Malorie Kane

Pairing: Luke Hemmings x Reader Genre/Themes: Friends to Enemies to Lovers Warnings: Angst, Emotional Turmoil, Slow Burn Word count: 6.615K Author's Note: Hi! Thank you so much to everyone who has liked and reblogged my story. I’m truly grateful for all of you. When I first started posting here, I really thought I’d be talking to myself. I’ve been on Tumblr for five years now (not on this account), but I’ve never been very vocal. I’ve never interacted much with anyone, so honestly… I don’t really know how to do it. But I wanted to take a moment to thank each and every one of you who has read and supported this story, whether you’ve interacted or just quietly read along. It means the world to me.

Synopsis: Y/N was always there. Before the sold-out arenas, the chart-topping albums, the global tours—she was there. A constant in the chaos, the fifth member who didn’t need a mic or a spotlight. She didn’t play an instrument, couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but she was family. She was home.

To the fans, she was the girl in the background of every backstage photo, the laugh behind every chaotic livestream, the one who always seemed to be right where the band needed her. Until one day… she wasn’t.

No announcements. No explanations. Just gone.

Now, years later, the world sees the band rebuilding. But behind closed doors, there’s a name they still don’t say out loud. A silence heavier than any breakup song they’ve ever written. Because losing her wasn’t just a fallout—it was the unraveling of everything they used to be.

And for Y/N? Disappearing wasn’t the end of the story.

It was only the beginning.

2019

It’s strange how quickly life can shift. How you can go from feeling like your world is collapsing into pieces to finding a strange sense of peace in the chaos.

Boston was everything LA wasn’t. It was cold, quiet, and brimming with history. I loved it immediately. The way the air felt different—the humidity was gone, replaced with crisp, clean gusts of wind that slapped me awake every morning. I moved into a small apartment on the outskirts of the city, with a view of the harbor. Not a bad place to start over, if I’m being honest.

The first few months were a blur. I was buried in classes, books stacked higher than I cared to admit, and the loneliness that comes with uprooting your life felt suffocating at times. But I stuck with it. I kept my head down, focused on my studies, and before long, I had built a little life here for myself.

It was a quieter life. No more loud music blasting through the walls at all hours of the night. No more running through backstage halls, shoving snacks into the boys' hands before they ran on stage. No more social media hysteria, no more paparazzi flashes, no more aching reminders of what I had lost.

Just me.

And Stefan.

I met him at a charity gala—one of those fancy events I would have never been invited to in my old life. But my professor had insisted I come. “It’ll be good for networking,” she had said, so I dug out the nicest dress I owned and forced myself to go.

The room had been suffocating, filled with people who smelled like old money and quiet power. Pearls, tailored suits, laughter that never quite reached their eyes. I felt like an outsider from the second I stepped in, clutching my champagne flute a little too tightly.

And that’s when I saw him.

Stefan carried himself differently than the other men in the room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly composed. His dark blonde hair was slightly messy in a way that felt intentional, his green eyes sharp but not unkind. His features were striking—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, lips that always seemed on the verge of a smirk. He looked like he belonged in another time, like a movie star from the golden age of Hollywood.

Jensen Ackles. That was the first thought that crossed my mind. He looked like fucking Jensen Ackles in the early 2000s.

And he was staring at me.

I tried not to fidget under his gaze as he made his way over, effortlessly maneuvering through the crowd like he had done this a thousand times before.

"You look like you’d rather be anywhere else," he said, amusement tugging at the edges of his voice.

I let out a small, breathy laugh. "That obvious?"

He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "You don’t belong in this room."

I blinked, taken aback. "Wow, okay. That’s direct."

A slow smile spread across his face. "I meant it as a compliment."

I arched a brow. "Did you?"

"Yes," he said, and something in his expression softened. "I can spot a fake a mile away. You’re not one of them."

I wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Then, he extended a hand. "Stefan Winthrop."

I hesitated for half a second before shaking it. His grip was firm, warm.

"Y/N."

And just like that, something shifted.

Stefan didn’t let go of my hand right away. His thumb brushed briefly against my skin before he released me, tucking one hand into the pocket of his perfectly tailored suit. His gaze flickered over my face, curious but not intrusive.

"Y/N," he repeated, as if testing the way it felt on his tongue.

Something about the way he said my name made my stomach flip—smooth, confident, like he was already sure he’d be seeing me again.

I cleared my throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I had been gripping my champagne flute like a lifeline. I forced myself to ease my fingers, taking a sip just to have something to do.

"I take it you come to these things often," I said, nodding toward the opulence surrounding us.

Stefan huffed out a quiet laugh, glancing around the room. "More than I’d like. My family’s name tends to get me invitations whether I want them or not."

I studied him, suddenly curious. There was something about him—something reserved, like he didn’t quite belong in this world either, even though he fit into it perfectly. "And do you want to be here?"

His lips twitched slightly. "Not particularly."

"Then why are you?"

He tilted his head, considering. "Obligation. Familiarity." His eyes met mine, a slow smirk pulling at his lips. "Maybe I was meant to be here tonight."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t hide my smile. "Do those lines actually work on women in this crowd?"

Stefan chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "Wouldn’t know. You’re the only one I’ve used it on."

I didn’t know if I believed him, but it didn’t really matter.

I glanced around, feeling suffocated by the weight of conversations I had no part in, discussions about hedge funds and country club politics. "You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a drink that doesn’t cost more than my rent, would you?"

Stefan’s smirk widened. "Come with me."

Before I could second-guess myself, I followed him through the crowd. He led me toward a side door, past waiters carrying trays of champagne and caviar, until we slipped onto a quiet terrace overlooking the city. The air was crisp, the sound of laughter muffled behind the thick glass doors.

Stefan leaned against the stone railing, pulling a flask from the inside of his jacket. He unscrewed the cap and held it out to me.

I eyed it suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Something that won’t make you feel like an imposter drinking it."

I hesitated for half a second before taking it from him, bringing it to my lips. Whiskey. Strong, smooth, expensive. It burned in a way that felt grounding.

I handed it back, watching as he took a sip himself.

"So, what’s your story?" he asked, his voice lower now, more serious.

I exhaled, glancing out over the city. "That’s a long one."

"I’ve got time."

For some reason, I believed him.

And so, for the first time in a long time, I let my guard down. I told him about Boston, about school, about how I had left behind a life that no longer felt like mine. I didn’t tell him everything—I didn’t mention the band, or Luke, or the years I had spent building a home that had crumbled beneath me.

But I told him enough.

And when he listened, he didn’t just nod along. He really listened, his green eyes never leaving mine, like he was actually interested in the words coming out of my mouth.

It was a strange feeling. Being seen.

And maybe that was the moment it started.

The shift.

The new chapter.

Because I left that gala with Stefan’s number in my phone and an unfamiliar sense of hope resting in my chest.

                                                                        ***

At first, it was just late-night texts. A sarcastic remark about a ridiculous professor. A teasing jab about how I still hadn’t learned to appreciate whiskey.

Stefan had this way of making even the smallest things feel like they mattered. He asked about my day and actually listened to the answer—not just nodding along absentmindedly, but asking follow-up questions, making little comments that showed he had really been paying attention. It was disarming, at first, how present he was. Like I was saying things worth remembering.

He was nothing like the boys I had known before.

Luke had been my best friend, my secret, impossible love. But he had also been reckless, hesitant, always caught between who he was and who he was trying to be. Luke was a boy while Stefan was a man.

Stefan was all in, from the very beginning.

He never made me wonder where I stood with him. He didn’t pull away when things felt too real. He didn’t act like caring about someone was some kind of burden.

And for the first time in my life, that was what terrified me.

It started small—coffee dates squeezed between classes, stolen afternoons in quiet corners of the city.

Before I even realized what was happening, Stefan had woven himself into my life like he had always been there.

I’d sit across from him at a café, my laptop open, half-distracted by an assignment, while he skimmed through a leather-bound journal, making notes in perfect, elegant script. Sometimes we’d talk, sometimes we wouldn’t. The silences with Stefan were never awkward.

He had this calm, effortless presence. He wasn’t loud or showy, and didn't need to be the center of attention. He was just there, in this steady, unwavering way that made me feel like I could breathe.

With Stefan, things were easy.

He didn’t play games. He didn’t make me question myself. He wanted me, and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

Unlike Luke, who had always hesitated, who had always left room for doubt, Stefan was decisive.

When we walked into a room together, his hand rested firmly on the small of my back, his touch a quiet claim, a reassurance that I belonged.

When we sat together at dinner parties, he always leaned in just a little closer than necessary, murmuring jokes into my ear that made it impossible not to smile.

And when he kissed me for the first time, it wasn’t hurried or uncertain. It was slow, deliberate, his lips soft against mine, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He kissed me like he had all the time in the world.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to fight for someone’s attention.

I didn’t have to wonder if I was enough.

Because for Stefan?

I already was.

                                                                     ***

Stefan was a bastard child.

His father had been married, with a son already, when Stefan was born. His mother—once his father’s secretary—died giving birth to him. And so, he was raised by a man who barely acknowledged him, and a woman who never forgave his existence.

He grew up in a house where every glance was cold, every word calculated to remind him he didn’t belong. He was resented, emotionally neglected, surrounded by people who were supposed to love him but instead made sure he knew he was an obligation.

As a boy, Stefan clung to one dream: escape.

He wanted to get his degree, land a good job, and walk away from all of them forever. To build a life that wasn’t bought by his father’s money or tethered to their name. He wanted to be free.

But life doesn’t work the way we plan it.

This much, I knew.

George—Stefan’s older brother, the golden child, the one raised and prepared his whole life to inherit the family business—died in a skiing accident. Three agonizing months in a coma, his mother refusing to let the doctors turn off the machines that kept him breathing. And when George finally slipped away, so did Stefan’s plans.

With no other heir, all the weight of the family’s name and fortune came crashing down on Stefan’s shoulders. Everything George had spent his life preparing for—Stefan had to learn in months. He didn’t have the luxury of time or choice.

Then, barely a year later, his father succumbed to a cardiac disease. Stefan told me once, over a bottle of wine and one of those rare nights he let himself be vulnerable, that he believed his father died out of disappointment—because, in the end, he had to leave his empire to the son he never wanted.

His stepmother vanished soon after, moving to Europe—or at least that’s what she said, before disappearing with her share of the inheritance. She never called. Never checked in. Never left so much as a trace.

So all Stefan had left were his friends.

And when I met them, I realized just how different they were from anything I’d ever imagined.

In LA, I’d been surrounded by the wannabes—the ones who clung to fame like oxygen, who built friendships for clout and dropped them the second someone more important came along. People obsessed with appearances, more concerned with how things looked than how they actually felt.

But Stefan’s circle?

They were something else entirely.

Old money. The real kind. The kind that didn’t need to be flaunted because it was woven into every inch of their existence—their posture, their confidence, the way they carried themselves like they had nothing to prove. Because they didn’t.

And yet, they were some of the warmest people I had ever met.

There was Nicholas, sharp-witted and effortlessly charming, the kind of man who could make anyone feel like the most interesting person in the room. He always had an easy smirk on his lips, always had a hand resting lazily on Suzannah’s hip like he had been born with it there.

Suzannah was striking—dark waves cascading down her back, hazel eyes sharp with intelligence but softened by mischief. She was the kind of woman who turned heads without even trying, but there was nothing pretentious about her. She had a laugh that filled entire rooms, a habit of talking with her hands, and a talent for making people feel at ease.

And then there was Charles, a little quieter but just as intimidating. He had this habit of watching people carefully, like he was weighing their worth before deciding if they were worth speaking to. He didn’t waste words, but when he did speak, people listened.

His fiancée, Leona, was like something out of a 90s Versace campaign—tall, striking, with an accent I could never quite place. She was elegant, polished, and looked like she had been born draped in silk. But beneath the impossibly expensive couture and perfect bone structure was a wicked sense of humor that caught me completely off guard.

I had expected to feel out of place.

But they welcomed me instantly.

The first time Stefan brought me to one of their dinner parties, I had felt like an imposter sitting at a table draped in fine linen, surrounded by crystal glassware and murmured conversation in perfectly refined tones.

I had made some awkward joke about how the only silverware I grew up with came from Target, expecting polite chuckles at best.

Instead, Suzannah had grinned, raising her glass. “Good. We needed some variety in this group.”

Leona smirked. “Don’t say it like you haven’t spent years trying to remember how to use all these forks.”

And just like that, I wasn’t an outsider anymore.

They never treated me like I was less than. Never made me feel like I had something to prove.

Suzannah and Leona took me under their wing almost immediately, eager to pull me deeper into their world.

One afternoon, I found myself perched on a velvet chaise in Leona’s townhouse, watching in amused horror as she held up two scarves.

“This one says elegant and timeless,” she mused, tilting her head. “And this one says I summer in Saint-Tropez and my husband is an oil tycoon.”

I snorted. “Jesus. What if I just want to say I won’t spill coffee on myself today?”

Suzannah, sprawled on the sofa with a glass of wine in hand, laughed. “Then, darling, you’re in the wrong circle.”

I groaned dramatically, flopping back against the cushions. “I knew I should’ve befriended the Instagram girlies instead.”

They didn’t just teach me about fashion or etiquette or which wine to pair with which meal—they taught me how to navigate their world without losing myself in it.

There were weekend trips to the Hamptons, long nights spent sprawled out on Leona’s penthouse balcony, laughing over expensive whiskey and swapping stories about our past lives.

One night, as we wandered through the cobblestone streets of New York after a charity event, Suzannah linked her arm through mine.

“You know,” she mused, “I was terrified to meet you.”

I blinked. “What? Why?”

She smirked. “Because Stefan has never been this serious about anyone.”

Leona hummed in agreement. “He’s different with you. Softer.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Charles—who had been walking a few steps ahead with Nicholas—glanced back and shrugged.

“They’re right. You’ve ruined him, you know.”

Nicholas chuckled. “And honestly? Thank God for that.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to fight the warmth creeping into my chest.

“I haven’t ruined him,” I muttered.

Leona squeezed my arm. “No. But you have changed him.”

And that made my heart heal a little more.

                                                          ***

With them, years felt like seconds.

Leona and Suzannah weren’t just my best friends—they were my family now. Along with their partners and Stefan, they became the people I celebrated with, the ones I leaned on, the ones who filled the spaces in my life that once felt impossibly empty.

Stefan took me to places I had never been, introduced me to people whose names carried weight, whose words shaped industries and old money legacies. But he never made me feel like an outsider. Instead, he shared his world with me, unraveling its intricacies with patience. And in return, he wanted to know mine.

He stretched out on my tiny couch, flipping through my books, reading the highlighted passages out loud in a mocking tone before debating them with genuine interest. He let me drag him to concerts of artists he had never heard of, stood beside me in crowds that were nothing like the private, exclusive events he was used to, and watched as my face lit up with excitement.

And he listened.

To every random fact I threw at him, every ridiculous theory I had about the most meaningless things. And he didn’t just humor me—he discussed them with me, challenged my thoughts, pushed me to explain why I believed what I did. He made me feel like the most entertaining person in the world, like everything I said mattered.

And that’s how I knew—he loved me.

Not because he had said it, but because he showed it. In a thousand little ways, every single day.

                                                                         ***

Stefan sat in the front row at my graduation, looking effortlessly polished in a tailored suit. The kind of suit that made him look like he had just stepped out of a black-and-white film—classic, timeless, untouchable.

Nicholas, Charles, Leona, and Suzannah were there too, seated beside him, their presence a reminder of just how much my life had changed in the past couple of years. They weren’t just Stefan’s friends anymore. They were mine.

I had never pictured this moment before. Never thought about what it would feel like to walk across that stage, diploma in hand, stepping into a future I had built for myself.

But as I glanced toward the crowd, my eyes immediately found Stefan’s.

And for a moment, everything else faded.

There was something in his gaze—pride, warmth, something deeper that made my breath hitch. He wasn’t just proud of me. He was in awe of me.

And God, if that wasn’t the most overwhelming feeling in the world.

That night, we celebrated.

An intimate dinner, just the people who mattered most. No grand parties, no unnecessary noise—just laughter, toasts, and the kind of warmth that settled deep in my bones.

Stefan had stood up at one point, casually tapping his glass, saying something about new beginnings, about how this was only the start.

For a split second, I thought he might propose.

But he didn’t.

Not then.

It happened months later, in England.

We had taken a trip together—a quiet getaway to an estate that looked like it had been plucked straight from the pages of a gothic novel. Towering stone walls wrapped in ivy, ancient windows with warped glass, and a view that stretched endlessly over the cliffs to the wild, grey sea.

It was hauntingly beautiful. Exactly the kind of place I had always dreamt of visiting.

Of course, Stefan had known that.

He always knew.

The estate had a private stretch of beach, not the kind with soft sand and boardwalks, but dark, coarse sand littered with jagged rocks where the waves crashed violently, as if the ocean itself was trying to claw its way inland.

I woke in the middle of the night, restless, the pull of the moon too strong to ignore. Quietly, I slipped out of bed, leaving Stefan tangled in the sheets, his breathing slow and even. I padded barefoot through the old house, out onto the terrace, and down to the beach.

The air was sharp and cold, biting at my skin and stealing my breath with every inhale, but I didn’t care.

I stood at the edge of the world, staring out at the restless water, the moonlight throwing a silver sheen across the waves. For a long time, I just stood there, feeling small in the best possible way—like I was a part of something much bigger than myself.

I didn’t hear Stefan wake. Didn’t notice him until I glanced back toward the house and saw him standing on the balcony above, his silhouette outlined in pale light, watching me.

He didn’t say anything. Just came down.

Barefoot, sleeves of his shirt lazily rolled up, hair tousled from sleep, he crossed the cold stones like he didn’t even feel them. When he reached me, he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, pulling me back against his chest, resting his chin gently on top of my head.

“What are you doing out here?” His voice was rough with sleep, soft enough that it barely carried over the sound of the waves.

I shrugged, leaning into him. “Didn’t want to waste this.”

He hugged me tighter, and for a while, we just stood there together, staring at the moonlight dancing on the surface of the sea, our breath mingling in the cold night air.

Then, after a long stretch of silence, he spoke again—quietly, like he was confessing something to the dark.

“I told you about the life I used to dream of,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with something raw. “About how I wanted to get away from all of this… all of them.”

I swallowed, my fingers absently brushing over his forearm as he held me.

“When I met you,” he continued, “it was like… for the first time, I got to taste what that life could’ve been. Simple. Honest. Real. You make things feel different, like they don’t have to be so cold. So heavy.” His voice dropped even lower. “You made all of this bearable.”

His hands slid down from my waist, gently taking mine in his, then lifting them between us. I felt something smooth and cold pressed into my palms, and then his lips brushed against my ear.

“Marry me,” he whispered.

My breath caught.

I looked down slowly, parting my fingers.

A ring.

But not just any ring.

An heirloom—delicate and intricate, set with an antique diamond that caught the moonlight and gleamed like something pulled from a dream.

My heart slammed hard against my ribs.

“Stefan…”

He didn’t let me pull away. He just held me tighter, anchoring me there against him.

“I didn’t know when or how I’d do it,” he said, his voice still low and steady. “But when I saw you here… standing in the moonlight, exactly where you’ve always wanted to be… I couldn’t think of a more perfect moment.”

He turned me gently in his arms, his hands still gripping mine.

“You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever known,” he said, his green eyes locked on mine, full of certainty, of love, of something I hadn’t even known I was starving for until I met him. “You are it for me. You always have been.”

My throat tightened so much it hurt.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

So I just nodded, the motion jerky, a laugh breaking out from somewhere deep inside me—a messy, breathless, joy-filled sound.

“Yes?” he pressed, his lips twitching in that half-smile he always gave when he was nervous but trying to hide it.

“Yes,” I said, more firmly this time. “Of course, yes.”

Stefan let out a slow breath, the tension melting from his shoulders, and then that grin spread across his face—wide and boyish and so full of love it made my chest ache.

He slid the ring onto my finger carefully, reverently, and for a moment, I just stared at it, at him, at the impossible, perfect fact that this was real.

Then he pulled me fully into his arms, cupping my face, and kissed me.

Slowly.

Like he was sealing a promise.

Like he was giving me the life he’d always wanted, and the one I never thought I’d have.

                                                         ***

I had never imagined my wedding before.

Not really.

But if I had? It wouldn’t have looked like this.

Because never, not in a million years, would I have guessed that I’d marry an incredibly rich man in a place like this.

But this was my wedding.

And I had planned every single detail.

The towering estate, centuries old, with its grand halls and sprawling gardens that looked like they had existed forever, untouched by time. The red roses—not white—because I wanted something bold, something alive, something that didn’t feel safe or expected. My gown, designed just for me, delicate embroidery trailing along the sleeves, covering my arms in intricate lace. Suzannah and Leona in deep wine-colored silk, standing beside me like they’d always belonged there.

Nothing about this day was a blur.

I lived every single second of it.

From the quiet inhale I took before stepping into my dress, feeling the weight of the fabric anchor me to this moment, to the way my bouquet felt solid and heavy in my hands. The way the candles flickered in the golden afternoon light. The sharp, echoing sound of my heels against the marble as I walked down the aisle, each step carrying me closer to the rest of my life.

And then—there was Stefan.

Waiting for me at the altar, standing tall and poised, his tux crisp, his green eyes burning with something steady and sure.

He was always sure.

And so was I.

Because I loved him.

Not in the hesitant, aching way I had once loved before. Not with uncertainty, or with unspoken words choking the air between us, or with silent hopes that were never brave enough to be said aloud.

With Stefan, love was effortless.

It was knowing—without a shadow of a doubt—that he was mine and I was his. That we had built this life together, brick by brick, moment by moment.

This wasn’t a fantasy.

This was real.

But that didn’t mean I had forgotten.

It was always there, quietly, like a shadow in the corner of the room—the ghost of a life I had left behind. No matter how much resentment I carried for the way it ended, no matter how much anger still burned in my chest when I thought about how easily they let me go, there had been a time when it was good.

When it had been real.

When we had laughed together until our stomachs hurt. When I had felt at home in their presence, in a way I’d never felt before or since.

I spent years trying to push them out of my mind, but the truth was—I still kept track of them.

I couldn’t help it.

They had once been my whole world, and now they existed only in glimpses—posts, interviews, little fragments of lives I used to be part of but no longer recognized.

Luke, of course, had broken up with Alyssa shortly after I left LA.

I didn’t even go looking for it. One day, I just opened Twitter and there it was—trending: Alyssa’s cheating scandal exposed! Luke Hemmings heartbroken!

It should’ve meant nothing to me.

But I clicked the article anyway. And then another. And another.

Alyssa had cheated. With some model, naturally. I should’ve seen it coming, but that wasn’t what got to me. It wasn’t the betrayal—it was what she did afterward.

She humiliated him.

She dragged him through the mud on Twitter, airing their relationship like it was a reality show, painting him as the villain, calling him out for everything he’d ever done wrong.

I should’ve been indifferent. But the truth was—I hated seeing him like that. Exposed. Torn apart for the world to dissect.

Chelsea was the only one who defended him. I read her post, the one where she ripped into Alyssa, standing up for Luke in a way I hadn’t. In a way I couldn’t.

And for the first time in a long time, I wished I had been there.

Not to fix it.

Not to save him.

But just… to tell him that I understood. That I knew what it felt like to be left broken.

After that, the band disappeared for a while.

No social media posts. No interviews. Nothing. Just silence.

Months passed before they reemerged, and when they did… they weren’t the same.

Youngblood changed everything.

It wasn’t just an album—it was a reckoning. A raw, painful purge. Every lyric bled heartbreak. Every melody carried the weight of something lost and irreparable.

Anyone who listened could hear it, could feel it.

This was about Alyssa.

About betrayal. About destruction. About survival.

I still remember the first time I listened to it. Sitting alone in my Boston apartment, the city lights flickering beyond the window, the cold pressing against the glass as the songs filled the room.

It hit me like a punch to the gut—anger, pain, loneliness… and pride.

Because as much as it hurt, as much as it reminded me of everything we had been, I couldn’t deny it.

It was the best thing they had ever made.

And the fury—that someone as worthless as Alyssa could inspire their most important work… while I—I wasn’t even a footnote.

Not as important as they had been to me.

Michael and Chelsea were still together. They looked happy. It was strange, watching them grow from afar, never being part of that story anymore, but still rooting for them in the quiet privacy of my own life.

Ashton seemed better too. More grounded. More in control. Fewer parties, fewer rumors. His eyes didn’t look as lost in interviews anymore.

Calum… Calum had disappeared even further into his own world. Always private. Always careful. No public relationships, no headlines. Just… gone, in the way that only he could be.

And then there was Luke.

He’d moved on.

His new girlfriend, Summer, was stunning—but not in the glaring, look-at-me way that Alyssa had been.

Summer was quiet, understated. The kind of beautiful that didn’t need to be flaunted to be noticed.

It was strange, watching them all slip into new lives, new relationships, as if I had never existed at all.

But the truth was… part of me still cared.

Even after everything.

Even after they’d all let me go.

Because how could I not?

They had once been everything.

And now, they were just ghosts in a life I no longer lived.

                                                                      ***

It was hard not to get affected.

I couldn’t even imagine a time when it wouldn’t feel strange—sitting there while people talked about them, completely oblivious to the fact that I had once been right in the center of it all.

I never felt the need to hide it—not really—but I never offered it either. It just wasn’t something I talked about anymore. But inevitably… it happened.

Leona and I were sitting in her living room, sipping tea, waiting for Suzannah to arrive so we could finally start planning her wedding. Leona had already been engaged to Charles by the time I met Stefan; they’d gotten married a few months before I did. And now it was Suzannah and Nicholas’s turn to tie the knot, after their picture-perfect engagement on a yacht in the Mediterranean.

Leona’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

“Ugh, not Suzannah…” she muttered, picking it up. “Hey, Clara… Yes, Charles is picking you up at the airport… Yes, I already bought the tickets. Everything’s ready… Okay, darling. I’m waiting for you.”

She ended the call with a sigh, tossing her phone aside.

“What was that about?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, what?” Suzannah echoed as she walked in, kicking off her heels and sinking onto the couch.

“My niece,” Leona groaned dramatically. “She’s coming to visit and she’s dragging me to a concert.”

Suzannah smirked. “Oh, don’t act like you didn’t have that phase. Or should I remind you of all the posters you plastered over your bedroom walls when we first met?”

Leona shot her a glare. “Shut up.”

Suzannah just laughed. “I’m just saying…”

“What band?” I asked, casually—or at least I tried to make it sound casual.

“Five Seconds of… something,” Leona said, waving a hand dismissively.

“Of Summer,” I corrected automatically, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Both of them turned to me.

Leona’s eyes lit up with sudden interest. “Oh? You’ve heard of them?”

I swallowed. “Yeah… I’ve heard of them.”

Suzannah’s grin widened as she looked between us, like she already knew there was more to it. “Uh-oh… it’s over for you, Y/N.”

I shook my head quickly, holding up my hands. “Don’t look at me like that. No way.”

Leona leaned in, her voice softening into something almost pleading. “Y/N… please? Stefan’s going to be in New York that weekend, and Clara adores you. She wouldn’t mind you tagging along. And it’ll help—you already know about the band, you’ll have stuff to talk about.”

I exhaled slowly, staring down at my tea like it might offer me an escape.

They didn’t know. Neither of them did.

They couldn’t possibly understand what it would mean for me to sit in that crowd, to see them on that stage, to hear those songs live again… after everything.

“I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Leona said, letting it drop.

But Suzannah wasn’t so easily convinced. “No. Not okay. You’re being weird.”

I tensed.

“That’s not like you. You always say yes—you’ll go wherever we ask, especially concerts.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Suzannah, don’t be like that…” Leona said gently.

“But I—” Suzannah started, but I cut her off.

“I lived with them.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them, hanging heavy in the air.

“You what?” Leona blinked, leaning forward like she hadn’t heard me right.

Suzannah sat there, stunned, her mouth opening slightly but no words coming out.

I let out a breath, gripping my cup tighter as I looked at them both, bracing for their reactions.

And there it was—one of those moments when a truth you’ve kept locked away for years finally forces its way to the surface, raw and undeniable.

Leona’s eyes widened as the weight of it landed. “You… lived with them?”

Suzannah shook her head, still processing, her voice softer. “Like… as in… the band?”

I nodded, swallowing hard, already regretting I’d said anything at all.

“For how long?” Leona pressed, leaning in like I’d just confessed some scandalous secret.

“A year,” I said quietly, staring down at the faint swirl in my tea. “I worked at a diner when we met. They were just starting out then—not famous yet. But things happened fast. We knew each other for a few months before we moved in together.”

They sat there in stunned silence, their eyes glued to me.

“I quit the diner eventually to help them at the house—just… stuff, you know, keeping it together while they focused on the band. When they really blew up… we decided to live separately.” I shrugged, a bitter smile pulling at my lips. “At first, our friendship didn’t change. But fame…” I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “Fame is like a poison.”

Their expressions softened, but I kept going.

And then I told them everything. Every detail I hadn’t spoken aloud in years—the fight with Luke, the ugly words, the silence that followed, my decision to pack up and leave LA for good.

When I finished, Suzannah was the first to speak, her voice careful but certain. “You did like him… didn’t you?”

I let out a quiet laugh, more bitter than amused.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” I said, glancing between them with a shrug. “He was an asshole. He didn’t deserve it.”

Leona’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Suzannah just nodded slowly, like she understood, but also like she wanted to say something else and couldn’t quite find the words.

But it didn’t matter.

Because for the first time in years, I’d finally said it out loud. And that alone felt like a small kind of freedom.

Leona sat back slowly, blinking like she was still trying to process it all. “Jesus… I mean… I knew you had a past, but I didn’t know it was… that.”

Suzannah let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. “So, all this time… all those little moments when we’d talk about music or celebrity gossip and you just… stayed quiet?”

I nodded, letting my shoulders drop a little. “Yeah. It was easier that way.”

Leona frowned, her brow knitting together. “What the fuck is wrong with them? I don’t care how famous you get—how do you just… toss someone aside like that?”

“That’s something I still ask myself sometimes,” I said, my laugh bitter.

“They treated you like shit. They let you walk away, and not one of them had the decency to chase after you? After everything?” Suzannah’s voice sharpened with indignation.

Leona scoffed, grabbing her phone off the table. “What’s the ex’s name? The one who made your life hell?”

I sighed softly, resigned. “…Alyssa.”

Leona’s fingers flew over the screen in an instant. “Let’s see the bitch.”

Suzannah shifted closer as they hovered over the phone.

“There,” Leona said, turning the screen toward me. Alyssa, posed in some overly styled outfit, perfect makeup, attending some event I couldn’t even pretend to care about.

Suzannah wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Predictable.”

Leona scrolled, her voice dripping with disdain. “God, she looks exhausting. You were right—total pick-me energy.”

I laughed, despite myself. “You guys don’t even know her.”

“Don’t need to,” Leona shot back, tossing the phone onto the couch like it was contaminated. “All I need to know is she helped push you out of your own life. That’s enough for me.”

Suzannah gave me a long, quiet look then—softer, more thoughtful. “Is that why you left LA? Because of her?”

I shook my head slowly. “Not just her. All of it. The fighting… the distance… Luke. It was like watching my whole life shift into something I didn’t recognize anymore. And I didn’t know how to be in it.”

Leona reached over, squeezing my hand firmly. “Well, thank God you left. Otherwise, you never would’ve found us.”

Suzannah smiled, her eyes kind but fierce. “Yeah. And you never would’ve found Stefan either.”

I smiled then too, a small, genuine thing. “Yeah… I guess not.”

And just like that, wedding planning was forgotten.

We spent the rest of the day talking about my life in LA, the band, cursing them, laughing in disbelief at how absurd it all sounded when I finally said it aloud.

And I wondered, quietly, painfully…

Pairing: Luke Hemmings x Reader Genre/Themes: Friends to Enemies to Lovers Warnings: Angst, Emotional Turmoil, Slow Burn Word count: 7.628K Author's Note: Very poorly revised. It's my first time writing fanfiction, so I hope you all like it. It's also my first time posting on Tumblr, feeling like a 85 year old trying to understand technology. I'll get better with time.

Synopsis: Y/N was always there. Before the sold-out arenas, the chart-topping albums, the global tours—she was there. A constant in the chaos, the fifth member who didn’t need a mic or a spotlight. She didn’t play an instrument, couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but she was family. She was home.

To the fans, she was the girl in the background of every backstage photo, the laugh behind every chaotic livestream, the one who always seemed to be right where the band needed her. Until one day… she wasn’t.

No announcements. No explanations. Just gone.

Now, years later, the world sees the band rebuilding. But behind closed doors, there’s a name they still don’t say out loud. A silence heavier than any breakup song they’ve ever written. Because losing her wasn’t just a fallout—it was the unraveling of everything they used to be.

And for Y/N? Disappearing wasn’t the end of the story.

It was only the beginning. 2014

The diner at 2 a.m. wasn’t much of a scene.

The neon sign outside flickered every few seconds, casting a dull red glow through the windows. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate from the one other customer sitting at the far end. I was behind the counter, flipping through a battered magazine, pretending I wasn’t on the verge of passing out from sheer boredom.

And then the bell over the door jingled.

I barely looked up. The graveyard shift regulars were predictable—truck drivers looking for caffeine, insomniacs killing time, the occasional drunk stumbling in for something greasy to soak up the alcohol. Nothing new.

But this guy?

This guy was loud.

“God, it smells like heaven in here. Or grease. Same thing, really.”

His voice was way too enthusiastic for someone walking into a half-dead diner in the middle of the night. Messy red hair, black skinny jeans, a hoodie that looked two sizes too big. He had the kind of presence that made the room feel smaller, like he sucked up all the quiet the second he stepped inside.

I sighed, shutting my magazine and bracing myself.

“What can I get you?”

He slid onto one of the stools at the counter, drumming his fingers against the surface like he was thinking real hard about this decision.

“Alright, what’s your honest opinion—do I go for pancakes or a burger? I trust you. This is a big decision.”

I raised an eyebrow. “At 2 a.m.? Pancakes. Always pancakes.”

His grin widened like I’d just told him the meaning of life. “Great, that’s what I’m getting then.”

I scribbled the order down and passed it to the kitchen, stealing another glance at him as he looked around like this was the most fascinating place he’d ever been.

Who the hell is this guy?

A few minutes later, I set the plate of pancakes in front of him.

He devoured them. I had never seen someone eat so aggressively. And between bites, he talked—a lot. 

“So, serious question," he said, pointing his fork at me like he was about to make a groundbreaking statement. "If you had to give up either coffee or music for the rest of your life, which would you pick?"

I snorted despite myself. "I hate coffee. Easy choice."

He blinked at me like I’d just confessed to a crime. “You hate coffee?”

I nodded, leaning my elbows on the counter. “Can’t stand the stuff. Smells better than it tastes.”

He sat back like I’d physically stunned him. “That’s... genuinely tragic.”

I shrugged. “Guess I’m living life on hard mode.”

He laughed, a real one, not forced. It made the empty diner feel a little less hollow. "You don't know what you're missing," he said. "Coffee's the only reason half the world isn't dead on their feet."

"Or maybe it's why half the world is jittery and miserable," I offered.

He pointed at me, like I’d scored a point. "Okay, that’s fair."

He stabbed another piece of pancake and shook his head. “You’re lucky this place makes good pancakes. Otherwise, I might've walked right back out.”

I smirked. “Yeah, because you seem like a real harsh critic.”

“You have no idea.” He smiled, and there was something easy in it, like he was used to making people laugh and wasn’t trying too hard now. “I’m Michael, by the way.”

I hesitated a second, then said, “Nice to meet you, Michael.”

“No name?” he teased.

I gave a small shrug. "You’re the one who walked in here monologuing about the smell of grease. Gotta earn it."

He let out a low whistle. “Tough crowd.”

“Graveyard shift crowd,” I corrected. "We're built different."

He laughed again — quieter this time, almost to himself — and went back to demolishing his food.

After he finished, he wiped his hands on a napkin and pulled a crumpled wad of cash from his hoodie pocket. I rang him up, rattling off the total.

He slid the money across the counter with a grin. "Keep the change, mystery girl."

I glanced down and froze. It was way too much.

I looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

He shrugged, easygoing. “Best pancakes I've had in a long time. Best conversation, too.”

Before I could argue, he was already sliding off the stool, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

"Thanks for the life advice. And the existential coffee debate," he said, backing toward the door.

"You’re welcome... I guess?"

The bell over the door jingled as he stepped out into the night.

I watched him go, the diner suddenly too quiet again.

Some loud, overly friendly guy passing through, looking for late-night food and conversation.

But then…

He came back the next night.

"What's up, mystery girl?"

I looked up. It was him again — Michael. Same disheveled red hair, same oversized hoodie, but now he had a mischievous grin plastered on his face.

"You're back," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Should I start charging you a cover fee?"

He flopped down onto the counter stool like he was right at home. "Only if I can get a VIP pass to the coffee-less club."

I couldn’t help it — I rolled my eyes. "You're a special kind of crazy, you know that?"

"Crazy? Pfft. I’m awesome," he said. “So, what's new with you?"

"Not much. Same old, same old. You know, working this exciting graveyard shift," I said, gesturing to the empty diner with a sweep of my arm. "You?"

He leaned back on the stool, drumming his fingers against the counter. "Band stuff. Same old, same old. We're playing small venues and trying to make noise wherever we can. The usual musician grind."

"A band?" I raised an eyebrow. "You're in a band?"

"Yup. You’ve probably never heard of us. We’re still working on getting some decent traction." He grinned, looking way too casual for someone who was in a band. "But we’re good, I swear. You might even like us if you gave us a chance."

"Why’d you get so offended about me preferring music if you’re a musician?" I asked, leaning on the counter with a smirk.

He looked at me like I’d just cracked the code to his whole existence. "I wasn’t offended," he said quickly, but I could hear the hint of defensiveness in his voice. "It’s just... well, coffee’s the fuel for music, you know?"

I raised an eyebrow. "The fuel?"

"Yeah, I mean, you can’t be a proper musician if you don’t survive on coffee and zero sleep. It’s a whole vibe, you know?"

I stared at him, trying not to laugh. "You’re really serious about this."

He nodded, looking deadpan. "Coffee is basically the air that musicians breathe."

I couldn’t help it. I snorted. "I think you might be overhyping the whole caffeine thing."

He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Okay, maybe it’s a little dramatic. But seriously, it’s part of the process. Like, how am I supposed to write music if I don’t have coffee running through my veins?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "So, if I told you I could survive just fine without it, you’d think I was crazy?"

"Honestly?" He paused for a second, his grin turning playful. "Yeah, I think I would. I mean, it’s just part of the ritual, you know?"

I leaned back, pretending to think about it. "I get it. Luckily, I don’t need to like coffee because my musical abilities are nonexistent. I’m happy just appreciating good songs."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "So, no secret talents? Not even a little bit of musical genius hiding under all that mystery?"

I chuckled. "If I have any secret talents, they definitely don’t involve playing instruments or singing."

"Well, that’s a shame," he said with mock disappointment, "because I was about to offer you a spot in our band. Guess you’ll have to settle for being our number one fan."

I grinned. "I can definitely handle being a fan. No coffee-induced breakdowns required."

He laughed, clearly enjoying the banter. "Fair enough. But hey, you might change your mind one day. You’ll hear one of our songs and think, "I need to be part of that."

I shook my head, smiling. "We’ll see about that.” “Okay, until then, I need more pancakes.”

Michael became a regular before I even had time to process it.

At first, it was just him—showing up at ungodly hours, ordering pancakes like they were the only food group that mattered, and talking my ear off about his band.

The guy never shut up.

But somehow, I didn’t mind.

I’d gotten used to customers who barely looked at me, let alone asked me anything about my life. But Michael? He talked to me like we’d known each other forever. Like I was actually interesting. It threw me off at first.

And then, he just disappeared.

One night he was there, rambling about some demo they were working on, leaving a tip that made my entire shift worth it. And then—nothing. No messy red hair walking through the door at 2 a.m., no overenthusiastic debates about pancakes versus burgers.

At first, I figured he was just busy. Maybe his band had finally booked a good gig. Maybe he’d found a new all-night diner to bother. But weeks passed. Then months.

And honestly? It kind of sucked.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d gotten used to him until he wasn’t there anymore. My shifts felt longer, the nights quieter.

So by the time I started letting go of the idea that I’d ever see him again, I wasn’t expecting much. People came and went all the time. Michael was just another one of them.

Until he wasn’t.

The bell over the diner door jingled, the same way it always did, but this time, when I glanced up, I froze.

Because standing there—grinning like he hadn’t just vanished for months—was Michael.

And he wasn’t alone.

“Mystery girl!” His voice rang through the diner like he’d never left. “Guess what? I brought company.”

I didn’t even have time to process my relief before my eyes landed on the guy next to him.

Tan skin, dark curls, a warm kind of confidence that didn’t come off as cocky—but still made it clear he knew who he was.

Michael clapped him on the back. “This is Calum. He plays bass. Also, he’s an idiot, but we keep him around.”

Calum rolled his eyes, sliding onto the stool next to Michael’s. “Ignore him. I’m actually the most talented one in the band.”

His voice was smooth, lighthearted, but there was something boyish underneath it—like he was still figuring himself out, even if he’d never admit it.

And even though he was confident, he didn’t look at me like he was waiting for a reaction. He just existed, comfortable in his own skin, but not trying to impress anyone.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and reached for my notepad. “Right. So, does the most talented one in the band also want pancakes, or…?”

Calum grinned. “Damn. She’s quick. I like her.”

Michael nudged him. “Dude. Back off. She’s our pancake dealer, not your next victim.”

I snorted, shaking my head as I wrote down their orders. Great. Now I had two of them to deal with.

But the truth?

I was just glad Michael was back.

Michael and Calum didn’t just stop by that night.

They kept coming back.

What started as a reunion turned into a routine. Every few nights, they’d stroll into the diner like they owned the place, throwing themselves into the same stools, talking about their band like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And the thing was?

I started to believe them.

Michael was all enthusiasm—loud, animated, eyes lighting up whenever he talked about the songs they were writing. And Calum? He was the balance. He didn’t ramble the way Michael did, but when he spoke, it mattered. He had this quiet confidence that made you want to lean in, like every word was worth something.

They were both just kids chasing something big.

And it was contagious.

"We’re opening for this huge boyband," Michael blurted one night, shoving another forkful of pancakes into his mouth. "You ever heard of One Direction?"

I blinked. “Uh, yeah? Pretty sure the entire planet has.”

Calum smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. "Well, they want us on their tour. Stadiums. Actual stadiums."

I stared at them, trying to wrap my head around it. Just a few months ago, Michael had been sitting right there, complaining about gigs in half-empty bars. Now they were talking about playing for thousands of people.

Michael leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "We leave in a few weeks. It’s gonna be insane."

And that’s when it hit me.

They were leaving.

I felt it like a shift in the air—this weird pang of something I didn’t want to name. It wasn’t like they’d been in my life forever, but somewhere along the way, I’d stopped seeing them as just customers.

They were friends.

And now they were about to take off into something bigger than I could even imagine.

I forced a small smile. "That’s… amazing. Seriously."

Michael’s grin softened. “You know you’re part of this, right? You called the pancake energy. That’s gotta be lucky or something.”

I laughed, shaking my head. "Yeah, I’m sure my late-night menu recommendations are the reason your band’s taking off."

But deep down? I felt it.

Like maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something bigger than any of us could understand yet.

“Don’t worry, mystery girl.” Calum said. “We’ll keep coming back until you reveal your name.”

I rolled my eyes. “You might just call me mystery girl for the rest of your life then.”

Michael and Calum disappeared again.

This time, I knew where they were.

Touring. Playing in front of thousands. Living a life so far removed from the one we’d shared in that tiny diner that I almost convinced myself it had all been a dream.

But then, out of nowhere, Calum came back.

Not Michael. Calum.

It was past midnight when the bell over the door jingled, and I looked up, expecting another tired trucker or a group of drunk college kids looking for greasy fries. Instead, it was him.

Same easy confidence, same dark eyes scanning the place like he owned it. But something was different.

He looked older. Not in a way you could pinpoint, but in the way he carried himself—like he’d seen more, done more, lived more in those months away.

"Hey, stranger," he said, sliding into his usual stool at the counter.

I blinked at him. "What are you doing here? Where’s Michael?"

Calum smirked, resting his elbows on the counter. "Miss me that much?"

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. "Shut up. Want your usual?"

"Yeah, and a milkshake."

"Fancy."

"I’ve been living off room service and gas station sandwiches for months. Let me have this."

I shook my head, turning to grab a glass. But I couldn’t deny it—I was happy to see him.

And that night? That was the first of many.

Calum started coming in alone more often. Some nights, he’d bring his guitar, strumming absentmindedly while I wiped down tables. Other times, he’d just talk—about tour life, about the crowds, about how weird it was to go from being just another kid with a dream to suddenly having thousands of people screaming his name.

"It’s insane," he said once, stirring his milkshake with his straw. "One day, we’re playing for like, twenty people at a bar. Next thing I know, I’m on stage, and all I can see is a sea of lights and faces. It’s like… I don’t know. Unreal."

I leaned against the counter, watching him. "Do you like it?"

He hesitated. Just for a second.

Then, he grinned. "Yeah. I love it."

But I caught that flicker of something in his eyes. Like maybe he wasn’t sure if it was all his yet.

Still, he carried himself with the kind of ease that made it clear he was used to being noticed. Girls probably threw themselves at him on tour, but he never acted like that guy. He was flirty, sure—he’d toss a wink my way, throw in some playful teasing—but it was never serious. Never like that.

And honestly? I liked it.

I liked him.

Not in a romantic way, not in a what if kind of way, but in the way where you meet someone and just know they’re going to be a part of your life.

And Calum Hood?

He was part of mine now.

At first, it was just Michael and Calum.

But then, like some unspoken plan had been set in motion, the others followed.

The first time I met Ashton and Luke, I was running on fumes. One of those nights where the diner felt like a liminal space—where time moved sideways and the world outside barely felt real. I was balancing a coffee pot in one hand and a plate in the other when the bell above the door jingled, and two more boys stepped inside.

One was tall and broad-shouldered, curls tucked under a bandana and dimples that made him look far too kind to be wandering into a diner at 2 a.m. The other? The other was Luke. And that was the problem.

Because Luke Hemmings was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. It was immediate—a short circuit in my brain, a weird pressure in my chest, like my body couldn’t quite decide whether to breathe or freeze. Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of everything—my tired eyes, my messy apron, the coffee stain on my sleeve. It was stupid.

I didn’t know him. But he was tall and stupidly pretty, with piercing blue eyes and messy blond hair that looked like he ran his hands through it a lot. He had the kind of face that made you feel ridiculous for staring too long. And I hated that I was staring.

“This is her, huh?” Ashton said, nudging Calum as they slid into a booth. “The famous mystery girl?”

Luke dropped into the seat across from Calum like he belonged there, stretching out with lazy confidence. I handed them menus, even though I knew they’d ignore them.

“Alright,” I said, pen in hand. “What are we thinking tonight?”

“Pancakes,” Calum said immediately.

“Shocker,” I muttered, scribbling it down.

Ashton grinned. “What’s good here, mystery girl?”

Before I could answer, Luke tilted his head at me, a lopsided smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Do you actually have a name? Or is ‘mystery girl’ just your whole brand?”

I smirked, wiping down the counter. “It’s Y/N.”

There was a beat of silence—just long enough for it to sink in—before Michael gasped from the other end of the counter.

“You told him?” he practically shouted.

I blinked. “What?”

Michael sat bolt upright, scandalized. “You told me to earn it! I’ve eaten, like, eighty pancakes in this establishment. What did he do to earn it?!”

Calum threw his hands up. “No, yeah. I second this betrayal. This is emotional damage.”

Luke, of course, just looked smug. Like the cat that got the cream. “Maybe I just have good energy.”

“You have main character energy,” Michael snapped. “It’s a curse. You walk in here once, and she gives you the name? We were gonna put it on a t-shirt!”

I laughed—actually laughed—as I poured another cup of coffee. “You two are so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Calum echoed. “I wrote a song about you, and I still don’t know your name!”

“Wait—did you?” I looked at him, eyebrows raised.

He shrugged. “Well. Half a verse. Maybe like... a line and a half. But still.”

Michael dropped his head to the counter with a groan. “This is the worst day of my life.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Anyway,” I said, turning to Ashton with my pen poised again, “the only other option that won’t give you gastrointestinal regret is the burger and fries. That sound like your vibe?”

Ashton chuckled, completely unfazed. “Sold. Nothing like a little sodium to keep the heart pumping.”

“Living dangerously. I respect it.”

“I mean, I’ve survived worse,” he said, shooting a look at Michael. “Like the time someone made gas station sushi a group dinner.”

Michael raised his head from the counter just long enough to mutter, “It smelled fine.”

“Did it taste fine?” Luke asked.

“Define fine,” Michael said.

Calum made a face. “I’m literally eating, can we not?”

“You’re waiting to eat,” I corrected, scribbling the last order and tacking it up in the window. “Big difference.”

Luke leaned back in the booth again, eyes still trailing after me as I moved behind the counter. Not in a weird way—more like he was just cataloging the place. Or me. Like he was trying to get a read on something unspoken.

“You always work this shift?” Luke asked casually.

“Graveyard’s my kingdom,” I said. “Welcome to the palace of fluorescent lights and bad decisions.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “You took that straight out of Tumblr.”

“Well,” I said, smirking, “that’s the only thing I can do to pass time when these two aren’t here disturbing my shift.”

Michael threw his hands up in mock offense. “Excuse me? We’re a delight to be around.”

“You’re a nuisance,” I said without missing a beat.

Calum grinned. “Okay, but we’re your nuisance. You wouldn’t be able to function without us.”

He wasn’t wrong.

It didn’t take long before they became a fixture in my life.

At first, it was just Michael showing up like clockwork. Then it was Michael and Calum, always full of stories, always dragging me into their world. And now? Now it was all four of them.

They made my shift bearable.

Some nights, they piled into a booth and stayed for hours, cracking jokes, arguing about setlists, and making fun of each other in a way that only close friends could. Other nights, it was just one of them—Michael ranting about some new video game, Ashton asking me deep life questions at 3 a.m. like some sort of sleep-deprived philosopher, or Calum smirking at me from across the counter and saying things that would have made me blush if I didn’t know better.

Luke, though? Luke was different.

I wasn’t sure if he meant to be. But I felt different around him.

At first, I thought it was just nerves—just my brain playing tricks on me because he was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. But as time passed, I got used to the others.

Luke? Not so much.

It wasn’t like he did anything special. He was just… quieter than the others. A little more awkward, like he was still growing into himself. But there was something about him that made my stomach flip in ways I couldn’t explain.

He had this habit of watching people when they talked, really listening. When I spoke, he looked at me like he was paying attention, like what I was saying actually mattered. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because the others? They teased me, pulled me into their chaos, made me feel like I had always been a part of their group.

But Luke made me feel seen.

And that? That was dangerous.

                                                                 ***

The idea wasn’t mine. I wasn’t looking for a change, and I definitely wasn’t expecting it.

It started as a joke—one of those throwaway comments Ashton made while sprawled out on my floor, his head resting on a pile of laundry I hadn’t gotten around to folding. The boys had crashed at my place more times than I could count by then. It was a small, ridiculous apartment, but they didn’t care. They sat on the floor, ate whatever leftovers I had, and made themselves at home in a way that somehow made it feel less lonely.

"You know," Ashton said, stretching his arms above his head. "You might as well just move in with us."

I laughed because obviously, he was kidding.

But then I saw Michael nodding like it wasn’t the dumbest idea in the world.

"Actually, yeah," Michael said, sitting up. "We’re barely home anyway, and you wouldn’t have to work at that stupid diner anymore. You could just—be with us. Help us not be complete disasters."

Calum, half-asleep on my couch, cracked one eye open. "And my cuddles are top-tier. Like, objectively. You’d be missing out."

Michael smirked. "And Ashton needs someone else to listen to his deep, philosophical bullshit because we physically cannot take it anymore."

Ashton sat up. "Hey! My thoughts are insightful."

"They are long, is what they are," Calum muttered, stretching.

Michael turned back to me. "And Luke needs someone to watch rom-coms with him. Also, to hold his hand when we watch horror movies."

I scoffed. "I hate horror movies. I get just as scared as he does!"

"Exactly!" Michael said, pointing at me like he had just proven a point. "You’ll suffer together. It’s perfect."

I shook my head, trying not to laugh. "You guys are ridiculous."

"You’re ridiculous," Michael shot back. "For not saying yes yet. Especially after all the huge tips I gave you when we were broke."

"You were weirdly generous with your non-existent money," I mused.

"See? You owe me." He grinned.

I rolled my eyes, but something in my chest tightened. The idea of leaving my tiny apartment, the one place I had scraped together for myself, should have felt impossible. But instead, I realized how easy it would be. I had no lease, no family to argue with me about it. Just a handful of belongings and a job I was already tired of.

Luke wasn’t there when they brought it up, which somehow made me even more nervous. Because if I said yes, I wasn’t sure how he would feel about it. It was stupid, I knew that—he had girlfriends, he wasn’t interested in me. But the idea of invading his space, of making it obvious just how tangled up in their lives I had become, felt like walking straight into something I wasn’t prepared for.

"You don’t have to decide right now," Ashton said, reading my hesitation. "Just think about it."

I did think about it. For days.

And then one night, as I lay awake in my too-quiet apartment, staring at the ceiling and realizing that I had no real reason to stay, I made my decision.

I packed a bag.

And I never looked back.

Michael showed up at my apartment the next evening with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a grin that told me he knew I’d cave.

"You ready?" he asked, leaning against my doorframe like he already knew the answer.

I hesitated for half a second before sighing. "Yeah."

"Nice." He stepped inside, eyes scanning my nearly packed-up space. "Damn. You work fast."

"There wasn’t much to pack," I admitted. A couple of bags, some clothes, a few things I had clung to out of habit more than necessity. That was the thing about not having roots—you didn’t accumulate much.

Michael picked up one of my bags and threw it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. "You sentimental about this place?"

I looked around, taking in the tiny kitchen, the peeling wallpaper, the old couch I had dragged in from the street because I couldn’t afford a new one. The memories here were mostly just nights spent alone, waiting for the next shift at the diner, before the boys started showing up and making it feel less empty.

"Not really," I said honestly.

"Good," he said. "Because I’d rather die than carry a couch down those stairs."

I laughed, and just like that, the weight on my chest loosened.

The house wasn’t what I expected.

For some reason, I pictured a place that looked like a frat house—cluttered, chaotic, maybe a little disgusting. And while it wasn’t spotless, it was actually… kinda nice. Lived-in.

The guys had decorated it in a way that was pure them. Posters covered the walls, guitars were scattered in every corner, and the coffee table was covered in things like stray picks and takeout containers. There was a warmth to it that my apartment never had.

Luke was the one who opened the door when we got there.

His hair was damp, like he had just showered, and he was wearing a loose hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He blinked at me, confused for a second, before his eyes flickered to the bags slung over my shoulder.

"Wait—" His face lit up. "You’re actually moving in?"

I shifted awkwardly under his gaze. "Yeah."

A grin spread across his face, and before I could react, he grabbed one of my bags. "Hell yeah!" he called into the house. "She actually said yes!"

Ashton came around the corner, already nodding like he knew I would. "Took you long enough."

Calum strolled in behind him, arms crossed over his chest, his signature smirk firmly in place. "Told you my cuddles would win her over."

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling.

Michael dropped my bag onto the floor. "Alright, where’s she sleeping?"

Ashton gestured toward the hallway. "Spare room. It’s kinda a mess, but we cleaned it up a bit."

I peeked inside. It wasn’t big, but it was bigger than what I had before. A bed, a dresser, a small window that let in just enough moonlight to make the space feel real. Like this wasn’t just another temporary thing.

"Make yourself at home," Luke said, setting my bag inside.

I hesitated in the doorway, looking at all of them. I still wasn’t sure how I had ended up here—how a handful of late-night shifts at a diner turned into this. But they were watching me with so much ease, like I already belonged here.

Like maybe I had for a while now.

I took a deep breath, stepped inside, and let the door close behind me.

The first morning in the house was loud.

I woke up to the distant sound of someone playing the drums—badly. I groaned, burying my face into the pillow, hoping it would stop. It didn’t. Instead, it turned into a full-blown beat, like whoever was playing actually thought it was a good time for a practice session.

I rolled over, glaring at the ceiling. This is my life now.

After a few minutes of debating whether to just suffer through it or actually do something about it, I threw on a hoodie and trudged out of my room, following the noise.

The culprit? Ashton, of course.

He was in the living room, sticks spinning between his fingers, hitting the couch cushions like they were his drum set. He looked up when I entered, his face breaking into an easy smile.

"Morning, sunshine."

I glared. "It is not morning. It is a violation of peace."

Calum, who was sprawled across the other couch, snickered. "Welcome to the circus."

I sighed, dropping onto the armrest of the couch. "You guys do this every morning?"

Ashton shrugged. "Pretty much. Gotta stay sharp."

I groaned, already regretting everything.

That’s when Luke walked in, his hair a complete mess, his hoodie halfway falling off his shoulder. He yawned, rubbing his face. "Why are we all awake?"

"We are awake because Ashton has no respect for human decency," I muttered.

Michael strolled in behind Luke, coffee in hand, completely unbothered. "Oh, you’ll get used to it."

"Will I?" I deadpanned.

Luke flopped onto the couch, pulling his knees up like he was about to fall back asleep. "We should’ve warned you," he murmured, voice still groggy. "We don’t really do quiet mornings."

"Or quiet anytime," I pointed out.

"Exactly," Calum said, smirking. "But hey, at least we’re fun."

I rolled my eyes, but a part of me couldn’t argue.

It had only been one night, and already, it felt like I had stepped into a completely different world. The kind of world where mornings were filled with offbeat drum solos, sleep-deprived banter, and a level of chaos I wasn’t sure I could handle.

But at the same time… I kind of liked it.

                                                                       ***

Life with them wasn’t always crazy. It had its quiet moments too—the kind that made me realize just how much they had become my family.

Like how Michael would stay up all night playing video games, yelling at the screen like the characters could actually hear him. It drove me insane. More than once, I had to storm into his room at 3 a.m., eyes barely open, grumbling, "Michael, I swear to God, if you don’t shut up, I will unplug everything." He’d look up, grin, and go, "Five more minutes?"

"That’s what you said two hours ago."

Sometimes, I gave up and just sat on his bed, watching him play. Once, he tried to teach me, but I kept forgetting which button did what, and it ended with me accidentally making his character jump off a cliff. He was offended. "You just killed me!"

"I don’t even know what I pressed!"

"Get out of my room."

He never meant it, though. The next day, he’d drag me into the bathroom to dye his hair, convincing me to do mine too. And because I had no self-control, I did. That’s how we ended up making Calum bleach a random strand of his hair. Cal hated it at first, but the next day, he was acting like it was the coolest thing ever.

Speaking of Calum—he was different. Quieter, more grounded. On nights when my mind wouldn’t slow down, I’d slip into his room, curling into his side as he pulled the blanket over both of us. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He never had to. He just let me stay until I drifted off. Sometimes, he’d text first—you up?—and that was all it took for me to head straight to his bed.

On the nights when even that didn’t work, I’d be in the kitchen, aimlessly baking to calm myself down. Calum would sit on a stool, arms crossed, watching me. "You stress-baking again?"

"Maybe."

"You gonna share?"

"Maybe."

He’d smirk, waiting patiently until I finally caved.

Ashton was the one who kept me in check. If it weren’t for him, I’d live off of diner food and coffee. He made sure I ate properly, drank water, didn’t run myself into the ground. When I felt overwhelmed, he’d sit me down, talk me through things in that calm, reassuring way of his. He scolded me when I needed it, but never in a way that made me feel bad—just like an older brother who cared too much.

"You should try the drums," he said one day. "It helps with frustration."

"I don’t think smacking things with sticks will solve my problems, Ash."

"You’d be surprised."

And Luke… Luke was something else.

I knew I had a crush on him. I knew. But I also knew he needed a friend more than anything, so I swallowed it down and let myself just be that for him.

He was clingy in a way that wasn’t suffocating—just warm. Just Luke. He loved to use my shampoo, which I only noticed when I went to wash my hair and found the bottle empty. "Lucas Robert Hemmings," I yelled down the hall, holding up the bottle.

His door creaked open, his blond head peeking out. "I can explain—"

"No, you can’t!"

Still, every time I went to the store, I bought two bottles.

When he painted his nails black, he made me do it. When we watched horror movies, he’d reach for my hand, and I’d remind him I was just as scared as he was. "Yeah, but I need emotional support," he’d argue.

"You are my emotional support," I shot back, gripping his arm when something jumped out on the screen.

"See? Mutual support."

Some nights, he crashed in my room, curling up beside me like it was second nature. He was always the little spoon—except when I was on my period. Then, without me asking, he let me cling to him instead, wrapping his arms around me like he knew I needed it.

We talked about everything except love. His dreams, his insecurities, his fears—those were conversations that happened in the late hours, when the world was quiet. I told him about my plans for school, how I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have enough saved up to actually go. He hated hearing that.

"Then we’ll figure it out," he said. "We’ll cover stuff until you get a better job. No arguments."

I wanted to argue. But they weren’t handing me money—I wouldn’t have accepted that. They were just making sure I had the space to figure things out. And that? That was different.

It meant more than I could put into words.

                                                                ***

As their music took off, I was there for all of it. The first time I heard She Looks So Perfect, I lost my mind. "This is gonna blow up," I told them. And it did.

The fans loved them. Loved them. And somehow, they loved me too. They noticed when I helped them with gifts and letters, and when the guys posted pictures of things fans had sent them, the comments were always the same: Y/N definitely gave them that.

Interviews were full of casual mentions—"Y/N would hate that," "Y/N said it first," "We gotta ask Y/N." Like I was just as much a part of this as they were.                                              

Backstage had become second nature to me. I knew every inch of these dimly lit hallways, every creak of the dressing room doors, every frantic call over the crew’s radios. The air always felt thick with anticipation, electric with the energy of thousands of fans screaming just beyond the walls. It never really quieted, the distant roar a constant reminder of how big this had all become.

It was nothing like the nights we spent in my tiny apartment, sprawled out on the floor with takeout containers and inside jokes.

Now, their lives moved at a different speed—louder, faster, bigger. But in moments like this, behind the curtain, before the chaos, it still felt like us.

Michael was the first to notice me, as always. His face lit up when I walked through the dressing room door, and within seconds, he had me in a headlock, rubbing his knuckles against the top of my head like a sibling trying to assert dominance.

“She’s here! Everyone act cool,” he announced dramatically, grinning as he finally let me go.

I rolled my eyes, smoothing my hair. “Yeah, because that’s ever worked for you.”

Luke, who had been tuning his guitar, glanced up. He was sitting on one of the armchairs, legs spread wide, fingers moving over the strings with easy familiarity. His lip quirked slightly, just enough to show he was listening.

“We are cool,” he murmured, not looking up this time.

“Right. That’s why Ashton is pacing like a man possessed,” I shot back, crossing my arms.

“It’s called getting in the zone, Y/N.” Ashton didn’t even pause, just kept shaking out his hands like he was about to enter a boxing match.

Calum, lounging on the couch with his phone, finally glanced up. “Nah, she’s right, mate. You look stressed.”

“Back me up here, Hemmings,” Ashton called out.

Luke barely glanced up, still focused on his guitar. “She’s never wrong.”

His words were casual, effortless—like it was just fact. But for some reason, my stomach flipped the way it always did when Luke said things like that, the way he always made me feel like I was something constant.

I quickly shook it off, pushing past the feeling.

Instead, I went into backstage mode.

I handed Michael a water bottle because I knew he wouldn’t remember to grab one himself. I tossed a pack of throat lozenges at Calum, who caught them one-handed without looking. I nudged Ashton to stop pacing for two seconds, pressing a protein bar into his palm.

And then, without having to be asked, I turned to Luke.

“Fix my collar?”

It was part of our routine now.

His collar was always fine. It wasn’t about that.

He stood in front of me, close enough that I could feel the residual warmth from the stage lights he had been under during soundcheck. His usual pre-show jitters weren’t visible to most people, but I saw the way his fingers tapped against his thigh, the way his jaw clenched slightly.

I reached up, smoothing my hands over the fabric of his shirt. My fingers brushed against the side of his neck—warm, soft.

Luke’s breath hitched, just for a second.

Then he exhaled, slow and measured, and gave me a lopsided smile. "Gotta look good for the cameras, right?"

I rolled my eyes, stepping back. "Yeah, because that’s what people care about—you looking presentable and not, you know, actually playing a good show."

His lips twitched. "Can’t it be both?"

Michael groaned dramatically from the side. "Jesus Christ, just date already."

Heat crept up my neck. "Shut up, Clifford."

Luke laughed, but something in his expression lingered—something softer, something I couldn’t quite name.

Then, just like that, the moment was gone.

The crew knocked on the door, giving the five minutes to stage call. Ashton rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. Calum grabbed his bass. Michael bounced on his feet, hyping himself up.

Luke hesitated, his eyes flickering to mine for the briefest second before turning away.

And then, in a blur of movement, they were gone—disappearing under the glow of the stage lights, swallowed whole by the world that was slowly pulling them further and further away from me.

                                                            ***

Tour meant long nights, shitty food, and more time together than most people could probably stand.

But for me, it meant them.

It meant cramming into hotel rooms with takeout containers littering the floor. It meant late-night drives with music blasting so loud it rattled the van windows. It meant watching them play their hearts out in front of thousands of people, only to return to a dimly lit hotel room, stripped of all the chaos, just us again.

That night, the others had tapped out early. Ashton was sprawled across one of the beds, snoring softly, limbs flung in every direction. Calum had curled into the armchair, hoodie pulled low over his face, dead to the world. Michael had barely managed to mumble just resting my eyes before passing out half-off the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor.

And then there was Luke.

We sat on the floor of his hotel room, backs against the bed, the only light coming from the glow of the streetlamps outside. The distant hum of the city buzzed through the window, but in here, everything was quiet.

Luke rolled a water bottle between his palms, his fingers twitching slightly. He was always like this after shows—tired, thoughtful, quieter than usual.

“Would you ever get a tattoo?” he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

I blinked at him. “Random question.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Just curious.”

I tilted my head back against the mattress. “I don’t know. Maybe something small. Something meaningful. Something I won’t regret when I’m old or… when I need to hide it for important occasions.”

“Like what?”

I shrugged. “Like my wedding.”

His gaze flicked to me. “Your wedding?”

“If I ever get married,” I smirked. “Would you?”

“Get a tattoo? Someday.”

I shot him a teasing look. “Not willing to commit to anything bigger than a lip piercing?”

He groaned. “You’d cry if I ever took it out.”

I scoffed, nudging his knee with mine. “In your dreams, I would.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t fire back. Instead, he studied me for a beat, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “I still think you’d suit one.”

I raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice was softer now. “Something delicate. Maybe your favorite quote. Or a tiny star.”

His gaze drifted down, lingering on my fingers as if he were committing them to memory. His own twitched on his knee, inches from mine.

The air between us felt different.

Charged.

Like something unspoken had crept in, curling around us, daring me to acknowledge it.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay light. “You should get my name tattooed. Just in case you forget about me when you’re all rich and famous.”

He chuckled, low and raspy. “Like that could ever happen.”

Something in my chest twisted. The way he said it—so casual, like it was impossible for us to drift apart.

Like I would always be here.

His expression softened as he looked at me, lips parting slightly, like he was about to say something else—

Then his phone buzzed.

The moment shattered.

Luke barely glanced at the screen before unlocking it, and just like that, the smirk was back.

A text. Some girl he’d met after the show.

I turned my head away before he could see whatever was on my face.

“I should answer this,” he muttered, already pushing himself up.

I forced a smile. “Yeah. Go for it.”

And just like that, he was gone.

there is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

there is a rapture on the lonely shore,

there is society where none intrudes,

by the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

i love not Man the less, but Nature more.

A clean mind. An anonymous fear submitted to Deep Dark Fears - thanks!