sound casual.

He pursed his lips, glancing back at his table before exhaling hard. “Come on. You need some fresh air.”

Outside, the night air hit your flushed skin like a relief. You leaned back against the brick wall, eyes closing as you breathed in the cool air.

When you opened them again, he was still there, watching you with that unreadable mix of amusement and concern. He looked sexier than you remembered. Frustratingly so. A little more grey now, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of chest hair. You had the sudden urge to slip your hand inside just to feel him.

Your lips curved at the thought. “Noellll,” you said, sing-song and affectionate, reaching toward him.

He blinked, sighing, that faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Okay,” he said warily. “Ok what’s going on?”

You squinted, trying to focus on him. “What do you mean?”

His voice softened, but there was something beneath it. Something careful. “Last time I saw you, you told me to fuck off. What’s changed?”

You frowned, confused by the weight in his tone. “Come on, that was ages ago,” you said, waving a hand like it was nothing.

He ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before glancing toward the street like he wasn’t sure what to do with you, or with this.

“What?” you pressed, pushing off the wall to stand a little too close. “You seeing someone or something?”

The question slipped out teasingly, but even you could hear the edge beneath it. That quiet, ugly thread of curiosity. Or jealousy. You weren’t sure which.

He looked back at you incredulously, about to speak, when your stomach turned.

“Uh oh,” you murmured.

“Uh oh?” he repeated, wary now.

And then you bent forward and threw up all over the pavement.

“Jesus christ,” he hissed, stepping closer. “Come here—”

His hand found the back of your head, holding your hair gently as the night’s bad decisions came back up.

When it was finally over, you spat once, straightened, and wiped your mouth. You felt lighter. And utterly mortified.

He sighed, glancing between you and the bar, like he was debating whether you were worth the trouble. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you home.”

“My friends—” you started, weakly gesturing back toward the bar.

“I’m sure they’ll understand,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “Come on.”

You swayed as he ordered the cab, your head buzzing. You were listening to the rhythm of his voice. There was a steadiness in it, one that used to make you melt.

The last thing you remembered before everything went dark was the car door opening, the world tilting, and strong hands catching you before you hit the seat.

You woke in an unfamiliar room, heart racing and head pounding. The sour taste in your mouth made you wince, and you pressed a hand over your face, trying to piece together the fragments of last night. You remember all the shots you took, cursing your ex after each one, and then…then it got a bit blurry. 

Your eyes fell on your purse on the floor. You fumbled inside for your phone. Dead. Cracked. 

There was a glass of water on the nightstand, condensation pooled beneath it. You grabbed it and drank until your mouth didn't feel so dry. You’d barely set it down when a loud clatter came from down the hall, followed by a string of curses. Familiar ones.

Your stomach dropped.

Shakily, you swung your legs over the bed. The oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders was definitely not yours. A wave of panic rippled through you. You pushed yourself upright, padding unsteadily toward the noise.

Noel stood at the stove, frowning down at a pan of what looked like charred scrambled eggs. He turned at the sound of your footsteps.

“Oh, hi. You’re awake,” he said, voice calm but edged with surprise.

“Hi,” you croaked. “Um…what happened last night? We didn’t…”

His eyes widened. “No, god no. Why don’t you sit down.”

You felt ridiculous as you sank into a chair at his kitchen table in nothing but a t-shirt and panties, hair a mess, makeup smudged. He poured another glass of water and set it in front of you before sitting across from you with a quiet sigh.

“My clothes—”

“You, uh, threw up all over them,” he said gently, almost apologetic. “So…”

Heat surged to your cheeks. Had he…taken your clothes off for you? Your gaze flicked down, ashamed, then back up.

“S’alright. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Your head snapped toward him, cheeks flaming.

“No, I—” he fumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, “I meant the vomit. Not—yeah, no. Christ.”

That broke a small, shaky laugh out of you. He glanced up at you then, the corner of his mouth twitching, as if he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Fuck, Noel, I’m so sorry to be crashing at your place like this.”

He shrugged. “Hey, it’s okay. I tried to get you to tell the driver your address, but you passed out almost immediately. So…here we are.”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. The weight of embarrassment pressed down on you. Your hangover, the shirt that had to be his, the faint memory of slurring his name.

“Did something…happen?” he asked after a pause. “You seemed pretty out of sorts last night.”

You drew a slow, shaky breath and forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Yeah I just got out of a serious relationship and thought I could drink my way out of it.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just leaned back slightly, waiting for you to go on.

“He cheated on me,” you admitted. The words came out small, like you were ashamed of them. As if that one line could somehow excuse your drunkenness.

Noel exhaled slowly, jaw ticking once before his expression softened again. “Ah. Right. That’ll do it.”

There was a quiet moment before he slid the plate toward you. “Sorry,” he said simply. “Hope you can stomach it.”

You looked down at the uneven heap of eggs, your chest tightening. Even burnt, it was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in days. Heat crept up your neck.

“No I’m sorry,” you murmured, eyes still on the plate. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night.”

A quiet laugh slipped from him. “Nah. They were boring me to death anyway. Reckon you saved me, actually.”

That coaxed a weak smile out of you. When you looked up again, he was already watching you, like he was making sure you were okay. His gaze lingered a second too long before he cleared his throat and nodded toward the counter.

“Tea?”

The next hour passed in slow, sleepy recovery. Dry toast, buckets of tea, and the faint hum of the kettle filling the quiet. It almost felt normal. Almost.

But inside, you were a mess of nerves.

What the hell were you thinking last night? This wasn’t how you got back at your ex. If anything, it was how you got back at yourself. Why had you asked if Noel was seeing someone? Why did it matter? You absolutely could not go down that road again.

He’d been kind enough to let you use the guest bathroom to clean up. But when you rifled through your ruined clothes, you realized you had nothing wearable left. You sighed, then cracked the door open just enough to call his name.

“Uh…I don’t have any pants.”

There was a pause, followed by the sound of his footsteps down the hall. “Right. Hang on.”

A minute later, his voice came through the door, a little hesitant. “These were, uh…Sara’s. Figured you’re about the same size.”

You opened the door just enough to take the folded clothing from his hand. The fabric was soft. Probably cost a stupid amount for a pair of sweatpants. 

Putting them on felt strange. They fit, sort of. They were a little snug on your waist, but they were all you had. You slid the t-shirt he’d given you last night back on, and caught your reflection in the mirror, an unsteady laugh escaping you.

Punishment, you thought. For getting yourself into this ridiculous situation. For ending up in Noel Gallagher’s house, wearing his ex-wife’s clothes, with a hangover splitting your skull and your heart still bruised from someone else.

You weren’t exactly sure where to go from here.

Leaving would be the sensible thing to do. You should call a cab, go home, sleep off your shame, and pretend this never happened. But something in you wanted to stay, at least for a little while longer. Maybe it felt good to be cared for, no matter how embarrassing the reason was. 

Still, you were acutely aware that you were in his house. You didn’t want to overstay your welcome. Not after last night.

You heard the sound of the tv and followed it. Noel was slouched on a plush looking sofa, eyes focused on some old western movie on the screen.

You hovered in the doorway, unsure if you were intruding, until he finally glanced up. His gaze swept over you—your damp hair, the borrowed clothes that didn’t quite fit—and something unreadable flickered across his face.

He cleared his throat, eyes darting briefly toward the kitchen. “Kettle’s on.”

That settled it. 

He didn’t say you could stay, not outright, but the gesture was enough. And truthfully, you were still too hungover to even think about getting into a cab.

You nodded, quiet gratitude tugging at your chest, and cautiously sank onto the other end of the couch.

“You seen this one?” he asked after a moment, nodding toward the screen.

You shook your head. “No.”

“What?” He turned, genuinely appalled. “It’s a classic! Alright, we’re starting over.”

You almost laughed at his earnestness but caught yourself, unsure if laughter would break the spell. It felt a bit strange, him talking to you like this, like nothing had happened. Maybe it was pity. But it was good. Comforting, even.

The next few hours passed in an oddly peaceful blur.

You watched what Noel called “the holy trinity” of westerns, though you could barely keep the plots straight. He pointed out details, quoted lines before they happened, and explained things you didn’t fully understand but listened to anyway. It was oddly endearing, this side of him. 

By the time the credits rolled on the third film, daylight had faded. You stretched beneath the blanket, realizing you’d spent the whole day there without meaning to.

“Right,” you said, peeling yourself away from the blanket you’d been cocooned in for hours. “I should probably head out.”

He made a small, noncommittal noise in response, eyes still on the screen. You stood, stretching the stiffness from your limbs, and started gathering your things.

Your clothes from the night before were a lost cause, crumpled and sour with the unmistakable stench of vomit. You grimaced, found a stray grocery bag in the kitchen, and shoved them inside before slinging your purse over your shoulder.

When you returned to the living room, he hadn’t moved much. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, painting faint stripes across his face. He was still so stunningly handsome, even after a day of lounging. 

You, on the other hand, felt exposed, your head still vaguely pounding from the hangover. A sudden pang of vulnerability washed over you.

“Uber’s on its way,” you mumbled, hovering awkwardly near the door.

He nodded, but said nothing. It wasn’t a cold silence, but it was loaded, somehow. Like his kindness towards you today was running out. You felt the need to fill it.

“Thanks again for…all this,” you said finally, your voice smaller than you meant it to be. “You could’ve just kicked me out.”

That drew out a small smile. He stood, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. “Hey, I’d do it for any of my friends.”

The word friends landed heavy. You supposed that’s what you were.

“Right,” you echoed, quieter this time.

Maybe it was desperation. Maybe you still wanted him to like you. Or maybe you just needed the comfort. Whatever it was, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him before you could think twice.

He went still, surprised, before his arms came around you too, steady and warm. For a second, you let yourself sink into it.

It lasted a little too long. Long enough for you to feel stupid. When you finally pulled back, you lingered in his space. You looked up, meaning to smile, to say something light, but he was watching you, gaze unreadable and soft in a way that made your breath hitch.

You hesitated and then leaned in to brush a soft kiss against his cheek.

“Thank you,” you whispered, unsure what you were really thanking him for.

You stepped back quickly, heart hammering. “My car’s here,” you managed, the words catching.

And before he could say anything, you turned and slipped out the door. By the time you hit the curb, you were already asking yourself what the fuck you’d just done.

Two weeks after the incident with Noel, you got a text from him. 

Hey you awake?

Your stomach dropped. You forgot he still had your number. You blinked at your phone. It was half past twelve. You’d spent the night with a glass of wine and a movie, winding down from another long week. You probably should’ve been asleep by now. But you weren’t.

You bit your lip as your thumbs hovered over your phone. If this was what you thought it was…

The truth was you’d thought about him more than you cared to admit since that day. About how he’d looked, how gentle he’d been when you were a complete disaster. There was a sense of calm there that had never existed between you before.

You looked back down at his text. You could ignore it. Pretend you didn’t see it. But something in you was tugging at you to reply.

Yeah what’s up

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it. Your heart picked up instantly, like it already knew what was coming.

It didn’t take long.

Cmoe over

You just stared at it. Two words, sloppy with haste, and yet they sent your pulse wild. You could almost hear his voice behind them. That low, easy drawl.

You knew what this was. Or at least, you thought you did.

You were aware, distantly, that it was probably a bad idea. You had a history. A messy one. But it had been good too. Electric. Addictive. Full of excitement. Maybe now, with time and distance, you could actually keep things simple.

You’d been trying so hard to feel normal again after your breakup. To remember what it felt like to want something without it meaning too much. Noel was familiar. Safe, in his own way. And if you both wanted the same thing…well. Maybe it didn’t have to be complicated.

After all, the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else, right?

You typed back before you could stop yourself.

Ok.

A few minutes later, his next message popped up.

Cars on its way

​​Your pulse jumped. You suddenly had ten minutes, maybe less, to look presentable. You darted around your flat, tossing off your oversized tee to pull on something that felt a little sexier. You touched up your makeup in the mirror and spritzed perfume at your wrists, your throat.

Then you waited.

It was nearing 1 am when you finally knocked on his door. The night air was cold enough to raise goosebumps along your arms. You shifted from foot to foot, nerves buzzing until the door swung open.

He stood there, shirt rumpled, hair mussed, eyes heavy from drink.

“Hi,” you said, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be.

He blinked slowly, gaze trailing over you before stepping aside, opening the door wider.

Walking inside felt like stepping straight into something you couldn’t undo. The door clicked shut behind you but you didn’t turn around just yet.

When you faced him again, he was closer than before. The light softened his harsh features, smoothing them into something almost gentle. God, he looked beautiful like this. His shirt was unbuttoned one too many, almost like he tried to take it off but changed his mind halfway through. Your eyes kept drifting. 

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. You watched him, trying to read his expression, but something about him seemed different.

“You okay?” you asked softly, almost afraid to break whatever strange current was between you.

He shrugged, gaze flicking away before landing on you again. “Yeah…just didn’t think you’d actually come.”

You blinked. “You asked me to.”

That earned you the faintest curve of a smile. There, and then gone. 

“Guess I did,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to ask what this was, but his eyes dropped to your lips, lingering too long. You saw it then. The hesitation. The want. The part of him that knew this was a bad idea but couldn’t stop himself.

He took another step and your breath hitched. 

“Why did you call me here Noel?” you breathed, the words coming out softer, more teasing than you meant.

He let out a short laugh and looked away like he needed a second to steady himself. But then he turned back, and whatever restraint had been there snapped.

His mouth crashed against yours, messy and desperate. His hands found you in the same breath, one gripping your waist, the other threading into your hair to pull you closer.

You should’ve pushed him away. But it felt too good. He felt too good. You kissed him back just as hard, matching him beat for beat. His mouth was hot and urgent, every movement scraping away the thin layer of control you’d been clinging to. You could taste the faint burn of whiskey on his tongue, could feel the warmth of him pressing closer until there was nowhere left to go.

When he finally pulled back, his breath came out uneven, eyes searching yours like he was trying to figure out if he’d made a mistake.

“Been thinking about you for weeks,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “Been going mad, really.”

Your stomach flipped at his admission. You weren’t sure if he’d still say that if he was sober.

He leaned in again, lips brushing the corner of your mouth before trailing down your neck. “You looked so fuckin’ pretty sittin’ on my couch,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

You gasped as his teeth grazed your pulse, a tremor running through you.

“Thought you fuckin’ hated me,” he said, voice cracking just slightly against your throat. “But then you show up again. Like fate or somethin’.”

“Noel…” you breathed, though you didn’t know what you meant by it.

Because you didn’t hate him. You could never hate him. But admitting that now would make the moment too heavy. Too real. 

And right now, you didn’t want real. You just wanted release.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer. He sighed against your mouth, low and rough, and the kiss turned messy. 

He pressed you back against the wall, his body crowding yours. He tasted exactly the same as you remembered, maybe better. It flooded through you, pulling up memories you’d long since thought about, the kind that made your stomach twist and your body ache. Heat pooled low in your belly, spreading until every inch of you was alive with it.

His hands moved restlessly, tracing your curves before settling on your hips, then lower. He squeezed, drawing a small, startled sound from you before he shifted, trying to lift you. You caught on instantly, a grin ghosting over your lips as you jumped, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He stumbled a step, both of you breathless, and the little laugh that escaped you made his mouth twitch.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he slurred, breath hot against your lips.

“Of course not,” you murmured, still smiling. Then, quieter, teasing “Old man.”

His grip tightened, a spark flashing in his eyes. “What was that?”

You just gave him a shit eating grin, enjoying riling him up.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be,” he said, voice low, gaze sweeping over you like he was remembering every time you’d pushed his buttons before. The smirk that curved his mouth sent a fresh shiver down your spine. “Alright then.”

He started walking, carrying you through the hall. You clung to him, laughing, until he reached the bedroom. There, you slid down, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.

You couldn’t help but sneak a peak at your surroundings, taking it all in. He was so private that being in his bedroom felt like you were trespassing on something sacred. A side of him you hadn’t been allowed to see before. The stack of books on his nightside table. A guitar propped in the corner. It felt like a rare invitation into his world. 

You turned, and he was already watching you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher. Hunger, confusion, something darker curling beneath…it made your pulse stutter. You didn’t even think. Your hand found his, fingers threading together, and you tugged him toward you.

The kiss that followed was slower this time. Deeper. It wasn’t the frantic collision from earlier, it was drawn out. Indulgent. You guided him back until his knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he sank down, pulling you with him. You ended up sprawled over him, one leg between his, your weight pressed into his chest. Every point of contact sparked something electric.

Being here, in his space, surrounded by his scent and warmth, it was dizzying. You trailed your lips across his mouth, his jaw, down his throat, pausing to press a kiss to the soft skin at the base of his neck. He let out a quiet, ragged sound that sent a shiver down your spine, lighting something alive and reckless deep inside you.

You wanted more of that. More of him.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, and that was all it took for him to move. His hips shifted, grinding up into you. A smirk tugged at your lips as you felt the unmistakable hardness now pressing against you insistently. You rolled your hips in response, just enough to draw a low sound from his throat.

Your hand slid lower, slipping between your bodies to ghost over the taut fabric of his jeans. You traced the outline of him, teasing with the heel of your palm, pausing at the tip to press just enough to make him inhale sharply. He stared up at you, mouth slightly parted, pupils blown, lips swollen and glistening. He shifted for relief, but you pulled away, and his low groan of frustration made you smirk even more. 

“Still a tease I see,” he murmured under his breath.

You tilted your head. “What was that?”

Your fingers brushed his zipper, just enough to make him tense.

He went quiet, eyes locked on yours.

You smiled. “I could be much, much worse, Noel.”

You began undoing it deliberately slow, much to his dissatisfaction. Peeling back the fabric, you let the sight of him in his boxers sink in. A bolt of heat shot through you. You’d almost forgotten. Bigger than your ex a savage little voice in your head chimed. You smirked at the thought and traced him through the soft material, savoring the small sounds he made. 

Finally, you freed him, pulling down the last barrier. He let out a long, relieved sigh, his cock bobbing upward in your direction, flushed and thick. 

You nearly moaned at the sight. Oh how you’d missed his cock. You studied the prominent vein running along the underside that now matched the one on his temple. It was flushed a heavy shade of pink that made you ache with the need to kiss it. You suddenly realized how warm you were and reached to pull your own shirt over your head.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, chest rising and falling steadily, eyes fixed on you.

Your eyes shot up, meeting his gaze, cheeks warming.

“Shut up,” you said bashfully, reaching to unhook your bra. 

Your breasts spilled forward, nipples peaking in the cool air of his bedroom. His eyes darkened, lips parting as he caught the bottom one between his teeth. The sight sent a rush through you. You had a sudden, overwhelming need to feel that lip beneath your own.

Leaning back over him, careful not to touch him yet, you pressed your mouth to his again. He opened instantly, lips soft against yours, letting you suck his bottom lip into your mouth, tongue flicking over it.

He shifted beneath you, seeking more friction. The head of his cock brushed lightly against your stomach and a small, pleading noise escaped him. He tried again, but you pulled back.

“Told you,” you whispered.

His exhale was heavy, strained, like he was already losing patience. You smirked and slid down between his legs, leveling yourself with him. You met his eyes, making sure they were focused on you, and then you finally touched him.

Your lips met the base of his cock first, soft and warm, before your tongue glided over the length. The heat, the hardness, the pulse beneath your lips made your own body hum with arousal. He let out a long groan above you, like he’d been holding onto it for too long. The sound shot straight through you, spurring you on. 

You teased him slowly, tongue tracing the vein along the underside lovingly. You savored the little shivers he couldn’t hide. Each gasp, each jerk beneath you, fueled your own desire.

When you reached the tip, your tongue flicked lightly over the frenulum, and he jerked involuntarily, a sharp gasp breaking from him. The sound sent another jolt straight to your core.

Your hand gripped him at the base, steadying him as he shifted beneath you. He opened his eyes just enough to take you in, to see you poised over him, lips hovering over the now leaking head of his cock.

Slowly, you wrapped your lips around him, flicking your tongue over the slit. His head fell back with a cry, and you repeated the motion, dragging your saliva down the length of him until he was slick and glistening. Then, you took him fully into your mouth, moaning as the warm, hard weight of him hit the back of your throat.

“Fuck,” he babbled, hand slipping into your hair, gripping lightly.

You doubled down, hollowing your cheeks, bobbing your head in measured rhythm, listening to the throaty moans spilling from him, feeling him twitch and pulse against your lips. You hummed around him just to let him feel the vibrations and his grip tightened, like he was trying to stop himself from thrusting further down your throat. 

Reluctantly, you pulled back with a wet pop, letting him rest against the pillows. You hovered over him, chest rising and falling, until his eyes fluttered open, half-lidded, need written in every line of his face.

Hastily, you shed the rest of your clothes, and nudged him out of his. Heat pooling between you deliciously. You were absolutely soaked, dripping for him in a way that left your thighs slick and quivering.

You repositioned yourself over him, straddling him, and gripped him again, guiding him to your entrance. You both gasped as you dragged him through your wet heat, coating him. The sensation made your head spin. You could hardly believe how perfectly this night had spiraled.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, pressing a hand to his chest to steady yourself. The stretch took your breath away, both unfamiliar and achingly familiar at the same time. You’d nearly forgotten how completely he filled you, how he reached places deep inside that no one else could.

His hands rested at your waist, guiding you as your body adjusted to him.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, finally sinking fully onto him. Sweat began beading at your forehead, and your breath came in short, heated gasps.

You leaned forward to kiss him again, lips locking in a messy, open mouthed frenzy as you began moving. His arms roamed up your back, teeth grazing your neck, and the friction between you sent shivers down your spine. A long, drawn-out moan escaped you as he began matching your movements, each thrust perfectly in sync with yours.

His eyes found yours, burning with a fierce intensity, and he picked up the pace, fucking into you in earnest. His arms wrapped around you, anchoring you as small, guttural noises spilled from him with every thrust. Your forehead pressed to his as pleasure radiated from your core up through your spine, every nerve alight with sensation.

Your lips found the vein in his temple, kissing it reverently as his hands gripped your ass, pulling you closer and giving his thrusts more force. Your body burned with a bliss so sharp it left you dizzy, lost entirely in the rhythm of him. The sound of skin on skin, his low groans, and the heat pooling deep inside you.

Suddenly he was gone, flipping you onto your side. He settled in beside you, lips finding yours again as he positioned himself and slid back inside. The new angle was pure ecstasy, every movement hitting deeper. He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back as your head lolled. The moans spilling from you were uncontrollable now.

Your hand cupped his jaw as he kept up a steady, punishing pace, each thrust sending sparks through your body. The eye contact was intense, even through the haze of bliss. 

Then, without warning, two of his fingers found your mouth, gently sliding past your lips, and then his hand drifted down to toy expertly with your clit. Your back arched, pressing into him, riding every movement as he drove you higher and higher.

“Noel…fuck, I’m so close. Don’t stop,” you gasped, breath ragged and shaky.

Through your haze of pleasure, you swore you saw a flicker of a smile cross his face. His fingers accelerated, his hand moving with precision, while the other cradled your head, steadying you as he drove into you ruthlessly.

“Fuck…fuck…yes…oh my god,” you babbled, body tightening, gripping him as if you could fuse your flesh together.

“Go on,” he breathed, grinding into that spot deep inside of you. “Let go.”

That was it. Your body convulsed, spasming around him, waves of pleasure exploding through you so intense your vision nearly whited out. 

He choked on a groan, pressing his damp forehead against your neck as he buried himself deep inside you, his body trembling as he shattered inside you. He breathed incoherent words into your skin as he rode it out, soft whines edged on each syllable.

He moved through the aftershocks in slow, uneven waves, until he finally stilled. The weight of him settled over you, solid and heavy, the two of you caught in that strange, suspended quiet that follows something too intense to name.

When he lifted his head, his mouth found yours again. Just a soft press of your lips. You opened your eyes and met his, both of you a little dazed. He gave a small, incredulous laugh, brushing a thumb along your jaw.

“That was…”

You smiled, breath still shallow, your pulse thrumming against his fingertips. “Yeah,” you managed, your voice a whisper. “I know.”

It became a thing without either of you meaning it to. 

The second time started with a thinly veiled invitation for post-gig drinks and ended, inevitably, in his bed.

The third time, it was you who texted first. It had been a bit strange, having him in your tiny flat. Like he was too big to be contained there. 

You’d stared at your phone for a long time before sending the message. It felt like it might mean something if it came from you. But you’d had a long, exhausting day and all you really wanted was a good fuck. And he delivered. Multiple times. 

After that you stopped counting.

You told yourself it was freedom. That this is how it should’ve been all along. Living scot-free, no strings, no questions. Because it felt good. So good. And you were having fun.

Even though you still kept the shirt he’d lent you. Even though you knew exactly how he liked his tea after so many mornings spent together.

That didn’t mean anything. You didn’t need to put a label on it. You could see other people. You just…didn’t. Not when the best sex of your life was just a text away.

Even when he wasn’t around, locked away in the studio or off at some fancy industry event, you still found yourself texting him. A scandalous photo here, a filthy message there. It was too much fun not to.

Especially after his reaction the first time.

You’d been bored and half-drunk on a lonely evening, restless and a bit needy. He was away in Manchester for some radio thing and the thought hit you before you’d even lifted yourself off the couch. You’d just bought a new bra that week on a whim and suddenly it felt like it was made just for him.

You mussed up your hair, slipped on the bra, and snapped a few photos in the mirror. The good kind. The kind you knew would get a reaction. Then you sent them.

new bra. what do you think?

You waited, smirking at your reflection. A few minutes later, your phone buzzed.

Fucking hell i just opened that in public 

You grinned. He was so clueless when it came to things like this.

but it’s cute, no?

Yes.

You frowned at the screen, a little disappointed. You’d been hoping for more. A tease. A command. Something.

But then your phone started to ring.

His voice sounded muffled, half-drowned beneath the noise around him. “Are you still wearing it?”

Your stomach dropped at the low timbre of his voice, like he was trying, and failing, to mask how affected he was.

“Mhm,” you murmured, lips curling. “Too bad I don’t have matching panties or I’d be wearing them too.”

He swore quietly, the kind of sound that made you bite back a grin.

“Where are you?” he asked. “I can send a car.”

You leaned back against your sheets, enjoying this far too much. “No, it's too far. Plus I’m nice and comfy here.”

He exhaled a rough breath, and you swore you could feel the heat of it tickling your cheek through the phone.

“Fine. Stay there. But I’m calling you in a few hours when I’m back in the hotel,” he warned.

“But what if I don’t have a few hours?” you teased, drawing out a high-pitched breath heavy with suggestion.

“Fuck…don’t do this to me. Now I’m getting hard in public.”

“Send a picture,” you said, the words almost daring him.

He let out a mocking laugh and then hung up.

You lay there, suddenly feeling cold despite the flush crawling through your body, even more turned on than before. A few minutes later, your phone buzzed again.

It was Noel. More specifically, a picture of Noel. He was clearly in a stall, pants pulled down just enough for his cock to spring free.

Your breath caught in your chest, heat flooding back instantly. Beneath the image, a single message:

Here. Wait for me. I’ll call you later. 

You lay back against the sheets, every nerve screaming with want. The cold air on your skin did nothing to calm the heat coiling low in your stomach. Your phone glowed beside you, the image of him, cock hard, veined, impossibly perfect, burning itself into your mind.

Later, when he called, it had been pure filth, his voice low in your ear, coaxing you through every touch while he got himself off. The memory of it still echoed in your head, impossible to forget.

You’d ended the call with promises of what you’d do to each other the second he was near. And the next time you saw each other, it was animalistic. You’d gone at it for hours. He’d whispered things in your ear that you wouldn’t dare say aloud, and you loved every second of it.

After that, it just…kept happening. The two of you phoning each other up, falling into each other's beds. It was a dangerous mix of lust and friendship. You’d giggle, tease, joke with one another. And then he’d fuck you so hard you couldn’t walk straight. It was months of pure bliss.

And still, in between, there were moments that almost felt tender. He’d pull you close afterward, tucking you against his chest, the scent of his skin and sheets wrapping around you. You liked being there. Liked being the center of his attention. He was rare. Someone who made you feel lucky just to be wanted by him. 

But that was all it could be. 

One morning, you woke to find him perched on the edge of the bed, guitar in hand, wearing nothing but his boxers, strumming something light and sweet. You stayed still, watching, before finally moving, curling yourself against him and pressing a soft kiss to the base of his neck.

He’d smiled and pulled you into his lap, sliding the guitar into your hands and wrapping his arms around you. His fingers guided yours over the strings, correcting notes with a quiet laugh and a nudge here and there. You fumbled, hitting a discordant chord, when he leaned closer, brushing against you, his breath warm.

That had been a good morning. Sweet. Almost domestic. But the impromptu guitar lesson hadn’t lasted long. You’d felt him growing hard beneath you as you sat curled in his lap and it had quickly devolved from there. 

Then there was a lull. Not an intentional one. Life just got in the way. 

You met someone in a pub and took him home. It’d been good. A spur of the moment thing. Something to fill the quiet. He’d scribbled his number down before leaving your flat with a kiss that didn’t mean much.

You hadn’t planned it, but two days later, Noel called. And of course, you went. You always went.

It started the way it always did, the two of you tangled up on his bed, already half naked. But then his eyes flicked down to your collarbone, catching the faint marks blooming along your neck.

“Did I do that?” he murmured, pausing mid-kiss.

“Hm? Oh…um, no,” you said lightly, trying to brush it off.

He stilled. “Who did?”

“Why, you jealous?” you teased, light but testing, because part of you wanted to know.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “No.”

But it didn’t sound convincing. 

You shifted uncomfortably for a moment, debating if you should say something. That you weren’t exclusive. That it had just been a one-night thing. That he didn’t really have the right to be angry. But you didn’t. The two of you never talked about things like that. That was the magic of this whole…thing.

But before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours again, rougher this time. The change was instant. His hands, once teasing and light, tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His chest pressed into yours like he needed to erase whatever had been there before him.

He didn’t say a word but he didn’t need to. His touches spoke for him.

You shivered, half from the thrill, half from the tension that simmered beneath his skin. Then he thrust against you, and a sharp gasp caught in your throat. The heat between you spiked and a quiet possessiveness hung in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

It felt like too much, too intense, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not when every movement seemed to demand your attention, to pull you deeper.

He drew back just enough for you to catch your breath before finding your mouth again, his kisses hot and unrelenting. His tongue traced yours while his hands roamed. One slid down to your thighs, pushing them apart. His fingers brushing the front of your underwear, sending shivers through you.

You arched toward him, craving more. He let out a dark laugh against your throat, pressing harder, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

Then he shifted, moving lower to kiss up your inner thigh. His fingers dug into your hips as he pulled you against him. When he reached your underwear, the tip of his nose brushed against your clit through the fabric. You gasped, twitching against him, and he smirked.

Suddenly you were on your stomach. He tore your underwear down in one swift motion and pressed himself flush against you, hard and aching. Then his arm circled your stomach and he pulled you up, bending you to his will. Your heart pounded wildly as he teased your entrance. When he finally sank in, you let out a throaty moan, like all the air had been knocked out of you. 

He began moving with ferocity. Every movement carried a weight that went beyond need, as if he was trying to leave some invisible mark, to remind you that he was still there, still the one who could make you feel like this. 

You gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets, your body caught between shock and surrender. Skin slapping against skin. His grunts filled the room as your mind spun in a haze of pleasure. He slid deep, finding that perfect spot over and over, making your body writhe and tremble uncontrollably.

“God, you feel…,” he rasped, voice rougher than usual. You could hear it, feel it, the way it cracked just for a heartbeat. There was a flash of something there. Something he was trying hard not to say.

Your body jerked with him, pushing back to meet his thrusts as he drove into you again and again.

“Fuck…fuck, Noel,” you whined. 

He swore, pressing harder. Moans tore from you as pleasure and his intensity collided, filling you completely. He leaned over, one hand gripping the base of your throat lightly, forcing you to arch your back as anchored his movements.

“I want you all to myself,” he murmured, barely audible. 

Through the haze, you registered his words. For a second, everything inside you stilled. You weren’t sure if he was even aware he said them. His pace didn’t falter once. 

You couldn’t help but wonder, even as your body writhed beneath him, if maybe…maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe it wasn’t just sex talk. Maybe he did want you to himself. And that thought, wild and dizzying, only made the heat between you more unbearable.

Every groan, every thrust, every press of his hips felt like it was stitched with that secret. And it made you ache in ways you weren’t prepared for. Not just with want, but with curiosity, hope, and a flicker of fear.

He fucked into you relentlessly, the words fading into oblivion until you were trembling, screaming at the intensity. 

His hand gripped your neck tighter, anchoring you, pulling you impossibly closer, until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

Then, right at your ear, came the word that undid you. 

“Mine.”

Your heart skipped, mind catching fire. That single word carried more than lust. It was claiming you, staking you, and your core clenched in response.

“Yours,” you breathed, barely aware you’d said it.

He responded by driving into you harder, fingers digging in, hips snapping with more ferocity than before.

You cried out, voice breaking over a groan, feeling yourself unravel as every nerve screamed. That word kept repeating in your head, every press of his body echoing it.

Your climax built impossibly fast, shivering through you, gripping him like you couldn’t let go. He didn’t stop. He rode you through it, hips snapping deep, voice hoarse and broken with need.

“Fuck…yes…,” he gasped, each word pressed against your skin like a claim.

Then it hit you. The full wave of your release crashed over you, your body convulsing around him, trembling as heat, pleasure, and that dangerous thread of something more swept through you. His name tumbled from your lips, desperate and needy. He groaned, following soon after. His body jerked against yours, breath catching like he was trying not to say something he couldn’t take back.

When it was over, he stayed there, chest pressed to your back, breath warm against your skin. You felt his heartbeat steady, calming you even though everything else felt uncertain. He pressed a few soft kisses to your shoulder, tender where moments ago he’d been wild, and you waited.

It was a delicate topic. One that you didn’t feel like broaching. Not after that. He’d have to be the one to mention it. You waited as he pressed more kisses into your spine, your neck. As he dragged you into a shower. You waited for any sign that this meant something to him. That what he said was true. Waited for him to say something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

And that silence spoke louder than anything else could.

A few weeks passed before you heard from him again. Radio silence on his end, though he was never far from your mind. You’d thought about calling him. Pretending nothing had happened. But the idea of sitting around and waiting for him to say something felt too much like history repeating itself. You’d learned your lesson.

When he finally called, he was drunk. Properly drunk. Slurring his words so badly you could barely make sense of them. Still, somehow, he ended up at your door.

He didn’t touch you that night. Didn’t even kiss you. Just stumbled into your room, mumbled something incoherent, and collapsed onto your bed. Into the fancy sheets he’d bought you after complaining yours were “like sandpaper.”

For a moment, you just stood there, unsure what to do with him like this. You knew what this was about but you weren’t going to pry it out of him.

So you did the only thing that felt right. You slid in beside him. 

He turned toward you, curling into you with a small, broken sigh, head resting against your chest. You held him without thinking, fingers drifting through his hair in slow, absent strokes. He didn’t say anything, but there was something desperate in the way he clung to the silence. Like he was afraid that speaking might make everything real.

After a while, his breathing evened out. Something about his weight against you, the warmth of him, the sheer fragility of the moment made your chest ache. Made you hold him just a little bit tighter.

You lay awake long after he’d fallen asleep, listening to the rhythm of his breaths and wondering if he’d remember any of this in the morning. Or if it even mattered.

When you finally drifted off, his arm was still around your waist. And when you woke, the space beside you was cold. He was gone.

And you knew it was over.

A month passed. Then another.

You finally texted the guy from the pub, Josh, and to your surprise, you actually hit it off. He was easy to be around. Uncomplicated. A good distraction.

Still, Noel lingered in little ways. In the Yorkshire tea he kept stocked at your place, in the faint smell of his cologne on your sheets. But you figured he was done with you. You hadn’t heard a word since that night, and the way he’d left made it clear he didn’t want to.

Then, out of the blue, your phone buzzed.

Your stomach dropped when you saw his name, but for an entirely different reason than usual.

“Hello?” you answered, voice tentative.

“Hey,” Noel said. He was slurring his words again. “You busy tonight?”

You exhaled, the ache in your chest sharp and immediate. “Noel, I…kind of started seeing someone.”

Silence. 

“Oh,” he said finally, the single word soaked in something like disappointment before he quickly buried it under his usual nonchalance. “What’s his name?”

“Josh,” you said quietly.

“Josh,” he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue bitterly.

“Yeah. We met at a pub a couple months ago.”

There was another pause. You could almost hear the moment he put it together.

“Right,” he said at last, voice tight. “Well. I suppose you won’t be hearing from me again.”

“Noel—”

But the line clicked dead before you could finish.

You just sat there, phone still pressed to your ear, an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach.

Another month into dating Josh and, on paper, things were perfect.

You went out to dinner, saw movies, wandered hand in hand through the city at night. He was funny, attentive, easy to be around. It was great. It really was.

But something was missing.

You kept waiting for that feeling. The spark. The pull in your chest. When he kissed you. When you slept together. But it never came.

You told yourself to give it time. Another week, maybe two. But the hollow feeling didn’t fade, it grew.

Then one evening, sitting on your couch with the tv humming softly in the background, it hit you.

You were in love with Noel.

Properly. Stupidly. The kind of love that sneaks up on you when you aren’t paying attention. Somewhere between the lazy mornings tangled in his sheets, the smirk he’d try to hide when you made him laugh, and the way he used to press absent kisses to the top of your head. 

You’d fallen for him. Again.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d finally felt it too.

Your breath caught, vision blurring. The tears came before you could stop them. You pressed your palms to your eyes, shaking your head as the realization hit harder.

You’d pushed him away. Pushed your feelings away. For your own self preservation. And now they were bubbling up in full. 

The memory of that phone call replayed in your mind. The hurt he hadn’t quite hidden before hanging up.

A sob slipped out of you then. This was all you’d ever wanted. And now you might’ve already lost him.

Suddenly you were moving, slipping your shoes on, barely thinking. Your body seemed to know before your mind did. You needed to see him. You needed to know.

The night air was cold against your flushed cheeks, but you barely felt it. You walked fast, almost running at times, your heart hammering with every step. By the time you reached his house, you were sweating and out of breath. You hesitated only for a second before knocking.

A minute passed. Then the door creaked open.

Noel stood there. He looked rumpled. Unshaven. The sight of him like that made your chest ache.

“What are you—” he started, but you cut him off before you could lose your nerve.

“Are you in love with me?”

The words hung in the air between you.

He blinked, clearly taken aback. Then, after a moment, he exhaled slowly and stepped aside, opening the door wider.

“Come in,” he murmured.

Once the door closed behind you, your confidence evaporated. The weight of what you’d just done crashed down all at once. Showing up at his doorstep in the middle of the night, demanding answers like some lovesick fool. What a mess.

You could feel the tears coming again, stinging hot behind your eyes, and you swiped at them furiously before they could fall.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Hey,” he said softly, brow creasing, “did something happen? Did you and Josh—”

“Noel, I need to know,” you interrupted, voice trembling just enough to give you away.

He exhaled again, glancing away, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to buy time. Or courage. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say anything. That you’d made a mistake.

But then his gaze lifted back to yours and it was clear.

“Yes.”

It landed heavy in your chest, sinking straight to the pit of your stomach. The room seemed to tilt around you.

“I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanna hear,” he said quietly, “but it’s the truth. I’ve thought about calling you a hundred times. Telling you everything, trying to ruin what you’ve got with him. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

Now it’s your turn to look away, your throat tightening.

“Truth is,” he went on, voice low, almost breaking, “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

Your head snapped up.

“After that vacation, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I knew I shouldn’t. It felt wrong, holding on to something that only made sense when I was away from the mess my life was in at the time. But I still called you. You came to the studio, and…” He trailed off, jaw tightening at the memory.

You shut your eyes, the image rushing back.

“But you were right,” he said softly. “We couldn’t keep doing it. So I tried to let you go. God knows I tried. But that’s when I figured it out.” His voice cracked slightly. “I needed to see you again. To explain myself. But you seemed like you hated me and maybe I deserved that. So I let you. It was easier that way. For a while it even started to work.”

He laughed then, a shaky, self deprecating sound, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “But then you stumbled back into my life and things got good. Really good. It got harder to ignore.”

He exhaled sharply, like the words had taken something out of him. “And then I ruined it all.”

“Noel…” Your voice trembled, your chest aching with everything you’d kept buried. “I’m the one who ruined it. I pushed you away. I thought that was what I had to do. And then I went and started dating someone else, trying to replace you and it didn’t work. It couldn’t. Because I love you too.”

His mouth fell open slightly.

“You do?”

You nodded, tears threatening again. “I thought I’d ruined it by falling for you from the start. That I got too caught up, too serious. That you didn’t want that.”

A small, incredulous laugh escaped him. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a rueful grin. “Christ,” he muttered. “We really fucked it up, didn’t we?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Completely.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he stepped closer tentatively, almost shy, and brushed his thumb under your eye, wiping away a stray tear.

His voice dropped, softer now. “I didn’t mean to make you think I didn’t care. I just…I didn’t know how to anymore. After everything. The divorce, the mess I was in—I thought if I kept it casual I wouldn’t drag you down with me.”

You shook your head, wiping at your eyes. “You didn’t. You just made me fall harder.”

That made him laugh again, quiet and a little broken. The sound of it pulled at something deep in your chest.

“Come here,” he murmured.

The second his arms wrapped around you, all the tension you’d been carrying cracked and melted. You buried your face against his chest, breathing him in, feeling his heart beating hard. He held you tightly, like he was afraid to let go this time.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t hunger or habit or the need to forget. It was the truth. Full of everything you’d both been too afraid to say.

And when he touched you, it felt like coming home. Every brush of his hands, every whispered word, stitched together all the pieces that had come undone between you. It felt like the first time all over again, except this time you weren’t wondering what it meant. You knew.

Later, tangled in his sheets, his breath warm against your skin, he whispered it into you. 

I love you.

Once. Then again. And again.

Until the words blurred with the rhythm of your breaths, until they no longer felt like a confession, but a promise.

You closed your eyes, letting the words sink in, letting yourself finally believe them. Because maybe this wasn’t perfect. Maybe it never would be. But it was real. And it was finally yours.

🗝️⋆｡𖦹°‧★

his mate hopped out with a lazy, “back in twenty,” and shut the door behind him. you barely looked up — just made a soft sound of acknowledgment and leaned in closer, arms wrapped around yourself, knees tucked sideways across grian’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you didn’t even notice the way his breath caught.

it wasn’t intentional. you just liked being close to him. liked his hoodie, which was too big on you, sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem draped low enough to skim your bare thighs. you liked the warmth of the car, the faint hum of the radio, the quiet smell of crisp packets and cologne.

“s’getting dark,” you mumbled, chin tilted toward the window. “d’you think they’ll still have those gummy ropes left?”

“hm?” he asked, low and distracted.

“at the shop,” you said. “the ones i like. the rainbow ones.”

you turned your face into his shoulder, cheek pressed to the slope of it, and smiled sleepily. “i’ll share if you want.”

grian’s hand flexed where it rested on your outer thigh — a casual hold, one he’d barely been aware of a minute ago. now he could feel everything. the shape of your body curled against him. the soft weight of your hip against his. the way your legs shifted, your calves brushing his jeans. the hoodie had ridden up just a little, revealing a sliver of skin above your knee.

you sighed, long and slow, and rocked your hips ever so slightly as you adjusted your weight. grian exhaled hard through his nose.

you didn’t notice.

“maybe we should get chocolate too,” you said lightly. “oh! or the little ones. you liked those last time.”

“mm,” he murmured.

you blinked up at him with those soft, wide eyes. “you okay, baby?”

that word. that tone. it did something to him.

he cleared his throat. “yeah,” he said, eyes fixed straight ahead. “m’fine.”

you shifted again, trying to get more comfortable, not realizing that the movement was — to him — everything. your bum nestled a little deeper into his lap, the curve of it brushing his crotch just enough to make his stomach tighten.

“you’re warm,” you murmured, nose nudging under his jaw. “like a heater.”

“you’re not,” he said, voice slightly rough. “you’re freezing.”

you giggled. “yeah but you like it. you’re always warm. your hands are warm.”

you took his hand gently and tucked it under your thigh, like it belonged there. grian tensed. bit his lip hard.

you didn’t notice the way his breath shuddered. you were busy pointing out something on your phone, babbling gently about a meme or a song you’d been listening to or something funny your friend texted earlier. you kept wiggling, softly, absently — just a tiny bounce when you got excited, a little roll of your hips when you laughed.

he was going to snap.

“look,” you whispered, holding your phone up close. “this one made me laugh so bad—”

you were half-laying on him now, weight light but present, your knee nudging between his legs. the whole of your body relaxed, soft and happy and unaware of what you were doing. of how badly you were teasing him. how hard he’d gotten under you, how desperately he was trying not to rut up into the plush of your thighs like an animal.

“you’re not even laughing,” you whispered, pouting.

he swallowed thick. “i am.”

“you’re being weird.”

“no,” he said — and finally, finally, his hand gripped your hip. tight. grounding. “you’re just bein’ sweet,” he added, quieter. “too sweet.”

you blinked at him. “what’s that mean?”

he looked at you, really looked — and for a moment you saw it. his restraint. the tension across his shoulders. the careful hold on your hip like he was barely remembering where he was.

you whispered, almost shy, “did i do something wrong?”

his thumb dragged slow over your skin. “no, angel,” he said. “but you gotta sit still now. just for a bit, alright?”

“why?”

he huffed, shook his head — laughed a little under his breath, and kissed your cheek. “you’ll thank me later.”

‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚

you’d gone quiet again, leaning into the warmth of him with your phone still loosely in hand, screen dimmed. your head rested against his collarbone, breath slow and dreamy, and your thighs twitched once in a sleepy shift. you didn’t mean to do it — not at all — but the way your bum pressed down on him had grian biting hard on the inside of his cheek.

“careful,” he murmured low.

you looked up, blinking. “hm?”

his voice had that edge now. warm, still — but firmer. clipped. “told you to sit still.”

you blinked once, then twice — slow and confused like a kitten. “i am still.”

he stared straight ahead again. his jaw worked. “you don’t even know, do you.”

“know what?”

his hand shifted — the one at your hip, fingers sliding slightly up under the hem of the hoodie, just enough to hold you proper, all anchored and still.

you tilted your head, sweetly oblivious. “you’re being weird.”

you didn’t know that your sighs made his skin flush hot. didn’t know that every little shift, every innocent wriggle, every soft little “mm” you made when you got comfy sent heat pooling low in his belly.

you didn’t know. but you were gonna find out.

“do me a favor,” he said — soft and honey-like. you perked up instantly. “mm?”

his other hand — the free one — came up to brush some hair behind your ear. “stop talkin’ for a sec. just sit there for me.”

“why?” you pouted. “i like talkin’.”

he huffed a soft laugh, kissed your temple. “i know, peach. but you gotta be quiet now.”

he shifted under you — slow and deliberate — and you felt it. the pressure. him, under you, thick and hot through his jeans, pressing right up against your panties like it was nothing.

you froze.

he groaned low in his throat, grip tightening just slightly. “see?”

“gri—”

“shhh,” he soothed. “shh, you’re alright. jus’ sit still now.”

but you couldn’t help it. something in you shifted — soft and shaky — and your thighs squeezed together a little without thinking. you didn’t mean to rock your hips, but you did, just barely, and grian’s breath hitched like you’d just knocked the air out of him.

“oh, baby,” he groaned.

you whimpered. “i didn’t mean—”

“i know you didn’t. you never do.”

his voice was warm but rough now. you could feel his breath against your cheek, his hands steadying you, holding you down when you tried to shift away.

“no, no. too late for that. stay there, pretty thing.”

“but—”

“told you to sit still.”

you trembled.

his hand slid up your side, under the hoodie, callused fingers dragging over your ribs. his other palm splayed wide across your thigh, hot and grounding.

and then — softly — he rocked up. once. slow. deliberate.

you gasped — a little hiccup of breath — and he smiled against your jaw.

“y’hear that?” he murmured, voice low and syrup-slick. “that’s you. makin’ those sounds. just from sittin’ on my cock.”

you whimpered again — cheeks flushed, whole body hot and tight.

“so fuckin’ sweet,” he whispered, hips grinding slow again. “don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me, do you?”

you shook your head, helpless.

“that’s alright,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “you don’t need to know. you just sit here and let me… feel. yeah?”

you nodded. whispered, “yeah.”

he hummed low — content — and rocked up into you again. “good girl.”

‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚

you tried not to move. really, you did. but the second his lips brushed the side of your neck — that slow, lazy press just beneath your jaw — you gasped and arched just slightly into him, hips rocking the smallest bit.

and that was it.

his hand shot to your waist — gripped you firm. “told you,” he muttered, “no moving.”

“m’sorry—”

“shh. no more sorrys. just stay.”

and you did. you let him manhandle you back into position — hips slotted perfectly over his, your back flush to his chest — and he made a quiet sound when you settled, like it was relief and pain all at once.

“there we go. perfect girl.”

his hand dipped lower. slow. dragged up under your skirt like he had all the time in the world. you whimpered, thighs twitching.

“still,” he warned — soft, stern. “don’t make me tell you again.”

you held your breath.

his fingers found your panties — soft cotton, thin, wet. he hummed when he felt it, when his thumb grazed that warm, sticky patch right at the center of you.

“jesus,” he muttered, “just from sittin’, yeah?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t. you were trembling, quiet, flushed to the tips of your ears.

he slid his hand further — fingers brushing the waistband, then slipping beneath — and you let out a tiny gasp, body instinctively tensing.

he didn’t move. “what’d i say.”

you squeezed your thighs, whispered, “be still.”

“that’s right.”

then — one finger. slow. dragged soft through your folds, gathering slick, teasing right up against your clit but not pressing.

“god, you’re soaked,” he murmured. “gonna make such a mess in my lap.”

you whimpered again.

his other hand stayed locked around your middle — anchoring you, holding you still — while the one between your legs worked slow and mean, barely circling your clit before dipping down again, spreading you open.

“d-don’t—”

“what’s that?” he hummed. “don’t stop?”

you bit your lip. hard.

he chuckled — low and deep — and slipped one finger inside. not rushed. not rough. just slow. firm.

your hips twitched instinctively and he immediately gripped tighter.

“what’d i say, baby.”

“still,” you choked.

“mhm.”

he started to move his finger — in and out, lazy, unhurried — and your whole body burned with the tension. the effort it took not to squirm, not to chase. you wanted to rock into it, you wanted to grind down, but he held you still with just that one arm.

“gonna come just like this,” he whispered. “sittin’ pretty. not even moving.”

you whimpered — hands gripping the sleeves of your hoodie, thighs trembling.

“gonna fill you up with my fingers,” he muttered, “’til you’re leaking all over me. and you’re gonna thank me, yeah?”

“uh-huh,” you squeaked.

he groaned softly, buried his face in your neck, voice all breath and grit now. “god, you’re so good, baby. such a good girl.”

he slipped in another finger — slow again — and you gasped, head falling back against his shoulder.

“just like that,” he murmured, “just breathe. be good. let me take care of it.”

you clenched.

“...knew you liked that.”

you whined.

‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚

eventually, his fingers stilled.

you gasped — tiny and sharp — when they slipped out, leaving you wet and empty and clenching around nothing.

“n-no—” you whimpered, hips twitching instinctively.

his arm was around your waist again in a second, holding you down.

“shh, shh. none of that,” he murmured, voice steady. “you’re not gonna come on my fingers.”

“but—”

“nah, sweetheart,” he cooed, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “need you to be full, yeah? properly full.”

you blinked up at him, eyes wide and wet. dizzy. you were so warm, so soft all over. your thighs were shaking and your panties were ruined and your voice felt far away when you whispered—

“what does that mean?”

he hummed — low and sweet, like he was so proud of you — and kissed your temple again.

“means i’m gonna fuck you real slow, bunny,” he said. “just enough to get it in. and then we’re gonna sit. like this.”

your lashes fluttered.

“sit?”

he smiled. soft. dangerous.

“yeah, baby. you’re gonna sit on my cock, just like you are now. nice and full and still. and you’re not gonna move, yeah? not even a little.”

your breath hitched. “but— i— i’ll want to.”

“i know you will,” he murmured, tilting your chin up with one finger. “that’s the point.”

he kissed you slow then — not hungry, not wild, just gentle. sweet. it made you ache. it made you throb.

“can you do that for me?” he asked. “be my good girl? just sit there, all warm and quiet, while i stuff you full?”

you nodded. nodded so fast it made him chuckle, low and loving.

“that’s my girl.”

he shifted under you, one hand reaching between you, popping the button of his jeans. you whined softly when you felt the pressure change — his hips tilting, his cock brushing up against you now, bare and thick and hot.

your breath caught.

he dragged your panties aside with one hand, other still wrapped tight around your waist. lined up slow. teasing.

you were so wet already that the head of him slipped through your folds with barely any pressure at all — and you whimpered, loud in the quiet car.

“shhh,” he whispered. “we don’t wanna be caught now, do we?”

you shook your head, helpless.

he didn’t tease long. didn’t edge or play — he just held you still, tilted your hips slightly, and sank in with one slow, steady push.

you moaned — a soft, shattered little sound — and clung to him, arms wrapped tight around his neck.

“oh, baby,” he breathed. “fuck. you feel unreal.”

he bottomed out slowly, careful, until you were stuffed full and shaking in his lap. he didn’t thrust, didn’t move again — just held you down, tight and perfect.

“feel that?” he asked, nuzzling your jaw.

you nodded, trembling.

“that’s me, baby. all the way in. all warm and deep and not movin’ an inch.”

you whimpered.

he smiled.

“now,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple, “you just sit. be still. be good.”

his hand slid up to your chest — not groping, just resting — heavy and warm, like he could feel your heartbeat pounding.

“and i’ll take care of the rest.”

‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚

he didn’t move. not even a twitch.

just sat there, hard and thick inside you, one arm looped tight around your waist and the other resting across your thigh like a warning. you were trembling in his lap, whole body buzzing from how deep he was — stuffed so full it made your head spin.

you blinked up at him, all soft lashes and glassy eyes.

“gri… can i?”

he tilted his head. smiled slow.

“can you what, baby?”

“can i… just a little?”

your hips shifted — just a tiny bounce, an unconscious twitch — and he caught it instantly. his arm flexed around you. voice low.

“what d’you think you’re doin’?”

your lips parted. “i— i wasn’t—”

“nah,” he said, gently but firm. “not yet.”

his hand splayed over your tummy, keeping you still. you whined, quiet and breathy, and dropped your forehead to his shoulder.

“please?”

“not yet, little thing. i told you — just sit. just feel.”

you squirmed again — couldn’t help it — and that time, he pressed his palm flat to your mound, holding you down. you whimpered.

“baby,” he said, voice stern now. “what’d i say?”

your voice came out tiny. “be still.”

“that’s right.”

he kissed the top of your head.

you were trembling, clenching around him without meaning to, slick dripping down your thighs. your toes curled in your socks. it was too much. too good. and you weren’t allowed to do anything with it.

“hurts,” you whispered, breath catching.

“i know,” he said softly. “but you’re doin’ so good for me. takin’ it all like my perfect girl.”

his hand slid lower again — back between your legs, slow and warm — and you twitched.

“no—! please—”

“shhh, i got you. s’alright. just a little touch, yeah?”

he didn’t thrust. didn’t fuck. just stroked your clit so lightly it barely registered — a soft brush, over and over, like he was petting a bruise.

you moaned, low and cracked, and your thighs started to shake.

“so sensitive,” he murmured. “so sweet. bet you’d come just like this, huh? stuffed full and not even movin’.”

you whimpered. sniffled.

he rocked you — not to fuck, but to soothe — a soft shift of his lap, just enough to make his cock nudge deeper.

you gasped. your hands clutched at his hoodie.

he smiled against your cheek.

“don’t cry yet, bunny. not ‘til i say.”

but you already were — soft little tears spilling down your cheeks as you blinked, overwhelmed and burning, slick soaking the whole seat beneath you.

“can’t—” you choked.

“you can,” he cooed, fingers circling again. “you will.”

your hips jerked again — trying to bounce, trying to chase — and he immediately held you down.

“uh-uh,” he scolded, firm now. “what was that?”

you whimpered. “m’sorry—! i didn’t mean— i just— it feels—”

he kissed your cheek, wiped a tear with his thumb.

“i know it feels good, bunny. that’s why you’re not movin’. you’re gonna take it — all of it — nice and still.”

your lips quivered. your body throbbed.

“gri—” you whispered, broken.

his hand froze. just for a second.

then he groaned low, deep in his throat, and buried his face in your neck.

“oh, sweetheart. now you’ve really done it.”

‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚

you were barely holding on.

every nerve in you was shot, twitchy and raw, your whole body curling in on itself — full to the brim, overstretched and dripping. his cock still nestled deep inside, unmoving, unforgiving — your little ruined shape slotted in his lap like something pretty he didn’t plan to let go of.

he hadn’t moved, not once. just kept you cockwarming there, stuffed and still, shaking quietly as he teased your clit again and again — featherlight at first, slow and sweet, like he was winding something up.

you couldn’t stop crying. not big sobs — not yet. just quiet, broken gasps, tears welling and slipping free, wetting your lashes. your hands fisted in his hoodie like they were the only thing keeping you from floating out of your own skin.

“too much—” you whimpered. “please, please—”

he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice soft and low and wicked.

“this is what you wanted… right?”

you didn’t have time to answer. barely had time to breathe before he moved — finally moved — and fucked up into you slow, hard, all the way.

you cried out, sharp and breathless, whole body jolting forward. he caught you easily, hands still holding your waist like you were made to be in his lap.

“fuck— fuck, look at you,” he rasped. “makin’ those noises just from a my cock. wanted it so bad, didn’t you?”

you couldn’t speak — lips parted, tears spilling, thighs twitching — your whole body wound so tight it felt like a string about to snap. every time he pulled back and pushed in again it knocked the breath from your lungs.

and he didn’t stop.

he fucked you in deep, brutal rolls — slow, deliberate, mean — the kind of rhythm that crawled behind your bellybutton and made your cunt clamp down around him like it was begging.

and your clit— oh god.

his fingers hadn’t let up, still rubbing tight, unrelenting circles that made your knees buckle and your breath stutter.

you came again too fast, too hard, your whole body locking up around him with a sob.

he didn’t slow. didn’t let you hide.

“you’re gonna give me one more,” he whispered. “come on, bunny. be good for me.”

you shook your head, desperate. “i can’t—” but it didn’t matter.

his grip on you stayed firm. his voice went even softer.

“yes you can. you will. you’re mine. all fucked out and cryin’ on my cock and still gonna come for me one more time, yeah?”

you whimpered something close to yes.

he kissed the tear-slick curve of your cheek.

“atta girl.”

and then it hit — sharp and full and too much — your body locking around him, whole frame trembling as the tears poured over. you came sobbing, wrecked and wet, soaking the both of you, and he kept fucking you through it, slow now, careful, but still too much.

“shhh,” he murmured, hips still rolling gently. “shhh, just like that. soak me, baby. make a mess. you did so good.”

and you were gone.

you curled into him, face tucked under his jaw, his arms around you tight while you hiccupped your way down from it — breath short, thighs slick, your whole body buzzing.

he didn’t pull out.

he just held you there, deep inside, cock still thick and twitching, like he didn’t plan to go anywhere.

‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚

your whole body trembled with aftershocks — thighs slick, pussy still fluttering around him, your stomach too tight to speak. you were full. still. his cock deep inside you like it belonged there.

he hadn’t moved. hadn’t even thought about pulling out.

his hands rubbed slow circles over your back, the hoodie half-swallowed around you both, sleeves bunched, hem hitched up over your hips. you were cocooned in it — all soft and spent and wrecked — cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, thighs spread over his jeans.

grian kissed the top of your head.

“there she is,” he murmured. “my good girl.”

you sniffled. your voice came out a whisper. “you’re still… in.”

he grinned into your hair. “mhm.”

“grian.”

“just makin’ sure it all stays in,” he said, lazy, smug. “you made such a fuckin’ mess, love. can’t have you leaking all over my mate’s backseat.”

you buried your face deeper, burning. your legs twitched again, still sore from how hard you’d come, and he shushed you gently, pressing his hand to the small of your back.

“easy. breathe. i’ve got you.”

you nodded. clung tighter.

and then— a knock.

three taps on the window beside you, followed by the muffled sound of a plastic bag rustling and—

“everything alright in there?”

your whole body froze.

grian didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. didn’t even shift to hide the fact that you were still straddling him, stuffed full, hoodie rumpled and your face tucked under his chin like a little trembling secret.

he turned his head slightly toward the window. smiled easy. all teeth. “yeah,” he called back. “just got a bit warm in here.”

your jaw dropped against his collarbone.

the friend laughed, not suspecting a thing. “yeah, yeah, whatever. got your gummy shits. you owe me.”

“cheers,” grian said smoothly, fingers stroking your back like nothing was out of place.

you stayed completely still — cockwarming him while your heart thundered and your legs shook and your cunt twitched around him again, helplessly.

he groaned low under his breath. "you feel that?"

you nodded, dazed.

he kissed the top of your head again.

The trouble is, you can’t open a bloody magazine without seeing your band’s name besides his.

It’s always the same, “two sides of the same coin,” “the new post-punk rivalry,” or your least favourite, “him and her, duelling poets of the underground.” As if you and him were born to be stacked against each other like mismatched chess pieces.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That you don’t care. Except every time you flick through the pages, his face is right there, angular and unreadable, and you can feel your teeth grind.

The first few times you crossed paths — sticky green rooms, backstage corridors, cigarette smoke curling in the rafters — you’d both been polite enough. A nod, a handshake, the professional veneer. But something about the way his eyes lingered too long, or how his mouth tilted in that faint, knowing smirk, had set your nerves jangling. He didn’t even have to say anything; his silence made you bristle.

And then came the interviews.

“So, what do you make of the comparisons to Fontaines?”

You’d said something diplomatic, biting your tongue. Meanwhile, a week later, he muttered to a journalist that “everybody wants to be authentic until they’ve got a stylist backstage.” He hadn’t named you, but he hadn’t needed to.

By the time the summer festivals rolled around, the tension had calcified into something sour. You didn’t go out of your way to look for him — but when you spotted his silhouette across a field, your chest tightened all the same.

–

At Glastonbury, it all came to a head.

Your band had just finished a blistering set, sweat still slicking your hair to your temples, adrenaline buzzing. You’d barely made it off stage before being herded into a small press tent. The lights were harsh, the air sticky with beer and perfume, and there he was, slouched in the opposite chair. Grian, with his shirt unbuttoned a fraction too low, collarbones gleaming with sweat, eyes lazy but sharp.

The interviewer grinned, sensing drama. “Well, this is a treat — the two brightest stars of the new scene, side by side. You two ever thought of collaborating?”

You opened your mouth, but he got there first. His voice was smooth, Dublin cutting through the air like a knife. “Don’t think the world’s ready for that much ego in one room, do you?”

Laughter. The journalist scribbled furiously. You bristled, heat rising under your skin. “At least I’d show up to the studio on time,” you shot back, cool and even.

His gaze snapped to you then, the first real spark in those blue-grey eyes. He tilted his head, smirk curling. “Supposing you’d have somethin’ worth showin’ up for.”

You smiled sweetly, though your nails dug crescents into your palm. “Supposing I already do.”

The tension in the air crackled like static. The journalist looked between you both, grinning like they’d struck gold. You wanted to throttle them.

–

Later, back in the artist’s compound, you caught sight of him again. He was leaning against the fencing, cigarette dangling from his fingers, talking to another frontman. His laugh carried over the murmur of conversation, low and smoky, and you hated the way it slid under your skin.

I know you’re watching.

A body wandered past, clocking the way you were staring. “Careful,” he said with a grin, nudging you with his elbow. “Keep lookin’ at him like that and people’ll stop believin’ you hate each other.”

You flushed, scowled, and shoved him off, muttering something about not giving a shit. But when you glanced back, he was already watching you, a curl of smoke escaping his lips, expression unreadable.

I know you’re right.

You tore your eyes away first, pulse thudding far too loud in your ears.

–

That was the thing about him. You could swear you despised him, swear you’d never give him the satisfaction — but the truth was harder to swallow. Every barb, every comparison, every smirk only hooked you deeper.

And the worst part? You had no idea if he knew it.

–

Two nights later, you’re at a London aftershow you barely wanted to attend. Industry parties all feel the same, too much smoke, too many flashing cameras, the air thick with sweat and ego. You’d planned to slip in for a drink, make an appearance, and leave before the hangers-on started cornering you with networking opportunities.

But then you see him.

He’s across the room, tucked into a shadowy corner booth with a pint. And beside him, too close, is someone you recognise — a journalist, all bright laugh and red lipstick, leaning in, her hand brushing his arm.

I know you’re watching.

The sight slices through you before you can stop it. Sharp, mean jealousy, curling hot in your gut. It’s ridiculous — you don’t even like him. You’ve told yourself that a hundred times. He’s smug, competitive, infuriating. He’s the reason you can’t do an interview without your band being compared to his. He’s everything you should despise.

And yet.

You can’t tear your eyes away. The way he tilts his head to hear her better, the lazy curve of his smile, the careless drape of his arm over the back of the booth. You hate how magnetic it is. Hate the thought of her getting that soft look when all he’s ever given you is barbs.

–

“Oi,” someone murmurs at your side, following your line of sight. “Careful, you’re starin’.”

Heat crawls up your neck. “M’not.”

He chuckles, low and knowing. “Sure. And I’m not half-cut already.”

You roll your eyes, but you’ve already turned away, trying to busy yourself at the bar. The drink in your hand tastes bitter, flat. The laughter from their corner carries, and you can feel your teeth grind.

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. But the image sticks — her fingers tracing invisible patterns on his sleeve, his low voice answering something you can’t hear.

You last another ten minutes before the tightness in your chest drives you out onto the balcony, where the air is cold and mercifully clean.

–

You’re halfway through a cigarette when the door clicks open behind you. Heavy boots, that familiar Dublin smoke.

“Knew I’d find you hidin’ out here.”

You stiffen, drag on the cigarette like it’s armour. “Not hiding. Just needed air.”

He leans against the railing beside you, close enough that the smoke curls between you. “Could’ve fooled me. You looked like you wanted to kill someone in there.”

You scoff. “Why would I?”

He gives you a long, unreadable look, lips quirking. “Dunno. Maybe you didn’t like the company I was keepin’.”

The flush hits your cheeks before you can stop it. You turn away, eyes fixed on the city lights. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughs, soft but sharp, and you hate how much you want to hear it again. “Not flatterin’ myself, love. Just observin’. You’ve got a face that tells on you.”

I know your thoughts.

“And you’ve got a habit of thinking everyone wants you.”

For a beat, silence. The night hums with traffic below, the cool air pricking at your skin. Then he leans in, voice low, almost a growl.

“Maybe they don’t. Maybe you do.”

The words land heavy, hot, impossible to ignore. Your chest tightens, cigarette forgotten between your fingers. You want to argue, to laugh it off, but your throat won’t cooperate.

His gaze lingers, searching, and then — infuriatingly — he straightens, pushing off the rail. “Anyway. Enjoy your air.” He slips back inside, leaving you alone with the smoke and the pulse hammering in your ears.

They’re mine as well.

–

You stand there for a long time, trying to steady your breathing. You tell yourself you hate him. You tell yourself he’s wrong.

But when you finally stub out the cigarette, the truth gnaws at you. You didn’t imagine the way your stomach flipped at his words.

You didn’t imagine wanting him to be right.

–

The next night you’re onstage, sweat stinging your eyes under the lights. The crowd roars, the kind of noise that rattles your bones, but even with the adrenaline you can’t shake last night. Can’t shake him. His voice, low against your ear, Maybe you do.

And if you change your mind.

It rattles around your head as you sing, as you grin at the front row, as you stomp through your set. And when you come offstage, heart still hammering, you find him leaning against the wall of the greenroom like he owns it. Arms crossed, hair damp from his own show. Eyes fixed on you like he’s been waiting all night.

“Good set,” he says, casual. Too casual.

You wipe your face with a towel, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingers. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Not surprised.” His mouth twitches, like he’s holding back a grin. “Just impressed. Not easy to admit, mind.”

You narrow your eyes. “What do you want, Chatten?”

I will be waiting.

“Want?” He pushes off the wall, steps closer, the smell of sweat and smoke and beer rolling off him. “I want to know why you looked like you were gonna break glass last night. Out there on the balcony.”

Your throat goes tight. “Drop it.”

But he doesn’t. He tilts his head, studying you like you’re a song he hasn’t cracked yet. “Was it her? You didn’t like seein’ me with her.”

You laugh, sharp and humourless. “You think you’re irresistible, don’t you?”

“Not to everyone.” He closes the last bit of space between you, and suddenly he’s right there, his chest brushing yours. “But maybe to you.”

The words scrape something raw inside you. You should shove him, should tell him to fuck off, but instead you just stand there, trembling with it.

He notices. Of course he notices. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead. The gentleness of it makes your stomach lurch.

“Who did this to you?” he murmurs, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“This.” His voice is rough now. “Who makes you walk around like you’re second-best? Who’s got you thinkin’ you’re not good enough when you’re up there blowin’ the roof off?”

The shift—anger, not arrogance—undoes you. You bite your lip, eyes hot, but no words come.

He exhales sharply, jaw tight. “Fuck. It’s them, ain’t it? The press. The ones always comparin’, makin’ you feel like you’re just chasin’ us. Like you’re less.” His hand curls into a fist at his side. “They don’t know what the fuck they’re talkin’ about.”

The silence stretches. His chest rises and falls, fast, like he’s holding himself back. And then, before you can think, you whisper, “It hurts.”

Is there a sentiment you’d like to tell?

Something in him snaps. His hand cups the back of your neck and his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding. The kiss is nothing like you imagined—it’s messier, hungrier, years of rivalry combusting all at once.

You gasp into him, and he takes the chance to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours. His other hand fists in your shirt, tugging you flush against him.

You’re lost, drowning in him—his taste, bitter beer and salt, his breath, hot against your cheek; the low sound he makes when you finally kiss him back just as hard.

When he breaks away, both of you panting, he presses his forehead to yours. “Fuck, I knew it,” he mutters. “Knew you hated me ‘cause you wanted me.”

“Shut up,” you breathe, though your hands are already clutching at his shoulders, desperate.

He grins against your mouth, wicked and tender all at once. “Make me.”

–

The greenroom couch is the only witness as it spirals. He pushes you down onto it, climbing over you with a heat that’s more confession than conquest. His mouth trails your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp. His hands are everywhere—hip, waist, ribs—like he’s been starving for this.

“Look at you,” he pants, dragging your shirt up, exposing skin. “All this time, pretendin’ you couldn’t stand me.” His lips close around your nipple, tongue flicking, and you arch helplessly.

Shocking pretty face you’re making.

“Grian—”

He pulls back just enough to smirk. “Say it again.”

Your voice breaks. “Grian–”

He groans, grinding down against you, both of you hard and aching through your clothes. “Jesus Christ. You don’t know what you do to me.”

When his hand slips beneath your waistband, you gasp, shoving up into his touch. He strokes you slow, then faster, watching your face with that same sharp intensity as onstage.

“See?” he rasps. “Not second-best. Not a rival. You’re fuckin’ incredible. You hear me?”

It’s too much—his words, his hand, his mouth pressing frantic kisses into your jaw. 

–

“Still think you hate me?” he asks, voice low, mocking.

Your chest heaves, heat crawling up your neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

That’s all it takes. He’s on you again, mouth crushing yours, teeth catching your bottom lip so hard you whimper. He swallows the sound, growling into you like he’s trying to devour every ounce of defiance.

You shove him back, breathless, just to get your own back. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He laughs, the bastard, but his eyes are molten. “And you love it.”

Before you can answer, he’s grabbing your wrist, pinning it above your head against the couch. His other hand roams your side, greedy and rough, like he’s proving a point. You squirm under him, cursing, but your body betrays you — arching, pressing closer, hungry for more.

“You think you’re better than me?” he rasps against your throat, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark.

A gasp rips out of you. “Maybe I am.”

His laugh is dark, low in his chest, vibrating against your skin. “We’ll see about that.”

He drags your shirt up, exposing skin, and bends to mark you properly. His mouth is brutal, sucking bruises into your chest, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach. You feel them bloom under his tongue, hot and stinging — but then he pauses, lips softening, kissing one like an apology. The contradiction sends a shiver down your spine.

“Fuck,” you breathe, trembling.

“Sensitive, are we?” he taunts, though his fingers slow, gentling their grip. He strokes down your ribs, the rough edge ebbing just enough to let you catch your breath.

“Don’t—” Your voice breaks, caught between wanting him to stop and needing him to keep going.

“Don’t what?” His eyes gleam, but when he sees the flicker of nerves in yours, something soft cuts through the fire. He presses a lingering kiss to your jaw. “I’ll take care of you. Just let me.”

The words undo you. You tug him down by the collar, kissing him with everything left in you — anger, want, fear, all tangled up. He groans into your mouth, grinding against you until you’re both gasping.

Clothes come off in a frenzy — shirts yanked, buttons popped, his belt clattering to the floor. He shoves your jeans down and you kick them away, too desperate to care. His hands roam everywhere, gripping, claiming, until you’re bare under him and burning.

When he finally thrusts into you, it’s rough, punishing — both of you chasing something more than just release. The rivalry bleeds into every movement, each snap of his hips like he’s trying to prove something. You claw at his back, leaving scratches he’ll feel tomorrow, biting his shoulder to muffle your cries.

“Still think you’re better than me?” he pants, fucking into you harder.

Tears prick your eyes from the intensity, but you choke out, “Yes—” just to rile him.

He snarls, slamming deep, and your back arches with a broken sound. “Liar. You’re mine now.”

It should feel cruel. It doesn’t. The words land like a vow, and when he sees your face twist with pleasure, his own expression softens. He leans down, kissing you through the roughness, slow and lingering even as his hips keep driving. His tongue soothes where his teeth bruised earlier, and it makes your chest ache worse than the thrusts.

Your release builds sharp and fast, his name spilling from your mouth like a prayer. He holds you through it, grip tight, eyes locked on yours. “That’s it, love. That’s it.”

I need commotion.

When you finally unravel beneath him, trembling and crying out, he follows with a hoarse groan, burying his face in your neck as he comes undone. His teeth find your skin one last time, but the bite melts into a kiss, softer than any before.

The room goes quiet, save for your ragged breaths, both of you slick with sweat, clinging like you’ll drown without the other. He doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t pull out. Just rests his forehead against yours, his hand smoothing over your hip, gentling you down from the high.

–

You’re both sprawled across the sofa, skin damp, clothes scattered like debris. Your chest rises and falls too fast, lungs still chasing air, and for a while the silence feels dangerous — heavy, fragile, like the smallest word could shatter it.

He's the one who breaks it. His voice is hoarse, softer than you’ve ever heard. “I don’t hate you.”

You blink up at the ceiling, unsure you heard right. He shifts, propping himself on his elbow so he can look at you properly. His hair’s a mess, sweat curling the strands at his temples. There’s a mark you left on his shoulder, red and raw. He touches it absently, then glances at you, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes.

“I said it. I don’t hate you. Never did.” His throat works like the words hurt. “Just hated how they—” He jerks his chin toward nowhere, meaning the press, the endless comparisons. “Always putting us side by side. Like it’s a fuckin’ race.”

I know your thoughts.

You swallow, the truth of it twisting deep. “Felt like I couldn’t breathe without hearing your name next to mine.”

They’re mine as well.

He nods, bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Same. So I built a wall. Thought if I kept hating you, it’d hurt less.” He pauses, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your hip. The touch is absentminded, tender, completely at odds with the bite-marks and bruises dotting your skin. “But then I saw you with him last week…” His jaw tightens, words slipping sharper. “And it made me sick. Couldn’t stand it.”

You turn your head, finally meeting his gaze. “You were jealous.”

“Course I was.” His laugh is hollow, self-mocking. “Didn’t make sense, hating you and wanting you at the same time. Drove me mad.”

The honesty knocks the air out of you. Your throat burns, your own guard crumbling in the quiet. “I was jealous too,” you admit, voice small. “Every time I saw someone with you. Thought it was just rivalry. But–” You trail off, heat crawling up your neck. “It wasn’t.”

He studies you for a long moment. Then he leans down, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth. No teeth this time, no bruising. Just warm lips lingering, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go too soon.

–

Morning comes too bright. The blinds don’t quite shut, and a spear of sunlight cuts across the bed where you and he somehow ended up tangled. You blink awake, head foggy, muscles aching in places you didn’t know could ache.

For a moment, you panic — memory sharp, the rivalry, the bruises, his hands. But then you feel it, his arm heavy around your waist, steady, protective even in sleep. His fingers are curled against your stomach like he never let go.

He stirs when you shift. Groans low in his throat, presses his face into your hair. “Stop movin’, love. Too early.”

The endearment lingers in your chest, warm and dizzying. You don’t dare speak until he finally cracks open one eye. He looks nothing like the sharp rival you’ve known — softer, bare, voice still husky from sleep.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it.

You can’t help the tiny laugh that slips out. “Like what?”

“Like I’m not a bastard.”

“Maybe you’re not,” you whisper back.

He huffs, rolls onto his back, rubbing a hand down his face. “Don’t start. I’ll ruin it.” But then his hand finds yours under the sheets, squeezing once, thumb brushing your knuckles. Quiet, grounding.

Here’s the thing.

The camera light flickered red, and the question barely landed before Conor was already grinning into it.

“Ah, we’ve known her since we were eejits,” he said, leaning back like he’d been waiting to get asked. “She was always there — always pointing a camera at us, makin’ us look cooler than we were.”

The others laughed, but it was true. Back then, you weren’t “the director,” not yet. You were just the girl who sat cross-legged on rehearsal room floors with a battered Canon you’d half-inherited, half-stolen, snapping photos of your mates when they weren’t looking. They’d be tuning guitars, arguing over lyrics, and you’d catch it — the something-beautiful just starting to take shape.

“They’d be rehearsing in someone’s mam’s kitchen,” you said in your own clip, spliced into theirs, “and I’d just—be there. Drinking their tea, clogging the sink with film developer. We were all kids, but they already felt like a story I wanted to tell.”

The memories stuck sharp, sweaty gigs in half-empty pubs, scribbles of ideas on the backs of receipts, running through rain-soaked Dublin streets when some bouncer kicked you all out. Nights when they’d crash in your flat, all five of them piled on the floor, guitars half-broken and dreams too big for the room.

Even then, there was a pull you couldn’t name. Grian especially — sharp-eyed, restless, his voice too big for the space. He’d watch you as much as you watched him, though you never admitted it. Just friends, you told yourself. Just another scrappy kid who wanted something more.

But years later, with the interview lights and cameras rolling, Carlos leaned in and grinned at Grian. “She’s the reason we don’t look like total pricks on film, y’know.”

Grian rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him — the smallest curve, quick and soft.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice low enough that the mic still caught it, “she’s always been good at makin’ sense of us.”

And the tape kept rolling.

–

The first “official” video you ever shot for them wasn’t official at all. Just a one-camera setup, no budget, no plan — filmed in a crumbling alley lit by the jaundiced glow of a streetlamp.

“You said it’d look cinematic,” Tom laughed, shaking his head. “It looked like somethin’ out of a crime documentary.”

“It looked honest,” you countered in your own segment, smiling a little at the memory. “That was the point. No stylists, no scripts. Just them, raw and loud, the way they really were.”

Back then, you were still figuring out how to frame a shot, still teaching yourself editing software that crashed every thirty minutes. But somehow, with them, it just worked. They’d thrash through a song, sweat dripping, guitars buzzing like hornets, and you’d catch Grian’s face in the middle of it — eyes half-wild, a sneer curling into something like joy.

He caught you too.

More than once, while filming, you’d feel it — his graze slipping past the lens, locking on you like you were the only one standing there. It was fleeting, but it burned. You’d duck behind the camera, cheeks hot, muttering something about lighting, but the truth pressed in: you liked being seen by him.

“Y’know,” Grian said in his interview, years later, “those early videos — they didn’t just look like us. They were us. She had this knack for catchin’ it before we even knew what it was.”

“You fancied her even then,” Conor teased, and Grian groaned, shoving his face in his hands as the rest laughed.

“Fuck off,” he muttered, but he didn’t deny it.

The first cut of that video went up on YouTube with no promo, no label push — just a shaky title card you’d thrown together at 3 a.m. Within weeks, people were calling it raw, brilliant, different. They were getting noticed.

And though no one said it out loud, you felt it, something between you and Grian was starting to shift too.

It was in the way he lingered after shoots, helping you pack up gear he didn’t know how to use. In how he’d ask what you were working on outside the band, actually listen when you answered. In the drunk night you caught him staring across a crowded bar, and he didn’t look away when you caught him.

–

The first proper budget you ever got for them felt like Monopoly money. A label rep handed over the numbers on a folded sheet, and you laughed because it was more than your yearly rent.

“No way they’re lettin’ us piss that much away on a video,” you muttered, but the band just looked at you expectantly.

“Course they are,” Carlos said, slouching deeper into his chair. “You’re the only one we’ll let touch it.”

The others nodded, easy and sure. You blinked at them, caught between pride and panic. It wasn’t just a favour anymore. They trusted you with their image, their sound, the version of themselves they’d be sending out to the world.

“It was mad,” you admitted years later in your own clip. “I was still pretending half the time, still Googling how to light a performance scene without it looking like a soap opera. But they made me feel like I could do it. Like it wasn’t just theirs — it was ours.”

For the first time, you had a crews, proper lights, actual storyboards instead of scrawled ideas in your notebook. Still, you kept things scrappy where it counted. You knew that too much polish would sand down the grit that made Fontaines what they were. So you shot in abandoned warehouses, let smoke hang heavy in the air, and refused to cut out the bits where Grian looked like he might spit on the lens.

The finished product went everywhere. MTV, blogs, playlists — suddenly, people weren’t just stumbling on the band, they were watching them. Watching your work.

And with the attention came interviews.

“They called us the next big thing,” Tom recalled with a grin, “but they never mentioned her half the time. Which was shite, ‘cause without her, we’d have looked like five lads stuck in their mam’s garage.”

“Still would,” Conor added, earning a round of laughter.

You brushed off the lack of credit at first. That was the job, you told yourself. Directors stayed in the background. But Grian saw the way your jaw tightened when journalists skipped your name, how your fingers tapped restless patterns on your knee.

One night, after a shoot, he lingered as the others drifted off. You were hauling cables back into cases when he finally spoke.

“You know they’re thick, right?” he said.

“Who?”

“The ones not sayin’ your name. Can’t see what’s right in front of ‘em.”

You froze, a coil of heat winding tight in your chest. It was the way he said it — not teasing, not casual, but something else entirely. 

–

By the time the second single dropped, your inbox was a graveyard of unopened press requests and offers. Everyone wanted a slice of them now, and by extension, a slice of you. Labels asked who you were, journalists stumbled over your name when they finally remembered to mention it.

You tried to laugh it off, insisting you were “just the one who points the camera,” but the lads weren’t having it.

“She’s the reason we look like we’ve got our shit together,” Carlos deadpanned in one interview. “She’s the only one of us that actually does,” Conor added, grinning at you across the table.

The interviewer chuckled, but the camera caught the flicker of pride in your face. You hated how transparent it felt, but you couldn’t help it.

Still, the attention unnerved you. In rehearsal rooms and tiny clubs, you’d been invisible in the best way. Now, strangers recognised you from behind-the-scenes clips, some even asking for photos at shows. You’d retreat into your notebook, scribbling down shots, angles, distractions — anything to keep yourself from spiralling.

But Grian notied. He always noticed.

At a festival in France, the two of you sat backstage watching the crew dismantle gear, the humid night air heavy on your skin. He offered you his cigarette, though he knew you didn’t smoke. It was just an excuse to lean closer.

“You don’t like it, do you?” he said. “Like what?” “The eyes. Everyone lookin’ at you.”

You shrugged, staring at the glow of the stage lights being dragged down. “I like it when they’re looking at you lot. That’s the point.”

“Maybe.” His voice was softer now, edged with something you didn’t dare name. “But when it’s you, it’s not shite, either.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause you know I’m the one who edits out when you look like you’re about to fall over.”

“Maybe,” he echoed, a grin tugging at his mouth. But his eyes lingered. Long enough to make your pulse trip.

The band’s interviews around that time started picking up on it, too. Little slips. Grian dodging questions with half-smiles, Tom smirking whenever your name came up. One journalist even joked about you being “the sixth Fontaine,” and the lads didn’t bother denying it.

“Sixth, aye,” Grian said, fingers tapping on the table. “But maybe the most important.”

Later, when you watched the clip back alone, you realised you were smiling so wide it hurt.

–

The shoot had been a nightmare of weather delays and rented equipment on the verge of collapse, but somehow you’d wrangled the chaos into something coherent. The lads weren’t easy to corral — bouncing off each other, giving half-hearted takes until you barked orders with that no-nonsense edge they pretended to hate.

Later, the topic came up.

“She’s the only one he listens to,” Conor teased, nodding toward Grian as he slouched in his chair.“That’s not true,” Grian shot back immediately, though his smirk gave him away. “I don’t listen to anyone.”“Except her,” Carlos added, deadpan.

The crew laughed, and so did the interviewer, scribbling it down like it was gold. You buried your face in your notes, pretending to double-check shot lists.

“Alright, enough,” Grian muttered, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. “She’s just better at shoutin’ than the rest of ye.”

But he didn’t sound convincing. His knee bounced, restless, and when his eyes flicked toward you, quick and guilty, it said more than any denial could.

The clip made its way online a week later, and the comments filled fast:

he’s so soft around her.the way he looks at her?? come on.are they actually together or what? feels like it.

You tried to ignore it. Tried to tell yourself fans always saw what they wanted to see. But it was harder to ignore the way your chest warmed when you replayed the interview — his voice, the slight flush on his cheekbones, the stumble in his denial.

On set, the tension thickened in small ways. When you adjusted his collar before a shot, his breath caught. When you called for a reset, his eyes found yours first before moving. The lads teased, but never cruelly — they knew. Maybe the'yd always known.

One evening, as everyone packed up, Grian lingered by your monitor, watching the playback over your shoulder. His voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

“You don’t have to boss me about so much,” he said, lips curving. “I’d do it anyway. Whatever you told me.”

It was meant to be playful — another jab at your so-called authority — but the words landed heavy, threading into the silence that stretched between you.

You looked at him then, really looked, and the smirk faltered. For once, he didn’t follow it with a joke. Just waited, like he wanted to see what you’d do with it.

And for the first time, you let yourself wonder, maybe it wasn’t just the cameras he was willing to obey.

–

The footage was endless — reels upon reels of half-formed takes, camera flares, and scenes you weren’t sure you could salvage. Editing was always the hardest part, and it meant nights alone in your small flat with nothing but flickering light from your laptop and the hum of your speakers.

Except you weren’t alone this time.

“Y’know, most people sleep,” Grian muttered from your sofa, curled in a ball with a throw blanket knotted around his shoulders. He’d shown up with two takeaway cups of tea and a sheepish grin, uninvited but not unwelcome.

You didn’t look away from the screen. “Most people don’t have a deadline breathing down their neck.”

He padded over, setting one of the mugs beside your mouse hand. You hadn’t realized how tight your shoulders were until you wrapped your fingers around the warmth.

“Thought directors had people to do this bit,” he teased, hovering close enough that you felt the heat of him. “Editor lads or what have you.” “Can’t afford ‘em,” you said dryly. “You’ll do if you want to volunteer.”

He chuckled, low and quiet, but instead of moving away, he dropped onto the chair next to yours. For a long moment, he said nothing — just sat, sipping his tea, eyes flicking between your face and the messy timeline on screen.

“You’re stressin’,” he said eventually, voice softer now. You made a noise of protest, but he reached out anyway, his hand brushing over your arm. Not firm, just a feather-light sweep, grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. “Doesn’t look half as bad as you think. Looks like—us,” he added after a beat, surprising even himself.

That made you turn. He looked a little embarrassed, hair falling into his eyes, but he didn’t take it back. And suddenly the quiet of the room wasn’t so heavy — it was warm.

You exhaled, a laugh slipping out. “You’re not supposed to be the reassuring one.” “Suppose I’ll be whatever you need,” he said, shrugging, but his ears flushed pink.

The words lingered long after, long after he drifted off on your sofa with the blanket sliding to the floor, long after you finally paused the edit. You found yourself watching him in the half-light, soft features slack with sleep, and you thought about how many years he’d been there — not just the chaos, not just the teasing, but this. The quiet.

It wasn’t a big moment, nothing dramatic. But when you tucked the blanket back over him, your hand brushing his shoulder, it felt like the kind of intimacy that sneaks in unnoticed until you realize it’s been there all along.

–

Screening days were always nerve-wracking, no matter how many you’d been through. The band crammed into the tiny studio with takeaway cups of coffee and packets of crisps, talking over one another until the lights dimmed.

You pretended to watch the screen — every cut you already knew by heart, every frame you’d laboured over — but what you really watched was him.

Grian sat a row down from you, half-turned toward the light spilling off the projector. His expression was impossible to read at first, as if he were bracing for the version of himself he’d have to confront on screen. But as the video unfurled — the colour grading, the angles, the story stitched together from chaos — something shifted.

He wasn’t watching himself anymore. He was watching the way you had seen him.

The camera loved him in a way he never admitted, and your direction had pulled it into focus — the flicker in his eyes, the sharp lines of his jaw when he laughed, the way his body moved in rhythm with words he hadn’t even written yet. He was luminous, raw and magnetic. And he was yours — not in possession, but in perception. You had framed him, chosen him, again and again.

The realization landed slow but heavy: he had been your muse for years. Every early video, every sketch in your notebook, every half-mad late-night idea that you couldn’t shake — somehow, it always circled back to him.

Around you, the lads whooped and elbowed each other as the final cut played out. One of them made a joke about looking like rockstars; another tossed popcorn. You barely heard it.

Your gaze stayed fixed on Grian. The way his lips parted slightly as he watched. The way he seemed almost moved, though he’d never admit it. The way he glanced up toward you once, as if searching for your reaction, your approval — and when he caught your eye, he didn’t look away.

The room felt suddenly too small. Too charged.

You broke the gaze first, fumbling for your notes, muttering something about “tiny tweaks in post.” But your chest was tight, your pulse quick. Because it wasn’t just work anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

When the lights came back on and the band erupted into chatter, you sat quietly, trying to steady yourself. Trying not to let it show that everything had just changed, and it had nothing to do with the video at all.

–

The interviewer had barely asked the question before the rest started taking the piss.

“What was it like working with her again?” the journalist prodded, leaning forward with that too-bright grin.

“She’s the only one he listens to,” Conor shot back instantly, thumb jerking toward Grian. The others broke into laughter, a chorus of agreement and teasing.

Grian scoffed, shaking his head, but the faint pink on his ears betrayed him.“Absolute bollocks. I don’t ‘listen.’”

“You do, though,” Tom grinned, leaning into the mic. “She’ll tell you to stand two feet to the left, and you’ll just do it. No complaints. If any of us tried that—”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t know what you’re on about,” Grian cut in, but his voice was softer, defensive in a way that wasn’t convincing.

The laughter kept rolling until the interviewer pressed again, eyes sharp:“So what makes her different, then? Why do you listen?”

For once, Grian didn’t have a quip ready. He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, eyes darting off-camera like he could outrun the question. Then he muttered, almost under his breath:“‘Cause she sees it. Sees us. Better than we do sometimes.”

The room went quiet for a beat — a rare thing in any Fontaines interview.

“Jesus Christ,” Carlos broke it with a whistle, leaning back in his chair. “That was nearly sincere, wasn’t it?”

“Write that down, lads,” Deego laughed. “First time he’s ever said anything nice.”

Grian shoved at him half-heartedly, cheeks burning now, but he didn’t retract it. Didn’t spin it into a joke. His jaw just tightened, eyes fixed somewhere off-screen, as if he’d given too much away already.

The interviewer, sensing the gold, leaned forward again. “So she brings out the best in you?”

Grian’s lips twitched, caught between denial and honesty. At last, he muttered, “Something like that.”

The lads howled again, hammering the table, but you — watching from the sidelines, behind the camera, or maybe on a playback weeks later — felt the words hit different. Not as banter, not as noise. But as the truth he hadn’t meant to spill.

He didn’t look at you when he said it, but you caught the weight in his voice, the crack in his armour. And suddenly it was obvious, you weren’t the only one who’d been seeing something more.

–

The streets were quieter than the cinema, though the remnants of the premiere clung to the air — the scent of champagne, the faint hum of people still buzzing from the film. You and Grian had slipped away from the small cluster of fans and photographers, wandering side by side, the night stretching before you like an unspoken promise.

He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, jacket hanging loose from his shoulders, the kind of casual stance that somehow made your chest ache. You walked close enough to brush elbows, shoulder to shoulder, but not close enough to let it slip into something that could be seen. Not yet.

“So,” you said finally, kicking at a stray bottle cap on the pavement, “ come a long way from those scrappy gigs, huh?”

Grian laughed, low and uneven. “Aye. Thought we’d never get here without half the band murdering each other first.”

“Or me losing my patience trying to herd you lot,” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder.

“True enough,” he murmured, eyes flicking to yours. “But I dunno. Feels right, doesn’t it? All of it. You, me, all this chaos.”

You slowed for a moment, letting the words settle between you. The city hummed around you, but somehow the world had narrowed down to this quiet bubble where it was just the two of you.

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “Feels like I’ve been waiting for it without knowing it.”

He stopped walking, and neither of you moved, just standing on the edge of the sidewalk, the streetlamps casting long, golden shadows. His gaze found yours, searching, hesitant, but open in a way he rarely let anyone see.

“You’ve always been here, haven’t you?” he asked, voice low. “Through all the mess, all the noise—you’ve been steady. Even when I didn’t notice it.”

“I could say the same about you,” you whispered. “Even when you were impossible, or drunk, or a pain in the arse, you– you made it feel like you were waiting for me to catch up.”

He took a tentative step closer, enough that the space between you shrank to a whisper. Fingers brushed briefly, and your breath hitched — not from the cold, but from the electric tension of finally, finally closing the distance.

“God,” he muttered, almost to himself, “I’ve wanted to tell you that for ages. Dunno why I didn’t.”

“Maybe you were waiting for me to notice first,” you said, grin softening into something warmer.

He chuckled, shaky, and the weight of the moment eased just a little. Fingers intertwined, tentative at first, then firmer as if neither of you wanted to let go.

–

The walk wound down to the quieter lanes of the city, the hum of Dublin fading behind you. Streetlights pooled in golden circles on the coobblestones, and the night air smelled faintly of rain and concrete, clean and sharp. 

Grian’s hand found yours again, fingers slipping between yours like they’d been made for it. You let him, tilting your shoulder into his as you walked. Every now and then he’d glance at you, that subtle, searching look you’d memorized over years of shared chaos — the one that made your stomach do flips even when you told yourself you were too old to fall for him like people do in film rolls and stories.

“You ever think about—all this?” he asked softly. “Us, the band, the videos—how we started?”

“All the bloody time,” you admitted, squeezing his hand. “Feels like we were always circling each other, waiting for the right moment without knowing it.”

He laughed quietly, low and fond, and you leaned into it. “I think we made it too complicated,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Could’ve just said it sooner.”

“Couldve,” you agreed, then smirked. “But where’s the fun in that?”

He rolled his eyes but smiled, letting out that breathy chuckle that always seemed to make your heart expand. You stopped at the quietest corner of the lane, shadows pooling around you, and turned to face him fully.

“You know,” you said, soft but teasing, “all these years, directing you, watching you, getting under your skin—I think I fell for the chaos first.”

Grian’s grin faltered just a little, eyes darkening with something tender. “Chaos, huh? You mean me?”

“Mm,” you said, nodding, letting the humor linger on your lips. “And you. But mostly you.”

He stepped closer, brushing your forehead with his. “You know,” he whispered, “I’d fight every tour, every messed-up day, every awkward interview just to get to this moment with you.”

“And here we are,” you murmured, tilting your face up, letting the streetlight catch your eyes. “Not in a video, not on stage, just us.”

He hesitated, that trademark defiance softened by awe, before he leaned down, brushing a tentative kiss across your lips. Soft, lingering, but not rushed. You kissed him back, slow and certain, letting the taste of lager, cigarette smoke and dreams too big melt on your tongue.

When you broke apart, neither of you moved. Fingers still entwined, foreheads touching. He whispered, almost shyly, “Fuck—never thought we’d get here like this.”

“Art and love,” you said softly, smiling, “always the same lens. Just took us a while to frame it right.”

“Look at you Mrs poet, stealing my show are we?”

“Not till you figure out how to roll a camera.”

noel was sprawled across the bed like he’d been thrown there, one arm flung over his face, the other loosely draped over his stomach. his shirt was wrinkled and half untucked, and his socks were still on, one slouched halfway down his ankle. the bedside lamp threw everything in gold, a lazy glow catching in the ashtray on the nightstand and the glint of his belt buckle.

“fuckin’… whole day, yeah,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly with exhaustion. “liam’s in one of his moods, bonehead’s just noddin’ like a fuckin’ dog… producer keeps tellin’ me t’play it softer, like i don’t know what i’m doin’…”

you leaned against the doorframe, just watching him for a minute. there was something about seeing him like this—still sharp-edged in the world, still “the chief” to everyone else, but here he was soft-spread, muttering into a hotel ceiling. he cracked one eye open to look at you, squinting like the light annoyed him.

“what?” he grumbled.

you crossed the room slow, letting your knees sink into the mattress near his hip. “nothin’,” you said, a little smile curling at the edges of your mouth. “you’re cute when you’re mad.”

“tch… piss off,” he muttered, but his voice had no bite. he didn’t move when you swung a leg over him to straddle his hips, just sighed like this was inevitable. “m’tryin’ t’talk here.”

“then talk,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss the warm line of his throat.

he twitched, almost imperceptibly, and cleared his throat like he could chase the crack out of his voice. “said… said t’bonehead, if he—ahhh, fuck…” his words broke on a groan when your lips found the hollow just below his jaw.

“mm?” you hummed against his skin, your hands smoothing up under his rumpled shirt. “go on. what’d you say?”

he squirmed, a lazy half-arch of his back, and the hand on his stomach twitched like he didn’t know whether to touch you or keep playing the part of the storyteller. “t-told him—fuck, that feels…” he trailed off, jaw going slack when your tongue brushed over his pulse.

“told him what, baby?” your voice was honey-thick, soft enough to seep under his skin.

“t-told him…” he tried again, but it fell apart in a low, hoarse groan as you slid your palms down, unbuttoning his jeans with slow fingers. he tipped his head back, exposing more of his throat to you like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“don’t stop now,” you teased, brushing your knuckles over the hard line of him through his boxers. “finish your story.”

he swallowed, chest rising and falling shallow. “fuckin’… said if he… d-didn’t…” the last word disintegrated into a whimper when you squeezed gently, and his hips twitched up, betraying him.

“mm, good boy,” you murmured, mouth at his ear now. “just talk to me, noel. let me take care of you.”

your fingers worked his fly open slow, the rasp of metal teeth loud in the soft hum of the room. he huffed out a shaky little laugh, trying for nonchalance, but his eyes flicked to yours, wide in that half-lidded way.

“y’really… really can’t wait, huh,” he muttered, voice low and fraying. but he lifted his hips just enough for you to shove his jeans and boxers down, baring the flushed, heavy curve of him against his stomach. he sucked in a sharp breath when the air hit, a tiny twitch in his thigh like he couldn’t help himself.

“mm, baby, you’re so warm…” your voice went soft as your fingers wrapped around him, slow and easy, and his hips jerked before he caught himself.

“fuck—uh, what was i sayin’?” he asked, like the words might tether him, but his voice had gone hoarse and quiet.

“somethin’ about bonehead,” you hummed, brushing your thumb over the damp slit at the head. “keep going.”

he groaned, head tipping back against the headboard with a soft thud, one hand twitching on the sheets like he wanted to grab something. “t-told him—ahhh, jesus, that’s—” his hips stuttered into your fist, the sentence dissolving into a long, ragged exhale.

“told him what?” you murmured, leaning down to kiss along his jaw, your hand working him slow and steady. “c’mon, sweetheart, don’t stop talking now.”

“fuck…” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut. “t-told him if he—ahhh, f-fuck, you’re… you’re evil—” the last word cracked into a soft whimper, his whole body tensing under your hands.

you pressed your lips to his ear, voice like warm silk. “good boy. just relax… i’ve got you.”

his hips gave a tiny, helpless twitch, cock twitching in your palm. he let out a sound you’d never heard from him, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and his hand finally came up to clutch at your thigh—not to take control, just to hold on.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

your thumb slid slow over the slick at his tip, and his hips jumped like it surprised him. he tried to suck in a steady breath, chest rising and falling against your palm pressed to his ribs, but his voice cracked when he spoke.

“jesus… m’not… not gonna last if you—”

“shhh,” you cooed, stroking him lazily, just enough to keep him throbbing in your hand. “don’t think about that. think about your day. go on, baby, what else happened in the studio?”

he made a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh, throwing his arm over his eyes like he could hide there. “you’re—fuck—evil,” he muttered, but his hips rocked up anyway, betraying him.

“mm, maybe,” you teased, pressing a kiss to his throat, feeling the pulse leap under your mouth. “but i wanna hear you talk. what’d liam do?”

“ahhh, fuck…” he hissed when you gave him a gentle squeeze. “he—fuckin’—came in late, as usual. still—mmm—still had the cheek t’say i’m—ahhh—bossin’ him…”

you smiled against his skin, hand gliding down the length of him in one slow stroke that made his thighs twitch. “mm, and were you?”

he choked on a hoarse little laugh, hips twitching into your fist. “’course i was… f-fuck… gotta be, yeah?”

“good boy,” you whispered against his jaw, feeling him shiver. “keep telling me. what else?”

he whimpered, actually whimpered, head tipping back against the wall. “uhhh… b-bonehead kept fuckin’ up the chord change… fffuck, y’hand feels…” he trailed off into a shaky exhale, the end of the sentence lost.

“feels what, sweetheart?” you murmured, dragging your hand just slow enough to make him squirm.

“f-feels… s’good… jesus christ…” he mumbled, voice low and almost shy now. his knuckles were white in the sheets, and his thighs trembled under your knees.

you licked a stripe up his neck, tasting salt and smoke, and cooed, “poor baby. so worked up just from talking to me…”

he let out a hoarse little “mmm,” hips giving the smallest rut into your hand, and it was almost pitiful how far gone he looked already—hair mussed, mouth slack, cheeks pink.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

your hand kept the slow, steady rhythm, just enough to make his breath stutter and catch, and you could feel him tense under you every time your thumb swept over his slit.

“y’fuckin’—” he tried, voice fraying into a broken groan, “y’fuckin’ killin’ me, babe…”

“mm, i know,” you murmured against his ear, your lips brushing the shell, and he shivered all over. “but you’re so good for me, noel. now… tell me more. what’d the producer say today?”

he groaned again, low and wrecked, like the act of remembering words was suddenly olympic-level. “uhhh… said—ahhh fuck—said m’playin’ too loud… told ‘im—mmm—fuckin’ told him t’piss off…”

“mmhm,” you whispered, letting your hand slow to a crawl, torturous. “bet you looked so grumpy when you said it.”

“m’never grumpy,” he muttered, bratty, but it cracked into a little gasp when you gave a firmer stroke. “mmm—okay, maybe a bit…”

you giggled softly, kissing the sharp line of his jaw, and cooed, “cute when you admit it, baby.”

he let out an actual whimper, head rolling back against the headboard, and his hips gave a helpless little thrust up into your hand.

you pulled back just enough to watch him—hair mussed, eyes glassy, cock flushed and twitching in your grip. he looked nothing like the man everyone saw in the studio; he looked like yours.

“aww, baby,” you whispered, leaning close enough that he could feel your breath, “you’re already so messy for me. you want me to make it better?”

he nodded, jerky, a soft “mm—please…” slipping out before he could catch it.

“good boy,” you said, kissing him once, soft and deep, before sliding off his lap. his whine was instant, high in his throat, but you shushed him sweetly as you pushed him back into the pillows. “patience, sweetheart. i’ll take care of you.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

“w-where you goin’?” he muttered, voice rough with need.

“relax, baby,” you said softly, peeling your top over your head. “just getting comfortable.”

his jaw twitched, and his cock gave a helpless twitch against his stomach when your skirt slid down your thighs. he tried not to stare, tried to keep some shred of composure, but his lips parted anyway, soft and breathless.

“fuckkkk…” he whispered, low like he didn’t mean for you to hear.

“mm, poor thing,” you cooed, climbing back onto the bed, straddling his hips again. your bare skin brushed his stomach, and he sucked in a sharp breath, fingers twitching like he wanted to touch but didn’t dare. “all worked up already…”

“mmm—yeah,” he breathed, a soft, almost shy little laugh escaping.

you wrapped a hand around him, guiding the tip to your slick entrance, and he shivered, eyes fluttering shut.

“deep breath,” you whispered, sinking onto him slow, the stretch making you sigh. his mouth fell open instantly, a hoarse groan spilling out like it had been caught in his chest all night.

“ohhh—f-fuck—” he gasped, fingers curling in the sheets, knuckles white.

you gave him a moment to tremble, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “mm, there we go. feels so good, doesn’t it, baby?”

“y-yeah,” he panted, hips twitching up helplessly. “f-fuck… warm…”

you rocked slow on his lap, letting him feel every inch of you, and his head tipped back against the headboard with a hoarse little moan. his fingers twitched in the sheets, desperate for something to hold.

“mm, talk to me, baby,” you whispered against his jaw, your hips finding an unhurried rhythm. “what else happened in the studio today?”

he groaned, voice already fraying. “uhhh… fuck”

“mm?” you teased, grinding down once, and he gasped, eyes fluttering open just to stare at you like he was dizzy. “go on. tell me, noel.”

“l-liam kept—ahhh fuck, jesus—messin’ up the—mmm—lines,” he managed, his words stuttering with each slow drag of your hips. “and guigs—kept fuckin’ smilin’ at me—f-fuck—like… like he knew…”

“knew what, sweetheart?” you murmured, pinning his wrists to the sheets as you sank down again, slow and deep.

he whined, soft and muffled, and shook his head. “d-don’t know… f-feels s’good… can’t—fuck—can’t think—”

“aww, poor baby,” you cooed, kissing the corner of his mouth, letting your hips circle lazily. “losing your words already? i thought the chief always had something to say.”

he let out a broken, breathy laugh, but it melted into a whimper as his cock twitched inside you. “n-not now… f-fuck… y’got me…”

“mm, i’ve got you,” you whispered, moving just a bit faster now, your thighs clenching as he squirmed beneath you. “look at you, baby, all soft for me. can’t even talk straight, huh?”

he tried to mumble something like a protest, but it came out as a needy groan, hips jerking up despite himself.

“there’s my good boy,” you said sweetly, leaning down to mouth at his neck. “just let me ride you. don’t have to think about anything else.”

he shivered all over, eyes glassy, voice wrecked as he whispered, “jesus, m’yours…”

your hips kept that slow, unhurried rhythm, and every soft grind made him twitch under you, a low whimper catching in his throat. his wrists shifted in your grip, like he wanted to move them, and his lips parted around a soft, desperate sound.

“please,” he babbled, voice trembling. “please, babe, lemme…—lemme touch you—”

“mm, where, sweetheart?” you murmured against his ear, rolling your hips just right, feeling the head of him drag deep.

“y-your… fuck—your clit,” he groaned, almost whining now. “wan’—wan’ make you feel good—” his hips gave a helpless jerk, cock throbbing inside you.

“aww, look at you,” you cooed, brushing your lips along his jaw. “so desperate to make me feel good. you think you can rub my clit and not cum, baby?”

he whimpered, the tiniest nod jerky against the pillow. “m’good—f-fuck, m’gonna be good, i promise…”

you smiled and finally let his wrists go, watching his hands tremble as they slid to your hips first, then one slipped between your bodies. the second his thumb brushed over your clit, you moaned soft, and he shivered like the sound went straight through him.

“ohhh fuck” he babbled, hand shaking as he circled you gently. “t-tight—jesus christ—”

“keep talking,” you whispered, rocking slow, and his voice cracked into a stuttery mess.

“mmm— fffuck—feel like heaven, babe—ohhh god—” his other hand gripped your thigh, clinging now, and he gasped when you clenched around him on purpose. “n-no, can’t—don’t do that, m’gonna—”

“shhh, not yet,” you teased, pulling his hand from your clit just to watch him whine, high and broken. “you’re not until i say so.”

he let out an actual sob of frustration, hips jerking up instinctively. “b-babe—please—m’losing it—”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

he was trembling under you, soft little whines breaking up the babble, when his hands slid from your hips to your waist like he couldn’t help it.

“w-wanna—” he stuttered, breath hot against your collarbone, “wan’ be on top—please—just… just a bit…”

you tilted your head, pretending to consider it, still rocking your hips slow. “hmm. you think you can handle it, baby?”

he nodded frantically, hair flopping into his eyes, looking more wrecked than convincing. “y-yeah—promise—won’t… won’t cum yet…”

“mm, alright then. let’s see,” you murmured, letting him roll you onto your back. he slid in deeper with the shift, and both of you gasped, his voice cracking into a high, soft “ohhh fffuckkk…”

he braced one shaky hand by your head, the other trembling on your thigh, and pulled out almost all the way before thrusting back in once.

“mmmh,” you moaned out, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “that’s one.”

he groaned, hips jerking, and you felt him twitch deep inside you.

“two,” you whispered when he gave another thrust, a little faster, the sound of wet skin filling the room.

“f-fuckkk—” he panted, bottom lip trembling, eyes glazed.

“three… good boy…”

he whimpered, hips stuttering like he couldn’t control them, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder. “ohhh god—c-can’t—”

“shhh,” you cooed, tightening your legs around his waist to slow him down. “deep breath. warm me for a second, baby. don’t move.”

he let out a strangled, hoarse groan, trying to obey, cock pulsing deep inside you. “f-fuckin’… torture…”

you kissed his temple, soft and sweet. “mm, maybe. but you love it, don’t you?”

“y-yeahhh,” he breathed, almost a whimper, “fuck—love it—”

you let him tremble there for a moment, cock buried deep, his breath shaking against your collarbone. every tiny twitch of his hips made your walls flutter, and he whimpered at the sensation.

“alright, sweetheart,” you whispered, nails tracing soft up his spine. “give me five slow ones. nice and deep. you can do that for me, yeah?”

he nodded frantically against your shoulder. “y-yeah…”

he pulled out halfway, then sank back in with a shaky groan that rumbled in his chest.

“one,” you breathed, lips brushing his ear.

he shivered and gave you another, just as slow, his hand fisting the sheet by your head.

“two… good boy.”

“ohhh fffuck…” he panted, already sounding like he was halfway gone.

the third had his hips stuttering, and his eyes squeezed shut. “th-three—mmmhgod—”

“shhh,” you cooed, kissing his jaw. “two more, baby. you can do that for me.”

he gave a shaky, broken thrust that made both of you moan. “f-four—ahhh—jesus…”

you felt him twitch deep inside you and clenched his shoulder, voice soft but firm. “last one. make it pretty for me, noel.”

he let out an actual whimper, hips rolling forward, cock dragging slow through your wet heat. “five—” his breath hitched sharp, thighs trembling.

“stop,” you whispered, and he froze with a choked groan, forehead pressing to yours.

“m’gonna—”

“no you’re not,” you cooed, cupping his face. “deep breath. feel how warm and soft it is just being inside me. you’re fine, baby.”

he whimpered again, eyes fluttering open to look at you all hazy and glassy, like he could cry. “mmm—y’killin’ me—”

“mm, maybe,” you teased, kissing him slow, letting his hips twitch once before settling. “but you’re so good for me. think you can give me six next time?”

he nodded, jerky and desperate. 

“good boy. nice and slow. count them with me.”

he pulled out shakily and pushed back in, cock dragging so deep it had his mouth falling open.

“one,” you murmured, and he whimpered, hips already trembling.

he gave another, a soft groan tearing out of him. “t-two—”

“good… keep going…”

the third had his thighs quivering, his hand slipping from the sheets to clutch your hip like he might float away.

“three—”

“mm, that’s it. deep breath, sweetheart.”

four, and he almost sobbed, the sound hoarse and high. “f-four—fuckkk—”

“shhh, just two more.” you kissed his jaw, letting your walls flutter around him on purpose.

he gasped on the fifth, whole body twitching. “f-five—babe, please—”

“last one,” you whispered, tightening your legs around his waist. “make it count.”

he thrust in slow, deep, and then froze, his breath catching raggedly. “s-six—fuckkk—m’losin’ it—”

you smiled against his neck, voice all warm and coaxing. “go on… give me what i want. let me see you lose it.”

the dam broke instantly. he whimpered, hips jerking fast and sloppy, all control gone as he chased his release.

“ohhh fffuckkk—babe—” his voice cracked as he spilled deep, rutting helplessly into you, thighs shaking.

you held him close, kissing his temple while he trembled through it, still whining soft in your ear.

“good boy,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to draw out the last little pulses. “so messy for me”

he buried his face in your neck, babbling soft nonsense—your name, broken thank-yous, and little “mmm’s” that melted into sighs as he finally stilled, spent and shaking in your arms.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

he stayed slumped against you, cock still soft inside you, his face pressed to your neck like he couldn’t bear to move. his breath was warm and shaky, every exhale a soft sigh that ghosted over your skin.

“mmm… fuck…” he whispered, voice wrecked and low.

you stroked your fingers through his damp hair, letting him breathe, letting the room go quiet but for the sound of your hearts trying to steady. “there’s my good boy,” you murmured, kissing the top of his head. “you were perfect for me.”

he hummed, a tiny, sleepy sound, and nuzzled closer like he could disappear into your neck.

“feel alright?” you whispered, thumb brushing his temple.

“mmm… yeah,” he said, all soft and slow, the vowels drawn out. “fuckin’… floatin’, babe…”

you smiled, easing him onto his back just long enough to slip off him and tug his boxers and jeans the rest of the way down. he let you manhandle him, pliant and pink-cheeked, mumbling, “s’good… m’good…”

you cleaned him up gently, wiping the sticky mess from his stomach and thighs, and he watched you with heavy, glassy eyes, lips parted.

“love you,” he murmured when you settled beside him again, tucking his face into your chest.