A lovely mix of loves

you followed him because he was ridiculous. absolutely, unapologetically unwell online. he tweeted like he was being electrocuted in slow motion. caps lock wisdom. lowercase threats. spiritual affirmations wedged between football scores and dick jokes. you’d scroll past posts like—

“THE MOON IS HAVIN IT TONIGHT” “BE BRAVE MY SWEET POTATOES” “Elbowed myself in the eye tryna do tai chi. Vibes are off.”

—and for some godforsaken reason, they made you grin. every single time.

so you replied. once. something dumb, probably. you barely remembered what it was—just some flirty nonsense thrown into the void. but then—he answered.

@liamgallagher BE STRONG   ⤿ @m0rningglory i’d be stronger if you called me yours     ⤿ @liamgallagher Pipe down kid

you nearly dropped your phone. he’d replied to you. you. not just with a like. not just with some half-assed insult. with a name.

you stared at the screen like it might disappear. like you’d imagined it. like the words might pixelate and blur if you looked too long.

“Pipe down kid.” not fangirl. not baby. not love. just teasing. weirdly specific. and typed like it meant nothing.

you tried to play it cool. quote-tweeted him with something smug, something unserious: @m0rningglory ok sir

you half-hoped he’d reply. you half-hoped he wouldn’t. your heart was thudding. it wasn’t that deep, you told yourself. just a tweet. just a joke.

but part of you—deep down—knew this was going to spiral.

and it did.

@liamgallagher Don’t get bold sunshine   ⤿ @m0rningglory you’re just scared i’ll out banter you     ⤿ @liamgallagher Try it and see

you screamed into your pillow that night. fully, face-down, limbs flailing.

you couldn’t explain it. it wasn’t like he was flirting. not really. but there was something about the way he replied—like he saw you. like he enjoyed it.

you bookmarked the tweet. you told nobody.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

weeks later, it was still casual. still funny. still nothing at all—until it started feeling like something. you told yourself you were imagining it. of course you were. but then again—

@liamgallagher DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT SPIRITUALITY TIL YOU’VE SMOKED A JOINT IN THE BATH   ⤿ @m0rningglory but what if i smoked it thinking about you in the bath     ⤿ @liamgallagher Get help

you didn’t answer that one. just liked it. and maybe it was projection, maybe it was nothing—but you swore he was getting quicker with these.

@liamgallagher Just seen someone wearin crocs with socks. Humanity is OVER   ⤿ @m0rningglory i could fix them. or i could wear worse. your call.     ⤿ @liamgallagherWear worse and i’ll block you       ⤿ @m0rningglory If u block me i’ll print your tweets on a t-shirt         ⤿ @liamgallagher Don’t tempt me i’ll sell them

you had to close the app. your palms were actually sweating. it was just twitter, you reminded yourself. just some dumb joke. just some daft man in a parka with too much time on his hands.

but the rhythm was addicting. he’d post. you’d reply. sometimes he’d answer. sometimes he wouldn’t. but when he did—

@liamgallagher Half you lot need puttin on a leash   ⤿ @m0rningglory what time should i be outside x     ⤿ @liamgallagher You’re one of them

your stomach actually twisted. stupid. irrational. but he’d remembered. or pretended to. same difference, yeah?

and when he posted this—

@liamgallagher i’m goin pub. don’t talk to me unless you’re buyin   ⤿ @m0rningglory what’s your order, king     ⤿ @liamgallagher Pint. Attitude adjustment.

—your phone lit up with six retweets, four quote tweets, and one dm from your mate that said: what the fuck is going on. are you two flirting?

you didn’t answer. mostly because you weren’t sure yourself.

but something was happening, and you didn’t want it to stop.

@liamgallagher NO I WON’T CALM DOWN   ⤿ @m0rningglory didn’t say calm down. said bend me over.     ⤿ @liamgallagher muted       ⤿ @m0rningglory worth it x

you dropped your phone face down on the sofa. said out loud to no one, “i’m gonna die.” your heart was kicking like you’d run a mile barefoot. you didn’t touch your phone for an hour. didn’t tweet. didn’t breathe.

he wasn’t flirting. not really. he was just being himself. chaotic. reactive. quick.

but he’d seen it. he’d answered.

you pulled your knees to your chest. bit your lip. it was just twitter.

but it was also liam fucking gallagher.

and now, apparently, you had a bit.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

@liamgallagher SHUT IT   ⤿ @m0rningglory ok daddy     ⤿ @liamgallagher GET A GRIP       ⤿ @m0rningglory worth it tbh         ⤿ @liamgallagher BLOCKED x

you threw your phone across the bed and groaned into your pillow. not because it was embarrassing — though it was — but because it kept happening. not every time. not every reply. just often enough that you started bracing for it.

@liamgallagher INHALE / EXHALE   ⤿ @m0rningglory me waiting to see if you’ve posted again     ⤿ @liamgallagher UR TWISTED       ⤿ @m0rningglory takes one to know one x

you were used to shouting into the void. but he always seemed to clock you. like his feed had a magnet for chaos — and somehow, you’d tuned your voice to match the frequency.

@liamgallagher BEHAVE   ⤿ @m0rningglory no x     ⤿ @liamgallagher WELL THEN       ⤿ @m0rningglory what you gonna do about it         ⤿ @liamgallagher SEND NOEL AFTER YA

you had to laugh at that one. not because it was clever — it wasn’t — but because he was still replying. because even at his most unhinged, he still made room for you.

@liamgallagher LEAVE ME ALONE   ⤿ @m0rningglory no <3     ⤿ @liamgallagher OHHH SHE’S BOLD       ⤿ @m0rningglory only for you grandpa         ⤿ @liamgallagher FUCK OFF x

somewhere along the way, people started noticing. a mutual quote-tweeted you with “she’s winning.” someone else DM’d a screenshot with, “not to be dramatic but you’re literally in a situationship with him.” you played it off. made a joke. but it stuck in your chest like a dare.

@liamgallagher ONE DAY AT A TIME   ⤿ @m0rningglory ok but what if we made it worse on purpose     ⤿ @liamgallagher U NEED HELP       ⤿ @m0rningglory u volunteering?         ⤿ @liamgallagher NOPE

he never followed you. never liked anything too obvious. but you could feel it — the shift. the pacing. the way he always answered the weirdest ones. like he was waiting for them.

@m0rningglory [photo] do u think liam gallagher would let me wear his shades and play with his vinyls   ⤿ @liamgallagher only if u don’t touch the fuckin smiths ones     ⤿ @m0rningglory i’d never disrespect you like that       ⤿ @liamgallagher Good. Ur on thin fuckin ice.

he liked a selfie once. no warning. no comment. just a quiet little red heart, hours after posting it — half-mirror, lipglossy, captioned something like “liam would bark if he saw me in this.” you’d laughed when you posted it. you almost cried when he liked it.

@liamgallagher liked your tweet: liam gallagher hates women he finds hot.

sometimes he didn’t reply at all. but ten minutes later, you’d get a like on an old post. one with three likes and no tags. quiet. deliberate. like he was saying, i see you. i’m just choosing chaos today.

you were starting to tweet just for him. not in a sad way. in a specific way. a bit daft, a bit shameless. always at the edge of what he might call back.

he never told you to stop. he never told you anything. but the replies kept coming. and you were starting to feel watched in a way that didn’t feel bad at all.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

you’d had two ciders, a handful of chips, and one very long, very unserious conversation with your flatmate about whether you could reasonably claim “twitter mutuals” as a form of courtship. she’d said no. you’d said maybe. and then you’d pulled out your phone, thumb hovering over the app like a dare.

@m0rningglory i’d be so well behaved if liam gallagher told me to   ⤿ @liamgallagher No u fuckin wouldn’t     ⤿ @m0rningglory ok true but like. what if i tried       ⤿ @liamgallagher U wouldn’t last 10 minutes. Chaos demon. Menace to society         ⤿ @m0rningglory say it slower           ⤿ @liamgallagher PERVERT

you stared at your screen, a little stunned. grinning like an idiot. he wasn’t flirting. not really. not yet. but the tone had changed—less bark, more bite.

@liamgallagher JUST GOT IN   ⤿ @m0rningglory and what do u smell like     ⤿ @liamgallagher Danger and dandelions       ⤿ @m0rningglory weirdly sexy of you         ⤿ @liamgallagher Tell someone who cares

it was starting to feel familiar. like a game. like a rhythm. like something he let you win on purpose.

@m0rningglory someone tell liam gallagher i’d let him ruin my life for a laugh   ⤿ @liamgallagher How do u know i haven’t already     ⤿ @m0rningglory you can’t prove anything       ⤿ @liamgallagher Don’t need to         ⤿ @m0rningglory that’s actually terrifying           ⤿ @liamgallagher Good. x

you closed the app after that. tossed your phone across the sofa and let your head fall back against the cushions. tried not to grin. failed.

because it was happening. not a crush, not quite. just a kind of heat. a thread. tugged tighter every time he barked back.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

you wanted to stay in—have a bath, watch something mindless, maybe scroll long enough to catch one of his tweets and toss something stupid into the void. nothing major. just a ritual. just background noise.

but your friend had begged. “just one drink,” she’d said. “just for an hour. i’ll even let you play that god-awful ‘90s playlist you like.”

you’d rolled your eyes, muttered something about taste, but in the end, you gave in. you always did.

you didn’t dress up. not really. just a soft black jumper, old miniskirt, your favourite boots. hair a little messy, makeup a little smudged. you weren’t trying to impress anyone. you weren’t trying at all.

and that’s what made it worse.

because you walked into the pub and there he was.

not five minutes in—not even halfway to the bar—and your eyes snagged on something familiar in the corner booth. the parka. the unruly fringe. face half-shadowed under the pub lights, but unmistakable. unmistakably him.

liam.

you froze. blinked. looked again.

he was nursing a pint, legs spread wide, one hand lazily spinning a pack of cigarettes across the table. talking to some bloke you didn’t recognise, laughter low and slanted. his voice didn’t carry, but his presence did—like static. like something sharp in your chest.

and maybe you stared too long, because he looked up. met your eyes.

you looked away so fast your neck twinged.

—

“jesus christ,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your friend toward the other end of the bar. “jesus actual christ.”

“what?” she said, already fishing for her card. “what’s wrong?”

“he’s here.”

“who—wait. he? no. no.”

you didn’t answer. didn’t have to. the look on your face said enough.

and suddenly you were hyperaware of everything—the way your lip gloss had worn off, the static cling of your skirt, the tremble in your fingertips as you reached for your drink.

you hadn’t planned for this.

you didn’t even think he lived near here. you thought he’d be somewhere flashier, somewhere louder. not this barely lit pub tucked down a side street. not your street. not your night.

and certainly not looking at you again.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

you were trying so hard not to look.

not in a pathetic way—just practical. normal. you had your drink. you were being chill. the pub was loud enough to cover your heartbeat. you kept your back half-turned, eyes fixed on your friend, nodding at whatever she was saying. pretending. acting.

you were doing fine.

until she nudged you—subtle, like she was adjusting her bag. “don’t freak out,” she muttered. “but i think he’s coming this way.”

you blinked. “you think—what?”

“i said don’t freak out.”

you turned, slowly. casually. like you weren’t about to combust.

and yeah. there he was. not looking at you—yet—just moving through the crowd, pint in hand, head tilted toward the telly mounted above the bar. match highlights. some player’s face frozen mid-sprint. it made sense, kind of. but he wasn’t walking like a man interested in the game. he was walking like a man orbiting something. someone.

your pulse thudded.

he got closer.

and then—he looked.

just a glance at first. not even a second. then a double take. a pause. his head tilted. brow furrowed. lips parted, like he might say something—but didn’t.

you didn’t breathe.

you saw it then—the flicker of recognition, vague and electric, like trying to place a dream.

he knew your face.

not from here. not from the room. from somewhere stranger. smaller. a little app on his phone, lit up in the quiet hours when the telly was muted and the world was half-asleep.

his eyes narrowed.

you pretended not to notice. raised your glass. took a sip like your hand wasn’t shaking.

he was still looking.

and then—just as casually as he’d appeared—he looked away. moved on. wandered back toward his booth like nothing had happened.

your lungs released.

your friend was grinning. “holy shit.”

“no,” you said, heat crawling up your neck. “don’t say anything. please.”

but you couldn’t stop thinking about the look. the pause. the click of something slotting into place behind his eyes.

he knew.

—

he wasn’t looking for anyone. never was. just out for a pint, maybe a packet of crisps—something salty to soak up the tail end of the day.

but then there she was.

at first he didn’t clock it—too far, too loud, too much going on. but something about the back of her head tugged at him. the slope of her neck. the way her hand moved when she reached for her drink—slow, a little exaggerated, like she wasn’t quite in her body.

then she turned. not all the way. just enough.

and he knew.

he didn’t smirk. didn’t blink. just stood there, watching her not watch him.

it was funny, really—seeing her try to play it cool. like she hadn’t just shattered half his notifications last week with some cracked tweet about his trainers. like she hadn’t been haunting his mentions for the better part of a month.

he took a sip of his pint. kept his eyes on the telly. didn’t move. not yet.

what are the fuckin’ odds, he thought. he let the pint rest against his bottom lip a second longer than necessary.

might’ve been fate. might’ve been the algorithm. same thing, these days.

she looked good. better than the selfies, even. softer. realer.

he scanned the room once, twice. no cameras. no mad lads with phones out. good.

he turned, leaned back against the bar, and let his gaze settle on her again.

alright then, he thought. let’s see if she bites.

he waited—patient. lazy. like a bloke watching something he already knew the ending to. just taking his time getting there.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════ your mate was still mid-rant about some lad from tinder who’d ghosted her twice and still liked all her stories, and you were nodding along, half-hearted, nursing your drink. the pub was loud, your feet were sore, and you were trying to decide if you had one more pint in you or if the night had already peaked.

then—

“fuckin’ hell.”

it landed behind you like a pint hitting wood. low. blunt. familiar in a way that made your stomach tilt sideways.

you turned. blinked. froze.

liam gallagher was standing ten feet away. pint in hand, brows lifted, mouth curled into something between a smirk and a sneer—like he’d just spotted something mad in the wild.

“didn’t think you were real,” he said, eyeing you like a puzzle. “thought maybe i’d made you up. or one of them bots. y’know—nutter with a good face.”

your throat went dry. “hi.”

he barked a laugh. “hi, she says. fuckin’ hell. you’ve been cloggin’ up my replies for weeks and that’s all i get?”

you smiled, helpless. “you’ve seen those?”

he leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “seen ’em? pet, they’re the only ones worth readin’.”

you flushed.

he grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself. took a long, lazy sip from his pint like it hadn’t cost him a thing to say that.

“was hopin’ you were half as fit in real life,” he added, eyes dragging over you in a way that wasn’t subtle. “turns out you’re worse.”

you laughed—half shock, half thrill. “worse?”

“yeah,” he said. “like... danger to the public. menace. babe.”

you raised a brow. “you rehearsed that one?”

“nah. came right outta me like a fuckin’ prophecy.”

he stepped in closer, nodded toward your drink. “you gonna buy us one, then? or are you all talk?”

“you’re the rockstar. shouldn’t you be buying me one?”

he scoffed. “i reply to one tweet about my sunglasses and now you want me to bankroll your night?”

“you replied to five.”

“six,” he muttered. then, quieter— “fuck’s sake.”

you were grinning now, bold from the beer and the way his eyes didn’t leave you. it felt like the centre of gravity had shifted.

“so?” he asked, leaning on the bar with one elbow. “you gonna stand there lookin’ smug all night, or are we havin’ this pint?”

“depends,” you said. “you always this charming, or is this just for me?”

he licked his teeth, head tilted. “dunno, love. maybe you’ll be the one to find out.”

you rolled your eyes, tried to steady yourself with a sip. the pint glass was too cold in your hand, the rim damp where you’d been leaving nervous little half-sips. you didn’t know what to do with your other hand, so you rested it flat on the bar, tracing a ring of condensation.

he clocked it. of course he did. gaze dropped once, then back up to your face. like he was filing it away. like he collected details the same way he collected insults.

“so what’s the verdict, then?” he asked—voice low but cutting clean through the din. “am i charming, or just a twat?”

you tilted your head. “both.”

his laugh cracked out quick, sharp. he knocked back another sip. “fair enough.”

the silence after wasn’t heavy. just odd. the jukebox kicked over to the stone roses. someone shouted at the telly. you felt his presence more than you saw him—the heat of his arm near yours, the faint smell of tobacco threaded through something warmer, sharper. aftershave, maybe. or just him.

he drummed his fingers once on the bar. impatient, maybe. restless. then:

“you local, then?”

“ish.” you shrugged. “not far.”

“dangerous,” he muttered, like it was a joke. “means i’ll be seein’ more of ya.”

your mouth twitched. “what makes you think you want that?”

he turned. really looked this time. no grin now—just that lazy, assessing stare you’d only ever imagined before. the kind that made your stomach dip.

“cos you’re here, ain’t ya?” he said simply. “ain’t leavin’, either.”

you didn’t have an answer for that. not one you could trust yourself to say out loud.

so you clinked your glass against his instead—light, nervous, stupid.

he smirked at that. shook his head like you were daft, but still lifted his pint to meet yours.

“fuckin’ menace,” he muttered. “knew it from the first reply.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

he kept sipping his pint. didn’t say much for a moment. let the music fill the space—a certain romance now, sweet and swirling, a little too tender for the look in his eyes. you half-wondered if he even noticed it.

he leaned his hip against the bar, shoulder angled toward you now, full-body and unbothered. pint dangling loose in one hand, thumb tapping against the glass.

“so go on then,” he said, like he was picking up an old conversation. “what’s your deal?”

you blinked. “my deal?”

“yeah. what’s the story? i post one thing about the moon havin’ it and next thing i know, i’ve got some pretty little gremlin flirtin’ in my mentions on the daily.”

you snorted. “gremlin’s harsh.”

he shrugged. “affectionate, that.”

you took a sip, licking your lips after. “maybe i just liked your tweets.”

“yeah?” he squinted at you. “which ones?”

“oh, you know. the spiritual wisdom. the threats. the tai chi incident.”

that got a grin. a proper one. teeth and everything.

“nearly took my own eye out,” he muttered. “fuckin’ tragic, that.”

“you survived. just barely.”

“only ’cos i had the moon on my side.”

you bit your lip. looked away, then back. “you always tweet like that?”

he raised an eyebrow. “like what?”

“like you’re possessed by a mancunian fortune cookie.”

he barked out a laugh—sharp and real, the kind that made his chest shake. “oi,” he said, swatting at your arm with the back of his hand. “cheeky fucker.”

you shrugged, grinning. “you asked.”

“mad thing is,” he said, turning back to his pint, “some of it’s real. some of it’s just bollocks. can’t tell which half most days.”

“don’t think anyone can.”

“no,” he agreed. “but you get it.”

you looked at him then. really looked.

and there it was again—not a flirt. not yet. just something watching.

like he’d read you in real time and liked the book.

you looked away first.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“so,” you said, swirling your drink a little, “do you talk to all your reply girls, or am i just special?”

he huffed through his nose. “fuckin’ hate that term.”

“which one?”

“‘reply girls.’ sounds like somethin’ noel’d moan about on a podcast.”

“so you’re dodging the question.”

“nah.” he shook his head, slow and deliberate. “just sayin’—if i wanted anyone in my mentions, it wouldn’t be half the ones i get.” he took another sip. “but you... you’re different.”

you raised a brow. “how so?”

he paused. just for a breath. then: “you make me laugh.” simple. flat. unflinching. like he hadn’t even thought about saying it.

you blinked, heat rising in your cheeks. “oh.”

“don’t get carried away,” he added, smirking into his glass. “sometimes you’re annoying as fuck.”

you let out a short, surprised laugh. “takes one to know one.”

he pointed at you. “that’s the shit. that’s why.”

you shook your head, hiding a smile. “you’re impossible.”

“and you’re a menace,” he said, shifting fully toward you now—no more lazy lean, just full-body attention. “but you’ve got style. and teeth. and you never fuckin’ miss.”

“you’ve definitely muted me.”

“never.” then, quieter. like a secret. “almost did. but then you said somethin’ about lettin’ me ruin your life for a laugh, and i went—yeah. alright. fair enough.”

you felt it in your chest, sharp and sudden—like lightning in water. but neither of you moved. not yet. just the hum of the pub behind you, the clink of glasses nearby, two half-drunk pints between you.

“do you reckon,” you asked, slow and cautious, “if we weren’t here right now... we’d still be tweeting?”

he looked at you, long.

“we will be anyway,” he said. “tomorrow. next week. whenever. you’ll post some filth and i’ll pretend i didn’t see it, then like your playlist the next day.”

you laughed. soft and fond. “that’s not flirting?”

“depends what you’re after.”

you looked down at your drink. “what if i don’t know?”

“then you’re honest,” he said. “rare these days.”

he nudged his pint against yours. a low clink. the gentlest kind of promise.

“but you’re here now,” he added. “and i’m not goin’ anywhere.”

you looked up. caught his gaze. that Liam look—half bored, half burning.

“alright,” you said. “guess i’m stayin’, then.”

“yeah?”

“just for the pint.”

“sure,” he said, already grinning. “just for the pint.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

he returned with both hands full, pint glasses knocking together at the base. didn’t say anything at first—just raised one toward you in offering, glass slick with condensation, knuckles smudged where the bar towel hadn’t dried the base proper. his fingers brushed yours as you took it. you felt it in your teeth.

“c’mon then,” he said, nodding toward the back corner. “reckon we’ve earned a seat.”

you didn’t answer. just followed. his parka slung over one arm, the other wrapped lazy round his pint. he didn’t check if you were behind him—you just were. orbit pulled. gravity bent.

the booth was too small. or maybe he was just big. either way, he took up more than his fair share—one leg stretched halfway into yours, the other knocked loose against the floor, heel tapping every now and then like he was keeping time to some song only he could hear. he shrugged the parka off and let it slump in the corner, then sank back into the seat like he’d always been there. black tee clinging soft to his shoulders, rings clicking gentle against his glass, thumb dragging slow over the condensation like it was muscle memory.

you tucked yourself into the edge, back half-pressed against the wall, trying not to shift too obviously when his thigh brushed yours. his arm was slung along the top of the booth, not touching, but close enough you could feel it—like static. like a held breath. like a warning. he hadn’t dropped it round your shoulders. not yet. but it hovered, cocky and casual, like it was just waiting for you to lean back and give him the excuse.

he hadn’t touched you. not really. just the press of his leg. the occasional brush of fingers when you reached for your drink. but the heat was unmistakable. a low thrum beneath your ribs, gathering slow. you felt a little electric. like your skin knew something your brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

you’d only meant to have one. just a drink, maybe two. a laugh, a story. something stupid to tell your mate the next day—remember when liam gallagher flirted with me at the pub?—followed by giggles and disbelief.

but liam was... magnetic. loud in a way that didn’t ask for attention, just pulled it in. like smoke. like gravity. his voice rolled low across the wood of the table, vowels stretched, consonants bitten off with that lazy northern lilt that made everything sound like a dare. every pint made him softer at the edges but sharper in the centre—easier with his hands, rougher with his compliments. unpredictable.

and you—god help you—you couldn’t stop grinning.

“you always this mouthy?” he asked, watching you over the rim of his glass.

his pupils were blown wide, black bleeding into blue, lids low and lazy like he was watching you from underwater. he looked at you like he wanted to laugh. or bite.

you shrugged, nudging his knee with yours. “only when provoked.”

he hummed deep in his chest, like an engine turning over. like it pleased him. his gaze dragged down your face, lingered at your mouth a second too long.

“so what,” he said, voice low, “you reckon i’ve been askin’ for it?”

“you reckon you haven’t?”

his tongue pressed into his cheek. “cheeky little thing, ain’t ya?”

you tried not to react, but your grin was already giving you away. he noticed. of course he noticed. his mouth curled, all smug and slow, like he was plotting your downfall and enjoying every second of it.

he shifted, stretched his arm higher over the back of the booth, his wrist brushing the ends of your hair like an accident. he smelled like cheap aftershave and stale beer and something sharper beneath it—cool and clean, like peppermint and rain. it hit the back of your throat like a dare.

“y’know what your problem is?” he asked, tipping his glass back.

you leaned in slightly. “enlighten me.”

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pointed vaguely in your direction. “you think you’re runnin’ the place. all smug. all clever. but deep down...” he leaned in now, voice dropping, lips just close enough to yours to make your breath catch. “you’re waitin’ for someone to knock you back a peg.”

you raised a brow. “is that what you’re offering?”

he grinned—wide and wolfish. “don’t tempt me, menace.”

you laughed, tipped your head back. he watched you like he was drinking you in, too.

something shifted in the air. subtle. charged. the pub blurred at the edges—just moving lights and mumbled noise, all dim beneath the weight of his gaze.

“you really think you can handle me?” you asked, cocking your head.

he didn’t blink. “babe, i was dealin’ with girls like you before you had your fuckin’ baby teeth.”

you choked on your drink, spluttered out a laugh that made his whole face light up. and for a second, it was easy. stupid. sweet. a moment caught mid-spin. two orbits slipping closer.

you hadn’t expected this. not the rhythm. not the pull. he was older, cockier, full of himself in a way that should’ve turned you off. but there was something about him—the way he spoke to you like you could keep up. like you might outpace him if he wasn’t careful.

he drained the last of his pint and set the glass down with a clink. rings flashing dull in the pub light. arm flexing as he stretched again. and this time, his hand dropped to your shoulder. not heavy. not claiming. just... there.

you didn’t move.

he tapped his thumb once against your collarbone. absentminded. or maybe not.

“one more?” he asked, nodding toward the bar.

you swallowed. nodded. “yeah. one more.”

he stood, slow and loose-limbed, fingers grazing your shoulder as he passed. he didn’t look at you. didn’t need to.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

he came back with two rounds. not two drinks—two rounds. four pints stacked in both hands like some unholy beer tower, face smug as anything.

“didn’t know what you wanted, so i made a judgement call,” he said, thunking them down on the table with a flourish.

you blinked at the collection. “jesus.”

“cheers,” he added, raising one to his mouth like he hadn’t just committed a war crime against moderation.

you stared at him. then at the pints. then back at him.

“you trying to kill me?”

“you started it,” he said, half-snarling, half-grinning. “all that mouth, ‘m just keepin’ up.”

“this is not keeping up. this is sabotage.”

“nah. this is character development.”

he passed you a glass like it was a peace offering—all froth and sparkle and maybe a little bit of something dangerous. you took it with a sigh, but you were smiling too hard to make it convincing.

the booth had shrunk in the time he was gone. or maybe he’d just taken up even more space—slumped back now, legs splayed, thigh pressed warm to yours like it belonged there. his knee kept knocking into you, slow and accidental. except it wasn’t accidental at all.

you were tipsy already, but now you felt it in your fingertips. everything buzzing. sweet. his voice a little louder now, words slurred at the edges, vowels dragged out like he was chewing them.

“y’know,” he said, mid-sip, “when you first started tweetin’ at me, i thought you were a bot.”

you nearly spit out your drink. “excuse me?”

“swear down. i was like—no one’s that bold. not without wires in their brain.”

“you’re such a dick,” you said, laughing.

“yeah, well. you kept goin’, didn’t ya?”

you shrugged. “someone had to humble you.”

he pointed. “see? bot energy. cheeky. relentless. absolutely no shame.”

“and yet you replied. repeatedly.”

“i was intrigued. like watchin’ a feral cat type with its paws.”

you snorted—loud enough to turn heads at the next table. he looked impossibly pleased with himself.

“you’re lucky you’re pretty,” you muttered, sipping again.

he leaned in, eyes twinkling. “say that again.”

“what, that you’re lucky?”

“nah. the other bit.”

you didn’t. but you didn’t have to. your cheeks were warm, and he saw it.

“thought so,” he murmured.

you reached for your next pint. he did too—and your hands brushed. not fleeting. solid. the kind of touch that lingers even when it ends.

you both paused. looked at each other.

“so,” you said, tilting your head, “how’s it feel, flirting with someone half your age?”

he let out a bark of laughter—full and unfiltered.

“cheeky and ageist,” he said. “unbelievable.”

you shrugged, smirking. “i’m just saying, it’s giving cradle robber.”

he leaned in closer, close enough to smell the beer on his breath, the faintest trace of sweat and aftershave and something smoky beneath.

“it’s givin’ you’re lucky i’m patient,” he said, voice low. “cos if i were twenty years younger, we’d’ve already got a cab.”

you blinked. heat flooded your chest.

“what, and ruin the mystery?” you said, swallowing around the sudden thud of your pulse.

he smiled like sin. “oh, babe. you think there’s still mystery left?”

your laugh came out shaky. you covered it with a sip. his eyes didn’t leave your face.

“you’re such a fucking menace,” you mumbled.

“so you’ve said.”

“you love it.”

“never said i didn’t.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

the second pint disappeared faster than the first. things were fuzzier now—edges gone soft, thoughts slipping sideways. he kept touching you. little things. a hand on your knee when he leaned forward to talk, a knuckle brushing yours when he gestured too wide. and you—well, you weren’t pulling away. you made some offhand comment about one of his tweets. something stupid he’d posted about wanting to headbutt a pigeon. he laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

“you saved that one?” he asked.

“maybe.”

“you fuckin’ loser.”

“you’re the one who tweeted it!”

“yeah, well. i was in a mood. the bird looked at me funny.”

you leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder now. “you’re unwell.”

“and you’re obsessed.”

“a little.”

he tilted his head. “lot, more like.”

you smiled. “so what if i am?”

“so nothin’. just means you’ve got taste.”

he said it too easily. too warm. your chest twisted.

“fuck,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “you’re dangerous.”

you blinked. “me?”

he looked at you then—really looked—and for once, the grin dropped.

“yeah,” he said. “you.”

the booth went quiet. the pub blurred at the edges. it was just you and him, pressed thigh to thigh, one breath away from whatever the fuck this was becoming.

he glanced down, then back up.

“we gotta get outta here,” he said suddenly.

you blinked. “what?”

he was already standing. “too loud. too many people. too many... rules.”

“liam—”

“mine’s close. c’mon.”

he held out his hand. not rushed. not pleading, just sure.

and you took it.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

outside, the air hit your face like a slap — sharp and cool and real.

liam flagged a cab with a sharp whistle, his hand still locked around yours like he wasn’t planning to let go. his grip was hot, anchoring, steady despite the wobble in his stance — drunk but purposeful, all swagger and instinct.

the cab pulled up fast. you barely registered what he said to the driver — something about camden, maybe, or chalk farm — before he was tugging you into the backseat, the door slamming behind you like punctuation.

and then — he kissed you.

no warning. no pause. his hand found your throat, not rough, just firm, thumb warm along your jaw as he pulled you into him like gravity had a grip on his bones. his mouth hit yours hard — beer-slick and breathless, tongue deep, a groan cracking out low from his chest like it’d been caged for too long.

you grabbed for him without thinking, hand twisted in the lapel of his coat, your knees knocking his. his other arm curled tight around your waist, dragging you half into his lap like he needed you there — like sitting beside him wasn’t enough.

you moaned, high and shaky, the noise slipping out before you could think.

he laughed, low and wrecked. “yeah. that’s it. gimme all that.”

the cab rocked over a bump and he took the chance to shift you closer, his hand sliding to your hip, thumb pressing into the fabric like he owned it. like you were already his to move. his fingers curled against your waist, guiding you where he wanted you.

“you feel that?” he murmured, teeth catching at your bottom lip. “how easy you are to move when you let me?”

your breath hitched. he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. his hand didn’t leave your body — kept you close, kept you pliable. thumb grazing your cheekbone, stroking down to your lip like he was drawing out your obedience.

"fuckin’—" he broke off, breath hot on your jaw, "been wantin’ to do this since the first fuckin’ tweet."

you laughed, all breath and heat. “which one?”

his fingers slid under your skirt — slow, almost lazy. too casual to be casual. “take your pick,” he muttered. “any of the ones that made me look like a perv scrollin’ at half past midnight.”

your breath stuttered. his palm cupped your thigh, warm and calloused. you kissed him again, harder this time — hungry, wet, teeth clacking. his mouth swallowed every sound you made like they belonged to him.

his hand skimmed higher.

your leg shifted, barely a thought behind it — just instinct, giving him room. giving him permission.

his fingers dragged up the inside of your thigh, slow and possessive, until they reached the edge of your knickers. just stopped there.

“liam—”

“shh,” he whispered against your mouth, the softest hush. “just wanna feel.”

he pressed against you, not pushing, not yet — just there. the heat of his hand solid over you, thumb resting against cotton like a promise. like he could learn your body through the fabric if you’d let him.

“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “you’re hot.”

“you’re drunk,” you breathed.

“yeah. drunk and lucky.”

you arched into his hand without thinking. helpless.

his touch shifted — dragging down your thigh again, slow enough to make your nerves burn, before tracing back up with his fingers splayed. his thumb dipped just under the band of your underwear, barely there.

his mouth found your neck, open and hot and messy — the kind of kisses that smeared, that took, that taught you what he liked by how he gave it.

“been thinkin’ ‘bout this,” he murmured, voice low and slurred and dangerous. “you, squirming in my fuckin’ lap. didn’t even know your name, and i still—”

his hand pressed firmer between your legs.

you gasped. choked on his name. “liam—fuck—”

he kissed you again, bruising and sharp. his hand held you there, cupped you like a possession.

“still smug?” he breathed against your lips.

you whimpered — might’ve said no, might’ve just made noise.

his hand curled tighter. “good girl.”

the cab jolted over a pothole and your hips rocked forward, grinding into his hand by accident — and fuck, the sound he made. low, guttural, right at the base of his throat.

his forehead dropped to yours.

“jesus christ,” he muttered, breath ragged. “if this ride don’t end in thirty seconds, i’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

you couldn’t even speak. just clung to him, heart rabbiting.

he kissed you once more — filthy and fast — then slipped his hand back down, pulled away like it hurt him to stop.

you whimpered at the loss. actually whimpered. he grinned at the sound — flushed and wild and so fucking pleased with himself.

“babe,” he said, voice wrecked and reverent. “we’re not even close to done.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

the cab shuddered to a halt, but neither of you moved.

just the engine ticking. your breath still tangled with his. the ghost of his hand still hot between your thighs. liam exhaled hard, like he’d been holding something in. dragged a crumpled note from his pocket and shoved it at the driver without so much as a glance.

“cheers, mate,” he muttered, voice all gravel and hunger.

he kicked the door open and stumbled out like the street owed him space. then turned back, already holding his hand out toward you.

“c’mon,” he said. “before i start dry humpin’ the fuckin’ seats.”

you took it.

the street was quiet. late enough now that even the pubs had gone dark, the night spread wide and yawning overhead. he led you down the block to a squat row of flats, keys jangling as he fished them out, head ducked like the stairs were already winding him up.

and you barely made it inside.

his coat hit the floor somewhere behind you, and your back found the wall like a magnet. he was on you again — mouth hot, breath hotter, tongue licking into yours like he needed to taste how wrecked he’d already made you.

“fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered against your throat, hands sliding up under your skirt. “knew you’d be like this. all mouth online, but soft for me. all that noise, and now look at you.”

his fingers pushed into the soaked fabric of your knickers — slow, then firm, like he already knew exactly what he’d find. you gasped. bucked into it.

“that’s right,” he breathed. “don’t hold back. let me feel it.”

your head hit the wall behind you with a dull thud. he kissed you again, deeper this time — messy and demanding, tongue sliding, hand tight at your waist like he was holding you still. your fingers found his hair, tugged hard enough to earn a grunt.

“keep teasin’ me on twitter all you want,” he rasped, mouth brushing yours, “but in here? you’re mine. yeah?”

you couldn’t speak. just nodded — fast. breathless.

his hand flexed between your legs, knuckles dragging slow, deliberate. “say it.”

“yours,” you whispered. “fuck—liam—”

“good girl.”

he pressed in closer, hand guiding your hips against his thigh like he wanted to feel every tremble. the weight of him. the voice in your ear like a slow, dirty prayer.

“upstairs?” you breathed, dizzy.

he grinned like sin. “if we make it.”

his hand dragged back down your thigh, knuckles grazing skin like he was wiping your heat onto himself. you whimpered. he looked smug as ever.

“bed,” he said. “now.”

you followed. legs wobbly. breath wrecked. your skirt still crooked, lips still kiss-bitten.

the flat was dim and chaotic — low lamps, half-drunk mugs on shelves, a guitar slumped in the corner. records stacked messy, sleeves half-open. a parka draped over the bannister like a king’s cloak. you brushed past it on your way up, hand steadying against the wall.

liam looked back once, saw you laugh.

“oi,” he said. “no judgin’ the decor. i’m a fuckin’ rockstar, not a minimalist.”

“noted,” you managed, winded.

he reached the landing and shouldered the bedroom door open like he was kicking it down.

then turned. looked at you like you were already stripped bare.

“get in,” he said, low and sure. “off with that skirt.”

and you didn’t even hesitate. not for a second.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

his room smelled like weed and something faintly metallic, like guitar strings. you barely registered it. too busy backing toward the bed, fingers fumbling at the hem of your skirt, breath hitching as the door slammed shut and liam turned that look on you again—drunk, feral, starving.

“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, eyes dragging over you like a lit fuse. “you gonna tease me all night or what?”

you dropped the skirt in answer. let it puddle at your feet. his mouth twitched. not quite a smile—something darker. possessive.

he stalked over, parka already half-off, and grabbed the bottom of your jumper with one hand, yanking it over your head like he couldn’t bear the space between you a second longer. “there we fuckin’ go,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “jesus. look at you.”

you reached for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, but he batted your hands away with a lazy slap. “nah, let me.”

he undid it slow. deliberate. the fucker. eyes never leaving yours, like he wanted you squirming—liked the way your hands twitched, the way your breath caught every time a new inch of skin was revealed. “don’t get shy now,” he said, shirt falling off his shoulders, lean chest exposed in the low light. “been barkin’ at me online like you wanted a fuckin’ medal.”

“you’re one to talk,” you said, voice barely holding. “half your tweets are spiritual thirst traps.”

he barked a laugh—bright and chaotic, head tipped back. “that so?”

“yeah. all that inhale/exhale shit? textbook horny behaviour.”

“you’re fuckin’ nuts,” he said, grin split wide, grabbing your face with both hands and kissing you like he meant it—hard and messy, tongue hot in your mouth, breath shared like a secret.

you tumbled back into the bed together, limbs tangled, mouths still chasing each other. he slotted between your thighs like he belonged there, hips pressing down—his cock thick and heavy through his jeans, grinding slow against the soaked cotton between your legs.

“fuckin’ soaked through,” he muttered, rough hand dragging the fabric aside. “barely touched you.”

“liam—” you gasped, your voice lost when he rutted against you, slow and filthy, the friction making your toes curl.

“shh, babe,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek. “let me feel you first.”

he rocked against you, jeans still half-on like he couldn’t be arsed to take them off yet. his hand slid under your bra, thumb brushing your nipple, and you arched into him with a choked sound. “fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, sucking at your neck now, slow and possessive. “god, you’re perfect. knew it. knew you’d be like this.”

you whimpered. ground up into him. your thigh hiked high on his hip, desperate. his cock dragged against your cunt again—hot and thick through the cotton, slick building with every pass. it was filthy. easy. neither of you undressed, just messy and wrecked and too far gone to care.

“liam—please—”

“please what?” he grinned, voice wrecked and gleaming. “use your words, babe. you’re mouthy as fuck online—where’s all that now?”

you whimpered again. nearly sobbed.

“please touch me.”

he growled. that did it.

“oh, i’ll fuckin’ touch you.”

his hand slid down, under your panties, thick fingers dragging through your slick like he’d been waiting his whole life to feel it.

“jesus christ,” he hissed. “you’ve been like this all night?”

you nodded—helpless.

“course you have,” he muttered. “walkin’ ‘round in that skirt, flirtin’ like you weren’t beggin’ for it.”

he pushed two fingers in without warning. you cried out. your hips bucked.

“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, curling them—deep and sharp. “that’s it, love. give it up for me.”

he worked you open with slow, cruel confidence. thumb circling, palm pressed tight, voice a hot slur against your skin.

“this,” he said, breath warm at your temple, “is for every time you posted some cracked shit about me barkin’. every time you said i’d ruin your life.”

he bit your earlobe. curled his fingers again.

“this is me provin’ you fuckin’ right.”

you couldn’t answer. couldn’t breathe. your whole body sang with it—shaking, clenching, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left.

and when he finally pulled his hand back, dragged your panties down your legs and shoved his jeans just low enough—

you were already gone.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

he didn’t tease.

no slow grind of knuckles over your clit. no cheeky smirk asking if you were sure.

he just grabbed your hips, hooked your thighs over his arms like they belonged there, and spat into his palm — the sound loud in the hush of the room. slicked it over his cock with two filthy strokes, then lined himself up and pushed in with a low, guttural groan.

no warning. no easing.

just all of him — thick and hot and real — stretching you open in one long, brutal thrust.

your body arched like it had been struck. a choked noise caught in your throat.

liam dropped his forehead to yours, voice already wrecked. “fuckin’ hell, babe… knew you’d take me. knew it.”

he held there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against yours. his fingers splayed against your thigh, gripping hard, keeping you open for him like you were something to be claimed.

“look at you,” he breathed, pulling out an inch just to sink back in slow. “fuckin’ perfect, you are.”

you whimpered — helpless, breathless — and his pace began to build. not fast. not yet. just deep, steady thrusts that left no room to hide. like he was fitting himself into a space he already knew.

“yeah,” he muttered. “just like that. fuckin’ melt for me.”

your hands clawed at his shoulders. his back. anything solid.

he didn’t mind. leaned into it. let you scratch and cling, even grabbed one of your wrists and pinned it to the pillow, like he wanted the image of it burned into your bones.

“you’ve been mouthin’ off for weeks,” he said, thrust sharp now, hips slamming into yours with purpose. “tweetin’ like you’re a fuckin’ brat. like you don’t wanna be put in your place.”

you moaned, too far gone to be clever.

he grinned, nasty and gleaming.

“but look at you now,” he purred, lips brushing your ear. “all pliant. all mine.”

your thighs trembled where they framed his hips. he read the signs — watched your breath stutter, watched your eyes flutter. pressed down harder with his cock, grinding in deep, hitting the spot that made you keen.

“that’s it, baby,” he said. “let me take care of it. let me do the thinkin’.”

his hand found your throat, thumb resting just under your jaw — not choking, just holding. grounding. anchoring you in the heat of him, in the rhythm of skin on skin and the wet slap of your cunt taking him.

“god, you’re drippin’,” he hissed, thrusts growing rougher. “you like bein’ used like this, don’t you?”

you nodded. couldn’t speak.

he caught your mouth in a messy kiss — more teeth than tongue, all heat and sweat and possessive little growls between gasps.

“all them tweets,” he murmured, voice a low rasp, “talkin’ big. bet you were touchin’ yourself to the thought of this, weren’t you?”

your hips bucked. his cock hit deep.

“yeah. i fuckin’ knew it.”

he fucked you harder — not cruel, but intense. relentless. like he wanted to fuck the noise out of you, the attitude, the last scraps of independence still clinging to your spine.

his thumb found your clit and rubbed tight, wet circles, dragging every twitch and whimper out of you like a secret.

“come for me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “c’mon, love. now.”

your orgasm hit like a wave — sudden, breathless, full-body. it ripped through you, left you shuddering, clutching at him like you’d come undone.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, feeling your cunt flutter around him. “you’re—jesus. look at you.”

he didn’t let up. not right away.

kept thrusting through it, kept you stuffed full, overstimulated, sobbing into his shoulder.

“wanted me to ruin you,” he said. “wanted to act all hard and end up cryin’ on my cock. yeah?”

you whimpered. nodded. couldn’t stop shaking.

he grabbed your face in one rough, reverent hand and kissed you hard — wet and deep, like he needed to taste every last bit of you before he gave in.

“gonna fill you up now,” he growled. “fuckin’ breed you if you’re not careful.”

your eyes fluttered. your body bucked.

his hips stuttered — one, two, three hard slams — and then he came with a low, broken moan, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled everything he had.

he collapsed over you, arms tight, mouth pressed to your shoulder.

“fucking hell,” he mumbled. “you’re dangerous.”

you didn’t answer. didn’t need to.

you just curled into him, still shaking, still full, and let him hold you there.

his cock softened inside you, but he didn’t pull out. just kept one hand on your thigh, the other in your hair, like he wasn’t ready to give you back yet.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“fuckin’ hell,” he whispered after a while, voice rough with awe. “you alright?”

you hummed, lips brushing his shoulder. “yeah.”

he shifted, just a little, finally easing out of you — slow, careful, like he knew you’d be sore. you winced anyway, legs twitching, and he caught your face in his palm like it was precious.

“‘m sorry,” he said, low. “wasn’t thinkin’. got carried away.”

you smiled, small. “you think?”

he huffed a laugh, leaned down to kiss you. properly, this time — no bite, no heat, just lips on lips, slow and warm.

“didn’t mean to—” he started, but you shook your head, fingers sliding into his hair.

“was good,” you said. “really good.”

he held your gaze for a second longer, then kissed you again. he looked so different like this. flushed and fucked-out, hair damp, eyes heavy-lidded and soft. you’d never seen him this quiet. this still.

you watched him fumble with the duvet, tugging it up over your bare legs, half-wrestling it into place. it was sweet, in a ridiculous sort of way — Liam Gallagher, rockstar, swearing under his breath as he tucked you in like you were something fragile.

he laid back beside you with a groan. pulled you into his chest without asking.

“you do this with all your twitter mutuals?” you mumbled, cheek pressed to his collarbone.

he snorted. “nah. just the ones that mouth off.”

you grinned. “so all of them, then?”

“oi.”

his fingers traced lazy shapes over your back. every so often, they paused — like he was checking, making sure you were still there, still warm, still close. you were.

“you’re soft,” you whispered, more to yourself than him.

he grunted. “shut it. i’m rock ‘n’ roll.”

you pressed a kiss to his throat. “you’re a teddy bear.”

“say that again and i’m blockin’ you.”

you giggled into his skin. he let you.

the room was quiet now. streetlights leaking through the blinds. somewhere outside, someone was laughing too loud. inside, everything was still.

his hand found yours under the covers. he threaded your fingers together. didn’t let go.

“g’night, trouble,” he muttered, already halfway under.

and you, floating in the haze of him, already so far gone — you whispered it back. “g’night, rockstar.” and meant it.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

you didn’t remember falling asleep. just the slow fade — his arms around you, the weight of his breath, the ache in your thighs wrapped in warmth and cotton sheets. you’d drifted somewhere quiet, somewhere safe.

when you stirred, it was bright. too bright. the curtains were thin and the sun was ruthless, spilling over the bed like an accusation.

you groaned and buried your face in the pillow.

“mornin’, menace.”

his voice was lower now, hoarse and scratchy with sleep. you turned your head, squinting — and there he was. sat up, shirtless, hair an unholy mess, one hand braced behind him while the other nursed a mug of tea.

he looked… good. painfully so. especially in the morning light — soft-edged and half-lidded, pink at the mouth like he’d been dreaming about you.

“you made tea?” you croaked.

“’course i did,” he said, holding out the mug like a peace offering. “not a monster.”

you sat up slowly, wincing a little. he clocked it but didn’t say anything. just watched you take a sip, eyes warm and unreadable.

you half expected him to be weird. distant. maybe a bit cold, now that it was morning. but he wasn’t. he stayed close. stayed soft. let your bare thigh rest over his. let you lean into him, sleepy and dazed, while the tea cooled between you.

you didn’t talk much. didn’t need to. just sat there, tangled and quiet, while the world outside blinked into focus.

— you left a little before noon.

he didn’t walk you out, didn’t make a scene. just kissed you once — lazy, lingering — and muttered, “text me when you’re home, yeah?” like it was a habit already.

you nodded. you almost smiled.

you still felt like you were floating when the cab pulled away. still smelled like him. still had the little marks on your hips where his hands had held you too tight. you looked out the window the whole ride back, half-expecting the clouds to part or something. they didn’t. but your phone buzzed in your lap anyway.

@liamgallagher THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS TO MY NEIGHBOURS

you stared at it. blinked. your mouth pulled into a slow grin.

no name. no tag. but you knew.

you liked the tweet. didn’t reply.