#5sos edit

Summary: Inspired by "Back to Friends" by Sombr (Ironic, sorry...)

Warnings: Implications of sexual content, swearing & angst of course!

Word count: 7.6k

Copyright © 2025 Valentiyne. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

THE lights on the set were a little too bright for how early it was.

I stood off to the side of the studio, arms crossed loosely over my chest, trying to look like I belonged there..like I wasn’t holding my breath with every question the interviewer threw at the band.

The boys looked good, comfortable on the cushioned couch, joking with each other and flashing smiles that had probably been trained into muscle memory by now.

Luke sat at the far left, one long leg crossed over the other, and Calum, with a baseball cap tugged low, was already laughing at something Michael had said. Ashton sat closest to the interviewer, his fingers drumming lightly on his knee, a faint shadow of stubble along his jawline.

It had been months since I’d seen him in person like this.

“Let’s talk about the new record, Youngblood,” the host said, shuffling her cards. “It’s been called your most vulnerable album yet. A lot of songs that sound like breakups, heartache, holding onto something that’s already slipping…”

Luke nodded. “It’s definitely more personal. We weren’t trying to write a breakup album. But I think we had to get a lot of stuff off our chests.”

My stomach twisted. I already knew what was coming.

The host turned to Ashton, a glint in her eye. “Ashton, you co-wrote most of the tracks, including ‘Lie to Me’ and ‘Why Won’t You Love Me,’ which fans think are heartbreak anthems. Were those songs about anyone in particular?”

He let out a small laugh, the kind that was meant to disarm. “I think every song’s about someone. But… you know, it’s not always that straightforward.”

The host leaned forward. “So are you single now, or…?”

Ashton blinked, caught off guard for the smallest second before his lips quirked into a half-smile. “It’s… complicated.”

A beat. The silence behind the camera buzzed in my ears.

“Oh?” she pressed, clearly thrilled. “Because this photo has been circulating. Want to tell us a little about this?”

She held up a tablet, the screen turned toward the camera, and toward me.

The image was a candid. Ashton and I in a park, laughing about something, his hand on my cheek, forehead pressed to mine like he was telling me a secret. I remembered that day. It was the last day things felt easy between us. Before the fights. Before the distance. Before the silence.

I didn’t realize I’d moved until I felt my shoulder bump a light stand. I straightened immediately, pretending like I’d only shifted weight, but Ashton saw. His eyes flicked toward me, then back to the screen.

The smile he gave was tight.

“That was a while ago,” he said.

The host grinned. “Still look pretty cozy.”

He didn’t respond, just nodded once, gaze fixed on the coffee table in front of him like it suddenly held every answer he couldn’t say out loud. Calum quickly picked up the awkwardness, deflecting the host by talking about some picture of him that was leaked a few years back.

I slipped out of the studio quietly.

I sat outside the green room, sipping on my burning hot coffee that tasted like cardboard and waiting for the adrenaline to wear off. My phone buzzed in my lap. My bestfriend Alyssa.

Lys: Saw the clip... Yikes girl. You ok?

I stared at the screen but didn’t type anything. What was I supposed to say? That I felt like my ribs had been rearranged hearing him say, “It’s complicated”? That I still hadn’t figured out how to stop missing him when I knew damn well I had no right to?

The door creaked behind me. I didn’t need to look to know it was him. I recognized the soft shuffle of his boots and the way the air seemed to tense just before he spoke.

“You alright?”

I nodded, still staring ahead. My phone gripped tightly in my hand.

He stepped around to face me, and I finally looked up.

Ashton. Taller than I remembered. Or maybe I just felt smaller now. His curls were longer, pushed back beneath a beanie, and his arms crossed loosely over his chest like he was guarding something fragile.

“You didn’t have to come today,” he said quietly.

“I was invited by the label."

He nodded, kicking at the floor with his boot. “You saw the picture?”

I laughed, but it came out more like a scoff. “Kind of hard to miss.”

He sat down on the bench beside me, careful to keep some space. Not too much. Just enough to feel like old ghosts were sitting between us.

“I didn’t know she was gonna do that.”

“I figured.” I sipped my coffee, felt the burn on my tongue.

“You’ve been okay?”

That question. The one people ask when they already know the answer. When they’re hoping you’ll lie so they don’t have to feel worse than they already do.

I set the cup down.

“I’ve been around. And I’ve been mad at you, Ashton.”

His eyes met mine then, sharp and unblinking. “I know.”

“I’m mad because you walked away like I was supposed to just understand. Like what we had wasn’t worth a conversation. Like I didn’t deserve an explanation.”

He took a breath, then another. “You’re right.”

I wasn’t expecting that.

“I didn’t handle it well,” he continued. “The band was changing. Everything felt like it was cracking under me. And I didn’t want to drag you through all of it. But leaving the way I did… I still think about it.”

“You should.”

Silence stretched between us.

He looked down at his hands. “I wrote about you, you know.”

I blinked. “Which one?”

“‘Ghost of You.’” A pause. “And a few others.”

That one hurt. I swallowed hard. I had heard it the exact day the album came out, in a grocery store somewhere in Maine. I dropped my grocery basket and made a beeline to my car before the tears started. I felt sick to my stomach.

“It’s weird,” I said, voice quieter now. “Hearing yourself in a song that millions of people scream every night.”

He gave me a small, sad smile. “I didn’t think anyone would know it was about you.”

I looked at him. “I did.”

I don’t know why I said it.

Maybe it was the heaviness in the air, or the way Ashton was sitting beside me like gravity itself had finally gotten tired of holding us apart. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said he wrote songs about me. Or maybe it was just the truth, clawing its way to the surface after all this time.

“You remember that night?” I asked, not looking at him.

He didn’t ask which one. He didn’t need to.

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

I blinked hard, trying to focus on anything other than the pounding in my chest. But memory is a cruel thing, it doesn’t ask permission before showing up.

It was a Wednesday. The kind of evening that hung low in the sky, thick with leftover summer heat and the scent of asphalt still drying from a quick storm. I’d stopped by Ashton’s place under the flimsiest of excuses, he’d left a hoodie in my car, and I didn’t want it “cluttering my backseat.”

Really, I just missed him. Missed the way his voice softened when he was tired, the way he made silence feel like it had shape. We hadn’t defined whatever it was we were doing. I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to.

But that night, something was different. His eyes were rimmed in red like he hadn’t slept, and he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world not slipping through his fingers.

“Stay,” he said, his voice hoarse. Just one word.

And I did.

The music playing in the background was low and fuzzy, some lo-fi record spinning on vinyl like it was melting into the walls. We sat on his couch for hours, our knees brushing, words trailing off mid-sentence. I remember the feel of his hand grazing mine as he handed me a glass of water, hesitant at first, then certain. I remember how quiet his apartment felt, like it was holding its breath right alongside us.

And when he kissed me… God, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t heat or urgency or recklessness. It was reverent.

He kissed me like he needed to memorize the exact way my lips fit against his, like he already knew he wouldn’t get to do it again.

It was wrong. We were crossing the line of professionalism; I was one of the band's producer for christ sake. But we lost all signs of professionalism, along with my morals.

We didn’t talk much after that. Just let the night pull us under. Shirts came off. Fingers fumbled. But there was nothing clumsy about it. It felt like falling asleep in the middle of a storm, terrifying and safe all at once.

His body was warm, his touch careful. He ran his thumb over my cheekbone as he moved deep inside me, his mouth pressed to my collarbone like a prayer. I remember the way his breath hitched, the way he whispered...

“I love you.”

It was so soft I almost missed it. But I heard it. Clear as anything. The words spilled from his lips like they’d been waiting in his mouth for weeks.

And for a moment, I let myself believe we’d crossed some invisible line. That things would change. That maybe, finally, we were choosing each other. I didn't say it back, afraid that it would change things for good.

But when it was over, when the sweat was drying on our skin and the room had gone still again, Ashton pulled away.

Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… deliberately.

He climbed out of bed like it was on fire. His back was to me as he reached for his jeans on the floor, yanking them up in a practiced motion.

My heart was still fluttering in my chest, stupid and soft.

He ran a hand through his curls and let out a breath like he was about to dive into deep water. “You can’t tell anyone what we did.”

The words landed like a slap.

I sat up slowly, the sheet clinging to my chest. “What?”

He didn’t turn around. He tugged on his shirt. “I’m serious.”

I laughed, sharp, bitter. “Are you kidding?”

“It’s not a good time,” he said, finally facing me. “The album. Press. Management already thinks I’m distracted. If they knew..."

I cut him off, heart thudding in my throat. “If they knew you slept with me? If they knew you cared about someone?”

His eyes flashed with guilt. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, Ashton?” I stood now too, my voice rising with every word. “Because it sure as hell felt like it meant something five minutes ago.”

“It did,” he said, too fast.

“Then why are you acting like I’m a mistake?”

He flinched. “I’m not. I just… I can’t have people knowing right now. Everything is too unstable. I’m trying to protect-"

“Protect who?” I snapped. “Me? Or yourself?”

Silence.

That was the last night I let him hold me.

And the last night I worked for the band. He had asked me not to come to the next couple meetings; He was worried the boys would be able to read our guilty faces. I took it a step further and walk away from the company as a whole.

“You said you loved me,” I said again, the memory leaving a weight in my chest that hadn’t dulled with time. “And then you told me I had to keep it quiet. Like it was shameful.”

Ashton looked up at me, his expression drawn and hollow. “I did love you. I still...” he broke off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was doing the right thing. That if I could just keep you away from all of it...the noise, the chaos...you’d be better off.”

“But you didn’t keep me away,” I said. “You just made me feel disposable.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice rough. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

The tears stung before I even felt them fall. “I would’ve stood by you, Ashton. If you’d asked. If you’d just told me the truth. But instead, you made me carry it alone.”

He stepped forward, slow, like he was afraid I’d bolt. “I didn’t know how to choose you without losing everything else.”

I met his eyes, my voice trembling. “That's not fair.. why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I’ve spent the last year writing about you,” he said, voice breaking. “Touring the world with your name buried in every goddamn lyric. And I can’t keep pretending like that’s enough.”

I exhaled shakily, hating how badly I still wanted to reach for him. “So what now?”

He looked down, then up at me with something like hope flickering behind all the hurt. “Maybe we just talk. Maybe we try to be friends again. Or maybe we finally stop lying about what we are."

“I don’t know how to do either of those things.”

“Then let’s figure it out. Together. If you’ll let me.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because love was never the hard part with Ashton.

It was what came after.

The silence between us lingered like smoke, curling into the air even though neither of us dared speak. Ashton’s words still hung in the space between us: honest, heavy, bleeding. And mine, still burning on my tongue, tasted like regret and something too close to longing.

But I didn’t have time to decide what any of it meant.

Because the door swung open.

“Mate, we’ve been looking for-" Calum’s voice cut off mid-sentence as he stepped into the hallway, Luke just a step behind him. Both of them froze when their eyes landed on me.

Luke blinked like he wasn’t sure I was real. Calum’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow grin spread across his face.

“No way,” Calum said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No way. Is that really you?”

I swallowed hard and took a quick step away from Ashton, who immediately straightened like he hadn’t just been standing inches from me with his heart on the floor.

I tried to smile, but it came out uneven. “Hey.”

“Holy shit,” Luke laughed, stepping forward, arms out. “It’s been forever. Y/n... You... look...different. Good. Better than last time we saw you.”

I let him hug me. He smelled like cologne and faint sweat, his embrace warm and familiar in a way that made something in my chest ache. Calum was next, wrapping an arm around my shoulder like it hadn’t been over a year since we last spoke.

Michael stood against the doorway, a bag of chips in one hand as he scrolled on his phone with the other. I didn't expect a welcoming hug from him. After all, Ashton clung to him once we parted ways.

“Didn’t know you were here,” he said, voice warm. “You working with the label again or just visiting?”

My gaze flicked to Ashton before I could stop myself. “Just visiting.”

Calum noticed. His eyes darted between us, subtle, but sharp. He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head slightly like he was clocking the space, the tension.

Luke, blissfully unaware, looked between us all with a grin. “You guys catch up already? Should we give you a minute?”

“No, we’re good,” I said quickly, backing toward the wall, away from Ashton’s reach, away from the truth. “We are done catching up."

Ashton cleared his throat behind me, that guarded look sliding over his face like armor. “They were about to reset the stage, weren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “They want us back in the green room to talk over post-show plans.”

Calum gave Ashton one last glance, a quiet flicker of question in his eyes. Ashton ignored it.

“I’ll be right there,” he said.

The boys nodded and started back down the hallway, Luke tossing one last grin over his shoulder at me. “It’s good to see you. Don’t disappear to Maine this time.”

When the door swung shut behind them, the silence returned, sharper now.

I turned my back on Ashton and busied myself with pretending to check my phone. My hands trembled slightly, so I locked the screen just to keep them still.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Ashton said behind me, his voice softer now, like he was afraid of scaring me off.

I didn’t look at him. “I’m not pretending. I’m just trying not to make things harder than they already are.”

He stepped closer, but not too close. Respecting the boundary. Still… his presence always had a weight to it, like gravity itself bent differently around him.

“You pulled away the second they walked in.”

“Because I didn’t want them to see me falling apart,” I snapped, sharper than I intended.

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not falling apart.”

I finally turned to face him, blinking against the sting in my eyes. “Then why does it feel like I’m barely holding on?”

His expression crumpled, just for a moment. Then he nodded.

"Dont you have a show to be preparing for." It came out harsher than I intended, but maybe I was just being irrational and wanted to be alone.

“I’ll give you space,” he said calmly, turning to walk away.

I waited until he was a far enough distance before finally saying the words I buried for months.

“How can you just go back to being friends with me?”

I wasn’t even sure he’d hear me. But he stopped, his boots stopped thudding down the hallway.

Ashton froze. His shoulders tensed beneath the soft fabric of his flannel, and for a second, he just stood there, back turned, like he was deciding whether to keep walking or come back.

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable.

“We slept together, Ashton.” I said loudly, my voice almost echoing.

He flinches, looking around embarrassed. The words sliced through the stillness like a blade.

He blinked, once, as if trying to process the way my voice shook. Like he wasn’t expecting me to say it out loud. Maybe he thought I’d keep pretending with him, keep tiptoeing around the past we never really buried.

“We slept together,” I repeated, quieter now. “You told me you loved me. And now you want to talk like none of it happened?”

He looked wrecked. Not in a loud or obvious way, but in that quiet, soul-deep kind of grief. The kind people carry when they know they did the thing they swore they never would.

His lips parted, ready to answer, something, anything...but the moment shattered.

“Yo, Ash!” Luke’s voice called down the hallway, upbeat and completely unaware. “They need us back for post-roll. You comin’?”

Ashton’s head dropped just slightly. Like he didn’t want to turn away from me. But he also didn’t know how to stay.

His eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, everything in them was wide open. Regret. Longing. Fear. The echo of every version of us that could’ve been.

Then the wall went back up.

He took a slow step back toward the direction of the stage, toward the voices calling his name.

“I’ll call you,” he said softly, almost like a promise.

I stayed behind, still trying to catch my breath, wishing it didn’t feel like I was drowning in everything I didn’t say.

Later that night, I lie on my bed in the dim glow of my bedside lamp, staring blankly at the ceiling. Shadows play along the plaster, and every quiet hum of the city outside echoes like memories of what once was.

My mind drifts, unbidden, back to a night in the studio a year before, when Youngblood was nothing more than a dream taking shape in the boys' whispered ideas. Before Ashton and I slept together.

The air in the studio was thick with creative energy and the scent of coffee that barely masked the underlying buzz of fretless guitars and beat-up drumkits. I still remember how the soft hum of amplifiers and the clatter of instruments mingled with our laughter...raw and unguarded. Ashton and the boys had gathered in that familiar space, each of us desperate to carve out something real in the chaos of sounds and scattered ideas.

I sat on an old, battered couch that creaked under every shift of my weight, when Ashton and I ended up side by side. Our legs tangled together without us even noticing at first, a fleeting, gentle contact that felt like an apology, or perhaps a confession, of what was unspoken between us. In that moment, our barrier cracked.

Ashton leaned closer, his voice soft despite the hum of the mixing desk behind us. “What if we…” he began, a lopsided smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his eyes bright with something like hope and fear combined. We’d been bouncing ideas off each other all night, weaving lyrics that hovered between heartbreak and redemption. Every word felt laced with meaning, our very souls pressed into the shared creation.

I could still feel the warmth of his skin against mine, the subtle brush of his hand near my knee as we scribbled down lyric ideas on a notepad. We sat so intimately that it felt as if the entire world had slowed down, leaving just the two of us cocooned in our creative bubble. Our whispered suggestions and half-finished verses spilled out in a conspiratorial murmur, blending with the distant howls of guitars strumming in tune with our hearts.

But creativity, like love, has its moments of fragility. Before long, the energy in the room shifted. The rest of the band: Luke, Calum, and Michael, were growing restless. Frustration began to tinge their words as they circled back to discuss redoing a riff or tossing around changes that clashed with our mood. Voices were raised, and the tight focus of that intimate session splintered into a disjointed discord of opinion and irritation. There were pizza boxes or half eaten chinese takeout cartons sprawled across the studio, almost reminding me of them when they first started music. A twang of nostalgia shook my bones.

I looked toward Ashton, expecting him to mirror my quiet desperation for a break. And then, almost impulsively, I stood. “I’ll get us some snacks,” I declared, half-laughing at the absurdity of it all, a bout of rebellion against the chaos. “Maybe a little break will help clear our heads.”

Before I knew it, Calum was at my side. “I’m coming with you,” he said immediately, his tone laced with a warmth that reminded me of simpler times, back when being together wasn’t a secret or a puzzle. We left the studio, stepping into the cool night that felt like a balm, like quiet understanding after an exhausting argument.

Outside, under the buzzing fluorescent of a vending machine, Calum and I found a brief reprieve. The machine whirred as it dispensed a packet of chips, the sound oddly soothing against the residual echoes of the studio.

The fluorescent lights of the hallway buzzed faintly overhead, humming like static against the soft rhythm of my sneakers on the scuffed linoleum floor. Calum walked beside me, the hem of his hoodie clutched in one hand, the other buried in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched in that way he always did when things inside the studio got too tense.

We didn’t say anything at first.

The vending machine buzzed to life as I fed in a crumpled dollar. I pressed a button for chips, something salty and safe. The silence between us settled thickly until Calum finally broke it.

“So,” he said casually, watching the bag drop. “You and Ash. What are you guys?”

I paused, hand still inside the vending slot, fingers curling around the foil packet. “What do you mean?”

"Don't do that.. You know what I mean.”

I glanced away, peeling the bag open, letting the scent of fake cheddar distract me. “We’re friends.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out with a tone dipped in disbelief.

I shoved a chip in my mouth. “We are.”

Calum leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest. His voice was softer this time. “Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

I swallowed hard, the crunch of the chip suddenly loud in my ears.

He didn’t stop. “Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds after long sessions. Or disappear for hours at a time. Or walk around with that look on their face like they’ve got something sacred no one else is allowed to touch.”

I let out a breathy laugh, but it came out thin and strained. “You’re being dramatic.”

He didn’t laugh with me.

“You’re lying to yourself,” he said, voice low and careful, not judgmental, not cruel. Just… honest.

I turned my back to him, suddenly fascinated with the vending machine’s warped glass. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You sure about that?” he asked quietly.

Before I could answer, something caught my eye. My reflection overlapped with the view behind the glass, and there, through the wide window into the studio, was Ashton.

He was staring at us.

One hand rested against the neck of Luke's guitar, the other holding a pen loosely by his side. His head was tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on me and Calum like he hadn’t even noticed the boys talking around him. Like he’d forgotten the whole damn world.

The second our eyes met, he blinked and looked away, too fast. Like he’d been caught in a moment he hadn’t meant to be in.

I felt my stomach flip.

Calum followed my gaze, and something unreadable passed over his face. He didn’t say anything else. Just pushed himself off the wall and grabbed a granola bar from the machine, quiet again.

We didn’t speak as we walked back to the studio.

But I carried the weight of that look Ashton gave me all the way to the door.

The hum of my bedroom was all static and silence.

I’d been lying on top of my covers for over an hour, the overhead light off, the bedside lamp dimmed to a warm flicker. Outside, the city buzzed faintly through the cracked window, a distant rhythm that felt detached from everything inside me.

And then… it buzzed.

My phone, where it sat face down on my chest, lit up with a name I’d told myself I wouldn’t wait for.

Ashton xx

My breath caught and I fumbled around my sheets, trying to break my hand free.

I stared at the glowing screen like it was a question I didn’t know how to answer. The phone vibrated gently against my sternum, pulsing with every ring, and I counted to four before picking it up. Not because I needed the time to decide.

But because I didn’t want to seem too eager.

“Hello?” I answered, careful to keep my tone flat, casual. Like I wasn’t replaying every word we’d said earlier in the hallway. Like I hadn’t just been staring at the ceiling reliving that night in the studio with Calum. With him.

Ashton’s voice came through soft, a little hesitant. “Hey.”

I could hear the rustle of movement in the background, like he was walking somewhere, maybe pacing, maybe outside.

“I hope it’s not too late,” he added quickly. “I just got out of a meeting and- Look I just… wanted to talk.” I glance at the clock that I just so happen lost track of, and notice it was ten after midnight.

“It’s fine,” I said, shifting slightly on the bed, letting my voice dip into something nonchalant. “I wasn’t really doing anything.”

A beat of silence.

“Were you gonna call if I didn’t?” I asked, one eyebrow quirking like he could see me through the line. I meant it as a tease, but there was a sharpness under it I couldn’t quite dull.

He hesitated. “Yeah. I told you I would.”

“You tell me a lot of things.”

That landed heavier than I intended.

On the other end of the line, Ashton went quiet again. Not defensive. Just… still.

“I’m not trying to mess with your head,” he said eventually. “I know I’ve done enough of that already.”

“You’re not,” I said softly. “I just… don’t know what this is. Or what it’s supposed to be.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t feel like it should be nothing.”

I looked up at the ceiling again, phone pressed to my ear, fingers curled into my blanket. The memory of his stare through the studio window still lingered like a fingerprint on glass.

“I’ve tried so hard to pretend it didn’t matter,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

We were both quiet again, breathing into the same fragile space.

Ashton exhales into the receiver. “I’d rather… I’d rather do this in person.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“I mean, we’re talking now,” I say, pretending to keep it casual. “Might as well rip the Band-Aid off, right?”

“No,” he says, and it’s not unkind, it’s just quiet. Final. “Not like this.

I hesitate, biting my lip. “Okay, then… when?”

He’s silent again for a beat too long, and then his voice comes, careful. “I’ve got that interview with Zach Sang tomorrow. And then there’s the radio taping Wednesday. Thursday we’re flying out to New York for Fallon, and...”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Ash. You don’t have time.”

He tries to cut in, but I keep going. “It’s fine. We don’t have to meet in person. I get it. Life goes on. You’re busy, and this, whatever this is, doesn’t fit neatly into a schedule.”

His voice slices through mine, sudden and sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make this smaller than it is.” His breath catches like he’s holding something back, something too heavy to say all at once. “I owe you more than that.”

My heart squeezes.

I swallow thickly. “You don’t owe me anything, Ashton.”

“I do,” he says, softer now, like it hurts him to say it. “You let me into your world when I didn’t even know who the hell I was. You stood by me while I burned everything down and pretended I was fine. You gave a shit when I didn’t. And then I pushed you out. I can’t make that right over the phone.”

There’s something so raw in his voice I have to close my eyes.

“I want to look you in the eye when I explain,” he adds.

I exhale, long and slow. “Then when? Because every day you just listed is full.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then his voice, low, careful, asks, “Would you come to a show?”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“The first date of the tour. We’re in L.A. next Friday. You could come early, hang out backstage. After the show, we could talk. I’ll make sure no one else is around.”

I hesitate. My mouth opens, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say. The thought of standing in that crowd, watching him on stage again, feels like opening a wound I’ve worked hard to pretend doesn’t exist anymore.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to see that.. Especially debuting the album that's supposedly written all about me,” I whisper.

There’s a pause.

And then he says it, quiet, breathless, like a prayer.

“Please.”

That one word carries everything. All the apologies he hasn’t said. All the weight he’s been carrying. All the nights we never talk about.

My throat tightens.

And even though every part of me is screaming that this could hurt all over again, something softer inside me whispers back.

“Okay.”

The concrete under my feet is cold, even through my boots.

I stand just behind the heavy black curtain, out of view, flanked by techs and crew members adjusting cables and mics and lighting cues like it’s any other night. But it isn’t.

The crowd beyond the curtain is electric.

A sea of voices echo in the stadium, the kind that vibrate in your bones even from backstage. The kind that makes your pulse quicken even when you’re not the one performing. The sound builds in waves: cheering, screaming, chanting, all for them. For him.

I can hear Luke’s low laugh. The clink of a beer bottle. Calum shouting something about his amp. Michael’s voice in response, teasing and loud. The boys are warming up, loose, wild energy spinning between them. It feels like they’ve done this a thousand times, and maybe they have. But to me, right now, it feels like standing on the edge of something I’m not sure I’m ready to fall into again.

I run my palms down my thighs, wiping off the nervous sweat, then clutch the fabric of my jacket tight in my fists. My heart is knocking against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Then the lights cut.

The stage goes black and the crowd erupts.

Their names boom over the speakers, and suddenly the boys are running past me, silhouettes lit by strobes, instruments in hand and grins plastered to their faces. Luke throws a fist in the air. Michael’s already waving to the crowd. Calum flips his pick and catches it midair like muscle memory. Ashton is the last to pass, and for a brief second, our eyes meet in the dark.

Just one look.

But it roots me to the floor.

He disappears onto the stage, swallowed by the roar of a crowd that’s already in love with them.

The lights explode into color. Music crashes into life.

They open with an older track, one the fans scream every word to, their voices rising above the speakers. I step closer to the curtain, peeking through the gap. The boys are lit up in gold and white and deep purple, the kind of lighting that makes them look bigger than life. Calum’s bass thrums in my chest. Luke’s voice is rich and effortless, slicing through the stadium. Michael spins toward the mic with a smirk, tossing out a line that makes the entire crowd scream louder.

And Ashton. God.

Ashton is behind the kit, head thrown back, arms sharp and fluid, completely in his element. His hair’s wild, curls clinging to his forehead, sweat already gleaming on his skin. Every movement is controlled chaos. A storm with a rhythm.

They play two more songs before the lights dim again.

Luke steps forward, catching his breath as the audience quiets enough for him to speak.

“Alright,” he says into the mic, grinning. “We’ve got something special for you tonight.”

The crowd screams.

“We’ve been working on this new album for a while now,” he continues. “It’s different. It’s raw. Probably the most honest thing we’ve ever done.”

Calum nods beside him, his smile crooked. “It nearly killed us, but we made it out alive.”

The crowd laughs, shouts, claps.

Luke turns slightly, looking toward Ashton as if silently inviting him forward. Ashton rises from behind the drums, slinging a mic from its stand and stepping up to the front.

My breath catches.

His voice comes low and steady through the mic. “This album… it’s about change. About the people who pull you apart and the ones who quietly put you back together when no one else is looking."

The crowd stills a little. Leaning in.

Ashton’s gaze drifts out across the stadium, but I know he’s not really looking at them. His fingers wrap tightly around the mic.

“It’s about mistakes. Regret. Forgiveness. Second chances.”

He pauses, eyes scanning the crowd, and for the briefest second, they land backstage.

I freeze.

“It’s about someone who meant more to me than I ever really knew how to say,” he continues, his voice softer now. “Until I nearly lost them.”

The crowd is hushed now, the weight of his words pressing through the silence.

“I wrote these songs because I didn’t know how else to say it. So if you’re here tonight...." his voice pauses slightly, but he swallows it down- "this one’s for you.”

The screams return. Louder than ever. But all I can hear is the echo of his voice.

And that word: you.

It hits my chest like a stone in water. Rippling.

The show ends in a flood of noise.

The lights dim with a slow fade, the final notes of the last song still ringing in the air as thousands of voices echo one last cheer into the arena. The kind of sound you feel in your spine. The kind of sound that once made me proud, and now just makes me ache.

Backstage is chaos again. Crew members scramble to tear down equipment, sweaty towels are tossed over shoulders, water bottles are passed around like currency. Everyone’s moving in different directions, hugging, shouting, laughing. High-fives and adrenaline fill the air.

And I’m still standing in the same spot, half-hidden behind a curtain, heart in my throat.

I feel him before I see him.

That warm, unspoken presence like the sun after a long, cold morning.

Walking toward me, his curls damp and stuck to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come down from the high. His black jeans hang low on his hips, and his shirt is gone, tossed somewhere along the way, leaving his skin flushed and glistening under the dim hallway light. A towel is draped around the back of his neck, forgotten.

And God. I hadn’t seen him like this in so long.

That version of him. The one that glowed under stage lights. That burned from the inside out.

My eyes drop to the floor for a second, cheeks flushing hot. I suddenly feel sixteen again, like I’ve wandered into something I shouldn’t be allowed to witness.

He slows when he sees me, something softer taking over the adrenaline in his expression. Nervous now. Or maybe shy.

We just stare at each other for a second, the space between us filled with the ghosts of every unsaid thing.

“You stayed,” he says, voice low and a little breathless.

I nod. “I said I would.”

He smiles faintly, stepping closer. Close enough that I can see the way his fingers twitch slightly at his sides, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch me.

“I didn’t know if you’d make it to the end,” he admits.

I shrug, trying to stay casual, but my voice is soft. “I almost didn’t.”

His smile fades just a little. “Was it too much?”

“No.” I shake my head. “It was… a lot. But not too much.”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening a little.

“Can I just say,” he adds, wiping a bit of sweat from his temple with the towel, “you look good. Different, but… good.”

I laugh quietly, looking down at my hands. “You’re one to talk. You’re....” I gesture vaguely toward his bare chest, cheeks burning hotter. “You’re kind of… half-naked.”

He grins, finally catching on, and yanks the towel off his neck, swiping it over his chest and shoulders. “Right. Sorry. Force of habit. The shirt kind of… disappears after the second song.”

“You never used to do that,” I tease, glancing up through my lashes.

He shrugs with a sheepish smile. “Guess I didn’t have as much to prove back then.”

I look at him for a long second. “You don’t have anything to prove now.”

His expression softens again, and the air shifts. Slows. The noise around us fades to a low hum, distant.

“I meant what I said,” he tells me quietly. “About the album. About you.”

I nod slowly, throat tight. “I know.”

“I didn’t write it to get you back. I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to carry it anymore.”

We’re quiet again. Not awkward. Just… suspended in something fragile.

His voice is quieter now. “Do you wanna come with me? Just for a bit. Somewhere we can actually talk?”

I hesitate.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because I don’t know what talking might do to me tonight.

Still, I find myself nodding.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Okay.”

And as Ashton leads me through the backstage hallway, hand barely brushing mine like he’s afraid of asking too much too soon, I realize something.

He didn't tell the boys I was coming.

The dressing room is small and dimly lit , just a single bulb above the mirror and the muted glow of streetlights filtering in through the window slats. The hum of the city beyond the arena is a dull ache against the silence inside, like the world knows to stay quiet for us tonight.

I sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, fingers twisting the hem of my sleeve.

Ashton paces the room for a few moments, still wound up, still caught somewhere between the stage and here. His chest rises and falls with leftover adrenaline, his curls sticking to the back of his neck, the towel now forgotten on the floor.

Finally, he sinks onto the couch beside me, body warm and buzzing with life. Neither of us speak right away.

Then I notice his hands.

Red. Raw. Split open just at the curve of his knuckles , the brutal, familiar aftermath of playing too hard. Of giving too much of himself to the drums. To the crowd. To the songs that bled out of him.

“You’re bleeding,” I murmur, barely above a whisper.

He looks down at his hands, almost like he hadn’t realized. “Yeah. Happens sometimes when I forget how to hold back.”

I reach for him before I can think twice, my fingers brushing over his, careful. Gentle. There’s a faint tremble beneath his skin, not from pain, but from me. From this.

He watches me as I graze a thumb over his palm. There’s something unspoken caught in his throat. His eyes, tired and open, hold that familiar storm I’ve seen before, but now it’s quieted. Honest.

“I don’t want this to go away again,” he says suddenly.

My hand stills in his.

He swallows. “Whatever this is between us… I can’t lose it again. I’ve tried pretending it didn’t matter. I’ve tried burying it in songs and cities and shows, and it doesn’t work. You leave holes in my heart when you’re gone.”

The words hang there between us: raw and vulnerable and unpolished.

“I don’t know what I am to you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “A mistake. A memory. A ghost. But I know what you are to me. You’re the part I never got over. The one that still shows up in every verse I write. And I don’t want to write around you anymore.”

I don’t speak.

I just slide my hand fully into his, fingers threading between the torn skin and callouses and everything he’s carried alone for too long.

And I squeeze.

He breathes out like he’s been holding it for months.

“I don’t know what this is either,” I whisper finally. “But I’m tired of pretending it didn’t happen. And I’m tired of wondering if you still think about me.”

He lifts my hand and presses it to his lips, eyes closed.

“I never stopped.”

moodboard for…

‘streetlights’

by @crossedwiress

Luke stops short, right in front of Calum. He’s wearing blue make up under his eyes. Luke knows for a fact that it’s from one of Luke’s make up palettes. He likes this colour on Calum. It even matches his blue kilt.

“Hey. Need a ride?” Luke offers a crooked grin as he digs his keys out of his pocket. The lights flash when the car unlocks.

words: 5,783

tw: none

tags: no plot just vibes, Songfic, Friends to Lovers, Rainy Night, Cinema / Movie Theater, a bit of pining from luke, Calum Hood Wears a Skirt, Make Up, Date Nights, the joys of being confined in a car while its cold and raining, Kissing, Making Out, Radiohead References, Popcorn

FAVOURITE ALBUMS OF 2025: 7/12 ⟶ EVERYONE'S A STAR! BY 5SOS