Sarah

The city was quieter than it had any right to be for a tour stop. The neon glow of the streetlights bounced off the black tour bus, casting jagged reflections across the asphalt. It was only just a few stops into the wourld tour, Jesse had already started feeling the push and pull of it. The adrenaline of the shows, the exhaustion of the travel, the blur of new cities and new faces. Some nights, he thrived on the chaos, loved the way the crowd roared like it could drown out anything else. Other nights, like this one, he felt the weight of it pressing in; the constant noise, the endless motion, the sense that he was moving but never really getting anywhere.

Jesse stepped off the bus with the same slow, deliberate rhythm he always had. Cigarette dangling between his fingers, he tilted his head back slightly, letting the smoke curl up toward the sky. This quiet was the only part of it that felt like it belonged to him.

He barely noticed the chill in the air or the faint hum of the street around him. He was lost in thought, the weight of another city pressing into his chest, music still vibrating faintly from inside the bus.

He took a slow drag, eyes half-closed, letting the smoke curl lazily toward the streetlights. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was thinking about the way she’d been around lately, always appearing in the small moments between chaos, always calm, always steady. 

His thoughts were interrupted by movement; quick, distracted, entirely unaware of him. One moment, he was lost in the rhythm of the tour, the blur of cities and lights pressing in on him, the exhaustion and adrenaline mingling into something that left him both hollow and wired. The next, his mind drifted to her, Y/n. She was a part of the tour photography team. She always seemed to claim the front of the barricades, camera poised, capturing everything he did without ever needing to be noticed herself.

For the past few weeks of the tour, he hadn’t gotten close to her at all. Their worlds were separate planets—he, whisked away by managers, handlers, and the constant motion of life on the road; she, vanishing into empty corridors or quiet corners, camera in hand, disappearing just as quickly as she appeared. His only window into her was the way she framed him, her photos cropping out the chaos, leaving only him in focus. The images would appear on The Neighbourhood’s Instagram the next day, and he’d stare at them longer than he should, tracing the lines of his face through her lens, wondering how she saw him; what she chose to hold onto and what she let go.

He knew his bandmate Zach was friends with her; that’s how she’d gotten on tour. That made her… untouchable, off-limits in a way that only made her more magnetic. He couldn’t ask Zach about her, that would be inappropriate, but it didn’t stop the way he imagined her eyes on him when he was on stage, how he ached for just a fraction of that attention offstage. For those two hours under the lights, if he was lucky, she would be the only girl looking at him, the only one he wanted to see. And that thought of seeing her through the chaos was both a torment and a pulse of something dangerously sweet in his chest.

Y/n peeled away from the venue slowly, like she wasn’t quite ready to let the night end. The noise still clung to her. Voices ringing faintly in her ears as she made her way back through the parking lot toward the smaller, far less impressive tour bus she’d been calling home for the past few weeks.

Working this tour had been a gift, something she still wasn’t sure she fully deserved. Zach had pulled strings, vouched for her, and trusted her with something bigger than anything she’d done before. And it was everything she’d hoped for; access, movement, moments no one else got to see. But it didn’t come with the glamour people imagined. No private rooms, no endless luxuries... just cramped bunks, long nights, and the constant feeling of existing just outside the world the band lived in. Close enough to witness it, never quite part of it.

Still, there were parts she couldn’t shake.

Him, mostly.

She thought about the way Jesse moved on stage; effortless, magnetic, like the entire crowd bent toward him without him ever having to try. Night after night, she’d watched him from behind her camera, watching the way he’d look out into the sea of faces, mostly girls pressed against barricades, reaching for him like he was something just out of reach. She’d always wondered what he saw when he looked at them. If he saw individuals at all, or if it all blurred together into one constant, faceless devotion.

And then, sometimes she’d catch it. A glance. Not enough to be sure, not enough to claim, but just enough to make her pause. Enough to wonder if he ever noticed her the way she noticed him. Enough to wonder if there was anything behind it at all.

She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, exhaling as she turned behind one of the buses, cutting through the narrow space between parked vehicles and scattered equipment, and stopped.

Jesse stood just a few feet ahead, leaning slightly against the side of the bus, cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. Smoke curled around him, slow and lazy, like he’d been there long enough to settle into the quiet.

For a second, neither of them moved.

He glanced over at her, eyes flicking up without surprise, without urgency. He didn’t say anything, just exhaled, a thin stream of smoke slipping past his lips, dissolving into the night air between them.

Y/n hadn’t expected anyone else to be out here. Especially not him.

Jesse tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was trying to place something he already knew. The cigarette rested between his fingers, ember glowing faintly as the silence stretched just a second too long.

“You’re always up front,” he said finally, voice low, casual.

She blinked, caught off guard. “That’s… kind of the job.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, glancing away for a second before looking back at Y/n. 

She exhaled softly, glancing past him toward the bus, toward the quiet street. “It’s not as glamorous as it looks from up there on stage, you know.”

He let out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh, shaking his head a little. “Trust me… it’s not that glamorous from up there either.”

Y/n’s eyes flicked back to him. “Yeah?”

“Same thing every night,” he said, taking a slow drag from the cigarette. “Different city, same set, same people screaming.” There wasn’t bitterness in his voice, just something tired. Honest. He glanced at yher again, more directly this time. “You getting used to it yet?”

The question caught her off guard, like he’d stepped a little closer without actually moving. Y/n shrugged lightly. “I don’t think so.”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Yeah… you don’t really get used to it.”

Y/n let out a quiet breath. “I was wondering when that part would hit.”

“It already did,” he said, exhaling smoke into the cool air. “You just get better at pretending it hasn’t.”

The honesty of it caught her off guard, softened something in her expression. For a second, it didn’t feel like Y/n was standing across from him, just someone else stuck in the same strange loop of nights that never quite ended.

“Guess we’re both still pretending then,” she said quietly.

Jesse’s gaze lingered on Y/n, something unreadable settling behind it. “Maybe,” he replied. A pause. Then, almost absentmindedly, he held the cigarette out slightly between her, like an unspoken offer.

Y/n hesitated before reaching for it. Her fingers brushed against his as she took it, the contact light but lingering a second too long to be accidental. It wasn’t enough to pull away from, just enough to notice.

“Thank you,” she said softly, almost absentminded. She brought it to her lips and took a slow drag, exhaling a moment later, the smoke curling into the space between them like it belonged there now, like she did.

Jesse didn’t say anything; he just watched her. There was a subtle shift in him... something tightening, focusing. Not annoyance, not even surprise… something quieter. Sharper.

She was too casual about it. Too comfortable. Most people around him hesitated, overthought, waited for permission. But she hadn’t. She’d just taken it, like it didn’t matter who he was, like the space between them didn’t exist the way it did for everyone else. And he couldn’t decide if that was what caught his attention… or what was starting to get under his skin.

The silence stretched for a few seconds longer than it should have. Y/n didn’t seem to mind. She took another slow drag, the cigarette resting between her fingers like it belonged there, like she’d been doing this with him for longer than just a moment. The ember flared softly, casting a brief, warm glow across the curve of her lips as she inhaled.

Jesse noticed it before he meant to. The way her lips settled around the filter, unhurried. The faint sheen of her lipstick catching the light; it was subtle, but there. And when she pulled the cigarette away, it left behind the slightest mark. A soft stain on the filter of his cigarette. Something about that stuck with him more than it should have.

He found himself staring longer than he meant to, long enough that it started to feel like a mistake. Jesse’s jaw tightened just slightly. Not irritation, just something closer to restraint. Maybe that was what was getting to him.

Or maybe it was just the way her lips kept brushing the filter, leaving that faint trace behind like something he wouldn’t be able to ignore now even if he tried.

Another second passed, then Jesse stepped forward. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t even obvious at first. Just a slow, measured step that closed the distance between them inch by inch, like he’d decided something without saying it out loud. 

Now he was close enough to notice the details he shouldn’t have been paying attention to. The faint scent of smoke clinging to her, the way her fingers held the cigarette, the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

Close enough that when she exhaled, the smoke drifted toward him, curling into the space between them before dissolving into the night air. Close enough that it didn’t feel casual anymore.

His gaze dropped for just a second—back to the cigarette, to the mark she’d left behind—before lifting to her again, steady this time, intentional in a way it hadn’t been before.

“Enjoying it?” he asked quietly.

His hand lifted before she could answer. He already decided he wasn’t going to wait for her to pass it back.

Y/n barely had time to react before his fingers were brushing near her lips as they closed around the filter. The cigarette was still between her lips, his fingers resting against it, the space between them narrowed down to something fragile.

Jesse didn’t pull away, not immediately. His fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, to notice the faint imprint of her lipstick staining the filter where her mouth had been. Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t unsee it.

Slowly, he pulled the cigarette free.

“Zach’s the one who brought you out here, right?” Jesse was already stepping back as he said it.

Y/n felt it before she even fully registered what he’d said. It wasn’t just that he’d stepped back; it was everything that came with it. The subtle rearranging of space, the way the air between them stopped feeling dense and started feeling empty again. Like something had been quietly taken away without permission. She hadn’t realized how close he’d been until he wasn’t anymore, and now it felt obvious. Cold, even.

The warmth that had been sitting between them, the cigarette smoke, his presence, the low hum of him right there in front of her had thinned out in an instant. Like it had nowhere to stay anymore.

Zach’s the one who brought you out here, right?

His words replayed in her head, but they didn’t land cleanly. Not over the feeling of distance that had settled in so quickly it almost felt intentional. Y/n swallowed slightly, though she wasn’t sure why. Her pulse felt louder than it should have been for a conversation that was technically still happening. For something that, on paper, hadn’t actually changed. He was still standing there. Still looking at her. Still close enough that she could see the cigarette between his fingers, the faint mark of her lipstick still staining the filter.

She told herself it was nothing. Just the shift in conversation. Just him stepping back into whatever normal version of this was supposed to be. Her eyes lifted to him again.

He looked the same. Calm. Composed. Like nothing had changed at all. Like he hadn’t just been standing close enough for her to notice every detail of him a second ago—the way he’d watched her, the way he hadn’t looked away fast enough when he should have. Now there was space again, and she hated how quickly she felt the absence of him in it.

He asked me a while ago,” she added, a little more grounded now. “Said they needed someone to shoot the tour, and I guess I fit.” Her eyes lifted back to Jesse.

He was still watching her, but it wasn’t the same as before. Not leaning into her anymore. Not closing the space. Like he’d settled back into something safer without saying it out loud.

Y/n swallowed again, shifting her weight slightly. “I’ve known Zach since school,” she continued, because stopping felt worse than continuing. “He’s always been like that, dragging people into things and acting like it’s normal.” A faint, small smile pulled at her mouth. “This is definitely one of those things.”

Jesse gave a small nod at that, like he understood exactly what she meant. Like Zach doing things without thinking twice was familiar enough to him not to question. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “That sounds like him.”

“We’ve only really ever seen each other for, what…” he paused, exhaling lightly through his nose, “…two hours a night?”

Y/n blinked at that. The way he said it made it sound strange when laid out like that. Like suddenly the distance between them wasn’t abstract anymore. Two hours, just stage light and noise and movement. Nothing else. She frowned slightly, like she was trying to place what he meant. “That’s…” she hesitated. “Yeah. That’s basically it.”

A quiet beat settled between them again, but it didn’t feel empty this time. It felt like something they were both noticing at the same time and hadn’t admitted until now.

Jesse’s gaze flicked to her briefly. “I didn’t expect you to be this quiet,” he said finally.

She let out a small, disbelieving breath, almost a laugh. “You’ve thought about what I’d be like as a person?” she asked, brows lifting slightly. “I didn’t even know you knew I existed outside of…” she gestured vaguely toward the direction of the stage, “…that.”

“What do you mean you didn’t know?” he asked, like the idea itself didn’t fully make sense to him.

Y/n tilted her head slightly. “I mean… I’m just the person standing in front of barricades taking pictures. I figured you were probably looking over the crowd, not… at anyone specific.”

Jesse let out a quiet breath, something almost like disbelief. “Oh, I knew who you were,” he said simply.

“You… what?”

He glanced at her again, more directly this time, like he was deciding there wasn’t a point in softening it. “How could I not?” he added. “You’re there every night. Front row. Same spot. Always looking up.” His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than necessary.

“And you’ve got these eyes—” he stopped briefly, like he was realizing he was about to describe her too specifically, then continued anyway, quieter now, “—like you actually take things in. Like you notice more than most people bother to.”

Y/n felt something shift in her chest at that. Because she hadn’t known that. She’d thought she was just another blur in the crowd to him. Another face behind a camera, not someone he’d been noticing. Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “I didn’t think you could even tell who was who from up there.”

Jesse gave a faint shake of his head, almost amused.

“I can,” he said. “More than you’d think.”

He glanced down briefly at the cigarette, then back at her like the thought had already moved past it.

“I’ve seen your work too,” he added.

That caught her off guard in a different way.

“My work?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The photos. Zach shows me some of them sometimes.” A beat. “You’re good.”

Y/n blinked at him, genuinely surprised now. “You’ve seen my photos of you?”

Jesse nodded once.

“And?” she asked before she could stop herself.

That made something shift in his expression again. Not quite a smile, but something softer around the edges. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It’s weird seeing how someone else sees you.” His eyes flicked back to hers. “Especially when it’s someone who’s been watching you the whole time.”

it was after a long shift, parent talking over their kids that just wanted to leave the hospital, explaining away the aches and pains that their child was feeling,

and now on top of all that:

your car wasn’t starting.

“shit.”

your head presses against the wheel, and hope and pray that just one more time would work. your keys turn in the ignition, a series of screeching sounds from the hood of your car that made you want to drive it off a cliff.

“need some help?” a voice inquires from the side mirror.

oh thank god.

“yes, please. thank you so much.” you hurry outside your car as the man sets his things down on the curb.

you realize it’s that nice, very calm doctor from the er.

whitaker, you remember.

“alright.”

he pops the hood, inspecting the engine and whatnot, as you stand to the side. he’s twisting and pulling, hands covered in grime and dust.

“go ahead and try it now.”

the engine rattles back to life, headlights shining while a relieved sigh leaving you as you climb out of the seat, “you’re my savior. thank you.”

whitaker smiles, wiping his hands on his scrubs. “sure. although you should probably take it to a mechanic by the end of the week,” he reaches for his things from the curb. “just to be safe.”

he slings his backpack over his shoulder.

“wait. uh, let me buy you dinner or something. as a thank you.”

he hesitates. “oh, no it’s-"

“please, dr. whitaker. I would’ve just spent it on a fifty dollar uber anyway.”

how could he say no?

“well,” he murmurs. “this all seems very calm and controlled.”

a small boy tears past carrying a fistful of hot pink icing.

no plate. no cake. just icing clenched in his hand.

most likely buttercream, knowing your sister-in-law

you look at matty. “you manage a bar full of drunk people and you’re frightened of a few children?”

“adults are much easier.”

he says it without taking his eyes off the boy, who has now begun licking icing from the space between his fingers.

“are they?”

“course they are.” matty finally turns towards you, sunlight accentuating the brown of his eyes as a grin slowly takes over his face. “you can distract them with alcohol.”

his free hand settles against the small of your back as you walk farther into the garden. the gesture is so instinctive you doubt he even notices himself doing it.

this is what matty does. he is always touching you in some small, absent-minded way.

a palm against the back of your neck. fingers curling loosely around your waist. a kiss pressed into your hair while you are halfway through a sentence he may or may not still be listening to. you had never considered yourself particularly starved for physical affection. apparently, that was only because no one had been feeding you enough of it.

“you’re smiling.”

“am i?” you keep your attention fixed on the garden. “must be thinking about the cake.”

“right.” his hand tightens at your waist, just enough to let you know he has seen straight through you. “nothing to do with me, then.”

you laugh despite yourself. it has only been a few months and he can already read you with an accuracy you find both impressive and deeply intrusive. he seems to know what you are thinking before you have finished pretending not to think it.

“nope,” you pop the ‘p’ and turn towards him, only to find yourself briefly startled by his face all over again.

his orange red hair is pin straight today, the ends brushing his jaw and his fringe falling loosely around his face. black liner rims his eyes, softened by purple shadow that make his irises pop. he is wearing a loose red knit sweater with blue trousers and a thin silver chain resting against his throat.

he looks fucking beautiful.

slightly impractical for an afternoon involving a bouncy castle filled with children fueled on pure sucrose, but, nonetheless, absolutely beautiful.

he had asked whether the sweater was too much while standing in front of the mirror earlier, tugging once at the hem as though he might change if you hesitated for even a second.

you had told him no.

not because you were trying to be supportive or because you thought it was the answer he wanted. it was simply true. the sweater was a tomato shade of red and the trousers were somehow even brighter, but nothing about him looked out of place. matty had spent enough of his life being made to feel as though the prettiest, gentlest parts of him required some sort of apology. you were not going to introduce your family to a diluted, more publicly digestible version of him.

you wanted them to meet matty exactly as he was.

george likes almost everyone unless given a specific reason not to. lenore had been excited about matty from the moment you first accidentally mentioned his name, and both of your nieces had spent the past several weeks asking increasingly invasive questions about the man you were always texting.

still, when you glance at him, you notice the faint tension in his shoulders.

“are you nervous?”

matty looks over. “maybe a little.”

he smiles as he says it, but his hand tightens at your waist, drawing you slightly closer.

“they’re going to love you.”

and as if summoned by the promise, lenore looks up from across the lawn.

“there you are!”

she abandons a stack of paper plates on the patio table and hurries towards you, pulling you into a rib crushing hug as though you hadn’t seen her three days ago.

“you made it.”

“sorry we’re a bit late.”

“sophie started asking for you before breakfast.”

“that sounds like poor planning on your part.”

lenore laughs and squeezes you once more before releasing you. then her attention shifts to the man beside you, and you watch her entire face brighten.

“you must be the infamous matty.”

“sure is. how are you?”

he starts to offer her his hand, which is optimistic. lenore looks at it for perhaps half a second before ignoring it entirely and pulling him into an equally enthusiastic hug.

“i’m so happy to finally meet you.”

“pleasure is mine,” he breathes a quiet sound of relief as he hugs her back. “heard lots about you.”

“whatever she told you, she’s probably lying.”

amazing. less than thirty seconds and they are already conspiring against you.

“only the interesting parts,” you say.

your sister-in-law steps back, though her hands remain lightly on his arms as she looks him over and you instantly recognise the exact moment she realises the photographs had not adequately conveyed him.

it is not your fault. you have tried. a million times

matty is annoyingly photogenic, but every picture still feels like a poor representation of the actual man standing two feet away. his hair never looks quite vibrant enough. his eyes lose the gold, sparkly bits. the static pixels cannot capture the way his whole face changes when he smiles or the deeply unnecessary fact that he somehow becomes prettier the longer he talks.

lenore looks at him once more, then at you, then back at him again.

she pulls you into a second hug, this one much shorter and considerably less innocent.

“you did not tell me how hot he was,” she whispers directly into your ear.

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but matty is still watching you with the faintly narrowed eyes of someone who knows he has missed something important.

“what was that all about?”

“she said she likes your sweater.”

lenore turns to you immediately. “no, i didn’t.”

not even a second of hesitation. no loyalty. no attempt to protect you from the consequences of one very small and entirely harmless lie.

matty gives her a solemn nod. “thank you for refusing to participate in her cover up.”

“you’re welcome, matty. honesty is very important in this family.”

“since when?” you ask.

neither of them so much as looks at you.

matty slips his arm around your waist again, his hand settling easily against your hip and the small squeeze of his fingers tells you he is already enjoying this far more than necessary.

“what did she actually say?”

you look at lenore, who seems entirely too eager to have been invited into the conversation.

“don’t.” you point a warning finger at her.

matty glances between the two of you, his interest visibly sharpening and you know there is no graceful way out of this.

“she said you’re hot,” you admit with a sigh.

of course, his mouth slowly curves into another one of those annoyingly attractive grins. not a surprised smile, obviously. matty owns mirrors and has spent most of his adult life behind a bar being informed of this exact fact by strangers with rapidly declining levels of sobriety. still, hearing it from your sister-in-law seems to please him in a slightly more respectable way.

“well,” he says, drawing you a fraction closer, absolutely much more at ease now. “seems i’ve been warmly welcomed by the family.”

“she said you were hot. she hasn’t offered you a kidney.”

“not yet,” lenore assures him.

matty laughs, then bends to kiss your cheek, lingering just long enough to make it obvious he is deeply proud of himself.

you are about to remind him that your family approving of his face is not technically an accomplishment when someone shrieks from across the garden.

“auntie!”

sophie, your younger niece, is already sprinting towards you, arms flung wide and the skirt of her party dress bouncing around her knees. a paper crown sits crookedly on top of her curls, and there is a streak of pink icing beside her mouth. not surprising in the slightest. you would be more concerned if she had made it this far into the party without getting cake on her face. a great appreciation for sweets seems to be the core family gene.

you crouch just before she reaches you and she throws herself into your arms with complete confidence that you will catch her. you lift her off the ground and kiss both cheeks until she squeals and tries to hide her face against your shoulder.

“there’s my birthday girl.”

“no more kisses!”

“you’re four. you need four kisses.”

“you did too many.”

“i lost count. we have to start again.”

she screams with laughter when you kiss her cheek once more, squirming in your arms while making absolutely no serious attempt to escape.

then she starts talking.

for the next several seconds, she speaks without appearing to breathe, telling you about her presents, how her dad burned some burgers and her mum yelled at him, and the fact that her sister is no longer allowed to be in charge of the sparkles again after what she did to the living room.

behind her, lenore makes an offended noise at the mention of herself.

“i did not yell.”

sophie pulls back just far enough to look at her. “you did. and you said a bad word.”

lenore’s mouth opens, then closes again. she points towards the patio as though something there has suddenly become a matter of genuine urgency.

“i’m going to check on the food. and george.”

“coward,” you call after her.

she waves one hand without turning around, retreating before sophie can provide any further testimony.

your niece resumes her story immediately, picking up somewhere in the middle of penny’s glitter related crimes, but then her eyes wander past your shoulder and find matty.

that's when her voice cuts off mid-sentence.

he has stayed a step behind you, letting you have this moment with her, and when she finally looks at him, he smiles and lifts his fingers in a small wave.

“happy birthday, sophie.”

she can only stare.

you had shown both girls plenty of pictures of matty before. sophie had been particularly fascinated by his hair and once asked, with complete seriousness, whether it had turned orange because he ate too many carrots. based on the number of follow up questions, you had expected her to begin inspecting him the moment he arrived.

apparently, matty inside your phone and matty standing directly in front of her are two very different things.

her arms tighten around your neck as all that fearless curiosity gives way to sudden shyness. she presses her face into your shoulder, operating under the reliable childhood logic that if she cannot see him, he can no longer see her.

“that’s matty,” you tell her gently.

“i know,” she whispers into your neck.

“he brought you a present.”

that gets her attention. sophie lifts her head just enough to peek over your shoulder at the gift bag, curiosity beginning to overtake the sudden fear.

matty raises the bag slightly. “it’s very heavy.”

it is not. you carried it to the car dangling from two fingers, but sophie studies it with appropriate concern and when she looks at him again, she manages to hold his gaze for a little longer.

his smile softens but he stays exactly where he is. he does not move closer or begin questioning her in that strange, overly enthusiastic voice adults sometimes adopt around children, as though being four means she can only understand words delivered at twice the pitch. he simply waits and lets her decide what to do with him. matty has always been good at reading a room and, apparently, that extends to very small people wearing paper crowns. 

sophie leans towards your ear, though her eyes remain fixed on him.

“his hair is really orange.”

“it is.”

“i want to touch it.”

you press your lips together to keep from laughing. of course she does. 

“well, you have to ask him first.”

her eyes widen as though you have suggested she stand on the food table and make an announcement to the entire party.

“no.”

“you can’t touch people’s hair without asking.”

“you ask him.”

“and then you’ll do it?”

she hesitates, clearly weighing the risks of this arrangement, before giving a small nod against your shoulder. you turn towards matty, who has almost certainly heard every word and is politely pretending otherwise.

“sophie says you have pretty hair.”

his eyes crinkle at the corners. “does she now?”

“she’d like to touch it, but apparently speaking to you directly is out of the question.”

“fair enough.” his smile shifts towards your niece. “course she can.”

you lower sophie to the ground, though she keeps one hand wrapped tightly around yours as she edges towards him. matty places the gift bag beside his feet and crouches in front of her, bringing himself closer to her height without invading the small distance she has decided is necessary. his hair falls around his face as he settles, but otherwise he remains perfectly still, his forearms resting loosely across his knees while he waits for her to come to him.

when sophie finally gets close enough, she raises her free hand. her fingers hover beside his cheek, only inches from the red orange ends, before she abruptly thinks better of it.

“is it going to burn?”

matty blinks. “is what going to burn?”

“your hair.”

he looks up at you for help and you have to press your lips together to keep from laughing. apparently, the possibility of spontaneous combustion had not occurred to him.

“because it looks like fire,” sophie explains.

understanding moves across his face, followed by a delighted laugh that makes her frown. this is a serious safety concern and she clearly does not appreciate being mocked.

“no, sophie,” he promises, attempting to compose himself. “it won’t burn. promise.”

she remains unconvinced and turns to you for confirmation, which seems fair. matty is, after all, a stranger in her own birthday party. so you step closer and run your palm over the top of his head, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. the strands slide between your fingers, and his eyes lift to yours, filled with amusement and far too aware that you are enjoying the excuse to touch him.

“see?” you assure her. “perfectly safe.”

sophie watches your hand for another second before finally reaching out. she brushes the very ends of his hair, then snatches her fingers back as though getting singed remains a possibility.

when nothing happens, she tries again, this time rubbing a few strands carefully between her fingers.

“it’s very soft,” she announces, sounding pleasantly surprised.

matty stays perfectly still for her, his mouth twitching at the corners while she continues her inspection. you had known he would be good with the girls. still, knowing something and seeing it happen directly in front of you are apparently two very different experiences, because the sight leaves an inconvenient pressure behind your ribs.

“why is it brown here?” sophie asks, pushing his hair apart to examine the roots.

“that’s the colour it grows.”

her face pinches with confusion. “then why did you make it orange?”

“thought it looked good.”

sophie considers this with all seriousness. 

“it does.”

“thank you.” his answer is sincere enough that she rewards him with a small smile.

“what’s she doing?”

another voice cuts through the yard as penny comes charging with a doll tucked beneath one arm, the same one you gave her for her own fourth birthday. it has lost one shoe, most of its hair and whatever dignity it may once have possessed, but penny still carries it everywhere.

at six, she approaches most situations with the confidence of someone who knows absolutely everything there is to know about everyone. sophie worships her for it. the second penelope appears, some of sophie’s shyness loosens, as though courage is something her sister carries enough of for both of them.

they bring out the best in each other. penny makes sophie braver; sophie makes penny sweeter, although penn would object strongly to that description.

“touch his hair.” sophie points at matty. “it’s so soft.”

apparently, all previous concerns about being set on fire have been resolved.

penny stops in front of matty and studies him with considerably less caution than her sister.

“this is matty,” you tell her.

“i know.” she points directly at him. “he’s your boyfriend.”

children have a way of reducing everything to its simplest form. there are no complicated explanations or careful distinctions. no wondering whether it is too soon to bring someone to a family birthday, or whether having him standing beside you here means more than either of you has managed to say aloud.

matty is your boyfriend.

you like him. he likes you. he is here because you wanted him here and because he wanted to come.

it’s that simple.

matty glances up at you with plenty of amusement in his gaze.

“i am,” he confirms, and the certainty in his voice does absolutely nothing helpful to the unsteady feeling beneath your chest.

penelope steps closer and gestures towards his hair. “can i touch it, too?”

“sure.”

she reaches for the other side, pressing a few strands between her fingers with the same serious concentration sophie had shown moments earlier.

“it is soft.”

“i told you,” sophie reminds her, sounding mildly offended that she wasn’t instantly believed.

penny ignores this and parts his hair to examine the darker roots. “does the orange wash out?”

“not really.”

she considers his answer, then looks from matty to the battered doll tucked beneath her arm and you recognise the exact moment an idea takes shape.

“soph, we need the hair clips!”

matty turns his head towards her as much as her grip on his hair allows. “do we now?”

“yes!”

sophie nods firmly in agreement, and before either of you can ask what, exactly, they intend to do with him, both girls release him and race towards the house hand in hand.

matty slowly rises, watching them disappear through the patio doors. “should i be worried?”

you watch the door swing shut behind them.

“probably.”

you are still watching the patio doors when matty’s fingers curl gently around your forearm. he gives you a small tug, just enough to pull your attention away from whatever deeply concerning plan your nieces are currently assembling inside the house.

“come here.”

you turn and he draws you closer until the front of your body brushes his. matty’s hand slides down your arm to find yours, fingers threading easily through your own before he leans in and presses a tender kiss to your lips.

it is brief. sweet, even. barely more than the warm touch of his mouth against yours.

still, your body reacts with the same immediate and faintly humiliating enthusiasm it always does, as though you have not kissed him countless times over the past few months. as though his mouth had not been considerably less innocent only a few hours ago.

when he pulls back, he stays close enough that the ends of his hair brush against your cheek.

“thank you,” you murmur.

his brows lift. “for kissing you?”

“no. although thank you for that as well.”

“you’re welcome.”

“for being so nice to the girls.”

his face relaxes at once, almost into confusion, as though kindness had been the only possible response and thanking him for it feels entirely unnecessary.

“it’s nothing,” he says. “they seem lovely.”

“they’ve known you for less than five minutes and they’re already planning to use you as a mannequin.”

“yeah, well.” his eyes flick towards the house. “i’ve had worse introductions. believe me.”

you beam, but the thudding of your heart does not ease. his mouth brushes yours again and you feel his smile against your lips, but then, just as he begins to kiss you properly, a familiar voice cuts across the garden.

“this is a children’s birthday party, you know.”

matty stills with his mouth hovering over yours.

his forehead drops against your own and you both laugh, a helpless sound in the small space between you. still holding hands, you turn together and find george making his way across the lawn with a beer in each hand.

george is wearing an apron you are almost certain once belonged to your mum, though how it ended up in the daniels household remains unclear. you know for a fact it has never been used here before today. judging by the faint smear of some unknown substance across the front, george is already doing it a profound disservice.

the tall man stops beside you and hooks one arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a quick hug before pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“good to see you.”

he releases you and turns his attention to matty, looking him over with the same consideration lenore had moments earlier, somehow even less subtle about it. if that was somehow possible.

“so you’re actually real,” george holds out one of the beers. “was starting to think she’d made you up.”

matty accepts it, glancing at you over the bottle with immediate interest.

you shove george away with your shoulder, but he barely moves. you are both well into your thirties now, yet he remains stubbornly committed to treating you like the irritating little sister who once followed him from room to room asking what he was doing.

tough love, he calls it.

brotherly love, when he is feeling particularly fond of himself.

“matty,” you say, closing your eyes briefly even though the smirk is already escaping, “this is my deeply annoying older brother, george.”

“pleasure,” matty says.

they shake hands, and you watch with growing suspicion as george’s face brightens in the unmistakable way it does whenever he remembers something embarrassing about you.

“she used to make up boyfriends, you know.”

“george.”

matty’s eyebrows lift. “really?”

“it was once,” you insist. “and i was seven.”

“his name was sebastian, for christ’s sake.”

you stare at your brother, genuinely surprised he remembers that.

“and he had a horse,” george adds.

right.

of course he remembers that too.

matty turns towards you slowly, his mouth beginning to curve.

“he was a prince,” you explain, “so of course he had a horse.”

“see? i’m not a liar,” george winks at you over the neck of his beer.

“the best insult you can come up with is something i did when i was seven. really strong work, george.”

“oh, i can do better than that.” he takes another sip, already too riled up. “i could tell him about that painfully boring realtor you brought round once. the one who fell asleep halfway through talking about—hey! stop that.”

you manage one smack to the side of his head before he catches your wrist and before you can try again, george hooks one solid arm around your shoulders and pulls you firmly against his side, trapping your arm between the two of you. you do not bother struggling. experience has taught you that it is both pointless and exactly what he wants.

instead, you look across at matty.

he is watching the two of you over the rim of his bottle, gaze sparkling with amusement and absolutely no intention of rescuing you.

you mouth, i hate him.

“sure you do,” matty murmurs, taking another swig of his beer.

you do eventually manage something resembling a civilised introduction.

george tells matty he is a music producer and within seconds matty’s asking what kind of work he does, whether he records locally and how he got into it. nothing feels forced. george talks, matty asks questions and, within minutes, they have both seemingly forgotten they’ve just met each other.

it is easy. exactly the way you had hoped it would be, though you had not realised how much you needed to see it until now.

george is halfway through explaining some current project involving words you vaguely recognise but could not define under pressure when your nieces come racing back across the lawn. between them, they are carrying a glittery pink plastic box as though it contains the most precious of cargo.

penny wastes no time. she grabs matty by the hand and begins pulling him towards the picnic blanket spread beneath the yard’s single, deeply unimpressive tree.

“let’s sit here,” she orders.

matty glances back at you, but he allows himself to be led away, beer still in one hand. penny tugs him down until he is sitting crosslegged on the blanket, and both girls immediately kneel in front of him with the pink box placed between them.

“penelope, be nice, please,” george calls from beside you. “we don’t need you scaring off our guests.”

“god knows you manage that well enough on your own,” you mutter.

george points a warning finger in your direction.

“watch it or—”

“george!” lenore’s voice rings sharply in your ears. “why are the steaks burnt now?”

his entire face falls.

“oh, fuuu—”

both girls look up at him, mouths dropping wide open.

“fuuuun,” he corrects quickly. “fun. you girls have so much fun, okay?”

he starts towards the grill, then turns and points at matty as he walks backwards.

“you can still run away from them, you know.”

matty lifts his beer in acknowledgement.

“nah.” his eyes flick towards you before settling back on the girls. “think i’ll like it here.”

“your prerogative,” george calls, already retreating before his wife can discover anything else he has accidentally burnt to a crisp.

there is never a dull moment with your family.

george and lenore have somehow raised two girls who approach life with the same reckless enthusiasm they do, always searching for the next bit of fun and rarely pausing to consider whether anyone else has agreed to participate.

today, that fun appears to involve covering your boyfriend’s hair in plastic accessories.

you cross the lawn and lower yourself onto the blanket beside them. matty hands you his beer without being asked, freeing both hands for whatever your nieces might require of him next.

he has already acquired several purple butterfly clips along one side of his head. a glittery blue barrette sits precariously near his fringe, and something shaped like a flower has been attached to a section of hair at the top of his head. sophie attempts to fasten a pink strawberry clip above his ear, but it immediately slides loose and drops onto the blanket.

before frustration can take hold, penny reaches across.

“you have to open it wider, like this,” she explains, demonstrating with serious patience. “here. put the next one in the same way i showed you, okay?”

the birthday girl nods.

she sticks her tongue out in concentration as she gathers a small section of matty’s hair and tries again. he remains perfectly still, head tilted slightly towards her, though the corners of his mouth keep twitching as if he is trying very hard not to distract her.

this time, the clip stays. sophie gasps.

“penny, look! i got it.”

she points proudly at the side of matty’s head, where the strawberry now sits directly above the first one. penny leans closer to inspect her work.

“you did,” she says, offering a solemn nod of approval.

matty turns his eyes towards you without moving his head.

“how do i look?”

you take a slow sip of his beer, pretending to consider the question.

“very stylish.”

“he looks pretty,” sophie corrects with enough certainty in her voice that it pulls a laugh from both of you.

matty looks at you again, one eyebrow lifting.

“what do you think?” he asks. “do i look pretty?”

you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, trying not to grin too widely.

he knows exactly what he is doing.

that had been the word you used that first night, when both of you were still breathless and slick with sweat, kneeling in front of one another. you had pushed his damp hair away from his face and told him he was very pretty.

you still remember the way his pupils widened before he leaned in and kissed you. eager enough to steal what little breath you had managed to recover, but gentle in a way you had never known a kiss could be.

he had kissed the inside of your palm afterwards, his mouth warm against your skin, then pulled you down with him and kept kissing you until time seemed to stop. hours, perhaps. minutes. never long enough.

you will never forget that night.

“very pretty,” you repeat.

he grabs his beer back from your hand, taking the last sip.

“thought so.”

you keep watching as your nieces work their little fingers through matty’s hair, adjusting clips by fractions and whispering seriously to one another whenever something does not sit exactly right.

eventually, both girls step back to admire their work.

penny folds her arms and gives him a long, critical once over.

“perfect!” she declares.

they are so pleased with themselves that they throw their arms around matty at the same time, the force of it nearly sending him backwards onto the blanket. he catches himself with one hand and laughs, wrapping the other arm loosely around both of them.

“we have to show mum,” penny announces as she releases him. “come on, soph. let’s go get her.”

“wish dad had hair so we could do the same to him,” she mutters to her sister as they hurry away, a statement that would make george sulk in despair if he heard it.

you wait until the girls are safely out of earshot before reaching over and catching matty gently by the chin, turning his face towards you. one of the strawberry clips immediately slips and drops onto the blanket between you. he reaches for it before you can, fastening it carefully back above his ear.

“been given strict orders not to take them off.”

“and you’re such a good boy.”

his eyes narrow, playful warning gathering in them just before he turns his head and catches the side of your hand between his teeth.

“i can be, yeah,” he murmurs against your skin.

you smile and let your fingers wander over his jaw, your nails brushing through the roughness of his stubble. it makes that faint, delicious rasp you never seem to tire of, a sound so small and ordinary it should not affect you nearly as much as it does.

you could sit here for an unreasonable amount of time, honestly.

possibly forever.

which is a dramatic thing to think at a four-year-old’s birthday party while someone nearby cries over a spilled ice cream cone, so you decide not to examine it too closely.

“here.” you shift back on the blanket. “don’t move.”

his brows draw together as you reach into your bag and pull out your phone.

“really?”

“absolutely. i need to keep it forever.”

you mean the hair clips. obviously.

not the sight of him beneath the tree, sunlight caught in the vibrant ends of his hair, looking so comfortable inside your family’s home making that tingling sensation race through every nerve in your body.

definitely just the hair clips.

you raise your phone and frame him on the screen, trying to capture the light and every ridiculous piece of plastic your nieces have managed to attach to him.

“three, two—”

before you reach one, matty lifts both hands beneath his chin, stacking one above the other and flaring his elbows dramatically to either side. then he flashes you the widest, cheesiest smile imaginable, posing like an overenthusiastic beauty queen.

you laugh so suddenly the photograph blurs.

“oh, that’s awful.”

“take another one, then.”

you do and, this time, the picture catches everything: the ridiculous pose, the strawberry clips, the afternoon sun warming his face and the tiny crinkles beside his eyes because he is trying not to laugh at himself.

it is perfect.

penny might disagree, considering another clip is already hanging on for dear life. but still perfect in your eyes.

you stare at it for less than thirty seconds before setting it as his contact photo, then turn the screen towards him.

matty snorts and shakes his head, but there is no protest. only that small, fond grin he gets when you have done something that pleases him more than he intends to admit.

yeah…