Pairing: Luke Hemmings x Reader
Genre/Themes: Friends to Enemies to Lovers
Warnings: Angst, Emotional Turmoil, Slow Burn
Synopsis:
Y/N was always there. Before the sold-out arenas, the chart-topping albums, the global tours—she was there. A constant in the chaos, the fifth member who didn’t need a mic or a spotlight. She couldn’t play an instrument, couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but she was family. She was home.
To the fans, she was the girl in the background of every backstage photo, the laugh behind every chaotic livestream, the one who always seemed to be right where the band needed her. Until one day… she wasn’t.
No announcement. No explanation. Just gone.
Now, years later, the world sees the band rebuilding. But behind closed doors, there’s a name they still don’t say out loud. A silence heavier than any breakup song they’ve ever written. Because losing her wasn’t just a fallout—it was the unraveling of everything they used to be.
And for Y/N? Disappearing wasn’t the end of the story.
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Synopsis: Y/N was always there. Before the sold-out arenas, the chart-topping albums, the global tours—she was there. A constant in the chaos, the fifth member who didn’t need a mic or a spotlight. She didn’t play an instrument, couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but she was family. She was home.
To the fans, she was the girl in the background of every backstage photo, the laugh behind every chaotic livestream, the one who always seemed to be right where the band needed her. Until one day… she wasn’t.
No announcements. No explanations. Just gone.
Now, years later, the world sees the band rebuilding. But behind closed doors, there’s a name they still don’t say out loud. A silence heavier than any breakup song they’ve ever written. Because losing her wasn’t just a fallout—it was the unraveling of everything they used to be.
And for Y/N? Disappearing wasn’t the end of the story.
It was only the beginning.
2024 - part four
The view of Los Angeles at night was one of those images I knew I would never forget.
In my limited time with Stefan, I had crossed countries, continents even. Cities far older, far more beautiful than this one. Places that should have meant more.
And yet.
What made my chest tighten had nothing to do with the skyline itself and everything to do with four men and one of them was sitting across from me at the small table on the rooftop of the lounge Suzannah had dragged Leona and me to. LA had always been like that — incapable of existing without memory.
“Thank you,” Ashton said quietly.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I replied, still looking past him, my eyes tracing the glow of the city all the way to the horizon.
He shifted in his chair, fingers lacing together, then separating again. Restless.
“I do, actually. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself in a situation like that,” he said. “Standing right on the edge. Almost.”
A dry breath escaped him. “But if it hadn’t been for you… I think I would’ve actually crossed it this time.”
Something about the way he said it — flat, unembellished — made it heavier.
“Something must have happened,” I said calmly, finally turning my gaze to him. “People don’t get pushed that far without a trigger.”
He let out a humorless laugh and nodded once.
“It did,” he said. “And funny enough… it’s the same thing that stopped me tonight.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Finally, someone is blaming me. It was getting boring.”
“That’s not what I said, Y/N.” His tone sharpened — not angry, but firm. Grounded. “You triggered it because with you comes the realization that no matter how much better I try to be, there will always be one thing I can’t fix.”
The words landed between us, heavy and unmovable.
“You’re right,” I said after a moment. “You can’t.”
His shoulders stiffened.
“But don’t worry,” I continued, before he could say anything. “The grudges I carry are not a good enough reason for you to gamble with your sobriety.”
An upset look crossed his face — quick, instinctive.
“No,” I cut in, already shaking my head. “This isn’t pity. I don’t have that generous of a heart.”
I leaned back in my chair, meeting his eyes fully now.
“I just don’t think you deserve an escape valve like that,” I said evenly. “So deal with it. Sit with it. Do better — for yourself.”
Then, softer, but no less final:
“Because, as you said it yourself, there is nothing you can fix.”
“That doesn’t stop the frustration of wishing I could.”
I exhaled slowly.
“Like I said,” I continued, “you’ll have to live with it. Just like I have to live with the fact that I lost so much of your life because you pushed me away—no, because you threw me away.”
I paused, choosing honesty over mercy.
“With knowing that I wanted to be there when you started that long, brutal road to sobriety. And with the guilt of being proud of someone who hurt me as deeply as you did.”
Ashton didn’t look away. He held my gaze, and there was so much happening in his eyes—regret, longing, something dangerously close to self-loathing—that it felt like staring into a distorted reflection of myself.
“Calum told me about your conversation,” he said quietly.
“I can imagine your surprise,” I replied. “He thinks he’s not ready, but from what I could see—”
“Yeah. He’ll nail it,” Ashton cut in gently. Then his expression shifted. “But you know that’s not what I meant. I’m glad he got to tell you what he felt. That you got to do the same.”
I shook my head, a bitter breath leaving my lungs.
“Even if I talked for a week straight without stopping, I still wouldn’t be able to explain what it felt like,” I said. “And the more I think about it—and believe me, I’ve thought about it more than enough—I realize something that’s hard to swallow.”
He stayed silent. Let me continue.
“It feels like the impact of losing our friendship only ever landed on me,” I said. “Because yes, I know you suffered. I know you went through hell. And I know me leaving got swallowed whole by everything else you were dealing with back then.”
My voice tightened, but I didn’t stop.
“All I’ve heard until now—from Michael, from Calum, from Luke—is that leaving me behind was collateral damage. A side effect of all the chaos, all the pain, all the survival mode you were in.”
I looked at him fully now.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Ashton’s jaw clenched.
“You healed,” I went on. “You rebuilt yourselves. You found your way forward. And I stayed… forgotten.”
A beat.
“Because for me, everything I suffered came from one place. I didn’t lose many things. I lost you. My friends. My family. Everything that mattered to me—gone just like that.”
The words hurt as much as I’d expected. Maybe more.
“For you,” I finished softly, “losing me was one of the sacrifices you made so you could keep going. With your lives. With the band.”
Each sentence felt like setting something down carefully, afraid that if I moved too fast, it would all collapse.
I swallowed, the tightness in my throat refusing to ease.
“But for me… losing you was everything.”
The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.
Ashton didn’t look away. He didn’t rush to soften it or defend himself. He just took it—every word landing visibly, like I’d finally said something he’d spent years bracing for without ever truly believing it would come.
His jaw tightened. Then loosened.
I could see him replaying memories behind his eyes—searching for versions of himself that might contradict what I’d just said. Finding none.
“I get it now,” he said finally. His voice was quieter than before, stripped of any performative confidence. “Actually… I think I understood it from the very beginning.”
He exhaled, a hollow sound, and shook his head.
“I just chose to lie to myself. To tell myself we were too damaged, too unstable, to not end up ruining your life.”
Something in my chest twisted—not with relief, not with validation, but with the cruel familiarity of hearing the truth arrive far too late.
“That’s a very cowardly conclusion,” I said. The words came out even, but my breath betrayed me, uneven and shallow, like my body was still catching up to the conversation.
We kept looking at each other.
No anger flared. No tenderness rushed in to fill the gap. Just recognition—heavy, unflinching, unavoidable. The kind that leaves no room for comfort.
Then he looked down, just for a second, as if gathering courage from the floor beneath his feet.
“Luke lived with me for a while after you left,” he said at last.
His voice dropped, careful, measured—like he was testing how much truth the night would tolerate before breaking.
“I was already a mess back then,” he added softly. “I’m sure you remember that part.”
And I did.
Too well.
A brief, humorless smile crossed his face.
“But it got worse. And Luke…” He paused, choosing his words. “He met me far too quickly on that same road. He was truly wrecked. What happened between him and… her. And not having you, I guess.”
He shook his head.
“He never talked about it. Not once. Even though I could see it in his eyes. Even though one night I had to pick him up off the sidewalk outside the building you used to live in — completely drunk, screaming your name, crying like a child.”
His jaw tightened.
“I never mentioned it. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not even to tell him I understood. That part of me wanted to sit on that same sidewalk and throw a tantrum until you came back.”
He swallowed hard.
“It could’ve ended really badly for us. For a while, we were competing for the title of who was the most fucked up.”
A breath of a laugh escaped him. There was no humor in it.
“But somewhere between long, blurry nights — lying on the grass in my backyard after meaningless parties — and too many drunken conversations we barely remember…”
He looked down at his hands, then back up at me.
“…we realized we were heading somewhere else. Down another road.”
His voice steadied.
“One of healing.”
I didn’t respond right away.
The city stretched behind him — lights scattered like constellations that never quite formed a picture. Los Angeles always looked like it was holding its breath at night. Like it was waiting to see who would break first.
“I’m glad you found that road,” I said finally. My voice was steady, even if something in my chest shifted when I spoke. “Truly.”
He watched me closely, like he was bracing for the word but.
“It doesn’t erase what happened,” I continued before he could fill in the silence himself. “It doesn’t rewrite the years I lost, or the versions of you I never got to meet. Healing isn’t a receipt you can hand me and ask for absolution.”
He nodded slowly. He didn’t interrupt. That mattered.
“But I also won’t pretend it means nothing,” I added. “I won’t reduce it to a footnote just because it’s inconvenient for my anger.”
His shoulders loosened — just a fraction.
“For a long time,” I continued, “I carried this idea that if I ever saw you again, I’d have to decide something. Forgive or don’t.”
I let out a quiet breath.
“And for me, the answer was always clear. Forgiveness was never an option.”
I shook my head.
“But life doesn’t work that cleanly. Not when history is involved.”
Ashton exhaled, slow and careful, like he’d been holding that breath for years.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said. “I don’t even expect space in your life.”
“I know,” I replied. “It’s been said to me more often than you’d think. I’m honestly quite surprised that all of you are so conscious of your mistakes.”
“Not all of us.” Ashton said but didn’t elaborate, but I understood. Even though I didn’t want to.
Silence settled between us again — different this time. Less sharp. Still fragile, but no longer hostile.
“I won’t be the reason you fall,” I said softly. “Not tonight. Not ever. But I also won’t be your proof of redemption.”
A faint, sad smile crossed his face.
“That’s fair.”
I stood, smoothing my dress, grounding myself in the simplicity of the motion.
“Take care of yourself, Ashton,” I said. “That’s the only thing here that actually matters.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond.
As I walked back toward the table, the music swelled slightly, the low thrum of the lounge reclaiming me. Leona caught my eye first, her expression sharp and assessing, already reading the set of my shoulders.
“You okay?” Leona asked, not lowering her voice as much as she pretended to.
“I am,” I said. And for once, it wasn’t a lie wrapped in politeness.
***
By the time we got home, the night had settled into that quiet, expensive kind of stillness the house seemed to hold so well.
No one said anything when we walked in.
Suzannah disappeared first—heels in hand, already halfway down the corridor before I even closed the door. Leona lingered a second longer, her eyes brushing over my face, searching, measuring. She almost asked.
Almost.
Then she didn’t.
“Goodnight,” she said instead, softer than usual.
“Goodnight.”
That was all.
They both knew me well enough to recognize when questions would only make things worse. And I knew them well enough to understand that silence, in this case, wasn’t indifference.
It was restraint.
The kind you offer someone when you’re waiting for them to come back to themselves.
I stood there for a moment after they were gone, the echo of the evening still clinging to me—the music, the lights, Ashton’s voice, the weight of everything that had been said and everything that hadn’t.
Then I moved.
Slowly. Quietly.
Not toward my room.
I never went there first.
Cecilia’s door was slightly ajar, a soft line of warm light cutting into the dim hallway. I pushed it open just enough to slip inside, careful with the sound, like the night itself might break if I moved too abruptly.
She was asleep.
Completely, deeply asleep.
One arm thrown above her head, her blanket half-kicked aside, her face relaxed in a way that felt almost… untouched. Like nothing outside that room had any claim over her.
I leaned against the doorframe for a second before stepping in fully.
Then I crossed the room and sat at the edge of her bed.
And I looked.
I’d done this a thousand times.
And still—every single time—it stopped me.
There were parts of me in her. Small, familiar details. The shape of her mouth. The way her brow softened when she rested.
And then there were parts of Stefan.
Those weren’t subtle.
They never were.
In the line of her nose. The curve of her cheek. Something steadier, quieter—something that didn’t belong to me but had become part of my life in a way I could never separate.
My chest tightened, but not painfully.
Just… full.
I reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. As if touch could anchor me to something that didn’t shift, didn’t leave, didn’t complicate itself.
So much had happened.
More than I allowed myself to process while it was happening.
Coming back to LA had felt like a controlled decision at the time. Calculated. Temporary. Something I could move through without letting it reach me.
That illusion hadn’t lasted long.
I exhaled slowly, my gaze still fixed on her.
Ashton’s face came back to me without warning.
The way he had looked at that glass.
Not reckless. Not impulsive.
Worse.
Deliberate.
Like he was negotiating with himself. Like he was standing on the edge and fully aware of it.
And the way I had moved—
without thinking.
Taken it from his hand.
Drank it.
Decided for him.
A faint breath left me, almost a laugh, but not quite.
I hadn’t expected that from myself.
Not anymore.
There was a time when I would’ve needed to be there for something like that. Would’ve insisted on it. Would’ve made it my place to hold people together when they were falling apart.
Back when I believed I was allowed to.
Back when I hadn’t learned what it meant to be left behind while everyone else moved forward.
And yet…
Tonight, I hadn’t hesitated.
I hadn’t asked myself if he deserved it.
If any of them did.
I had just acted.
Because some part of me—quiet, stubborn, impossible to erase—refused to stand still and watch someone I once loved destroy himself.
Even now.
Even after everything.
My fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her blanket.
I wasn’t sure what that said about me.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Cecilia shifted in her sleep, a small, content sound escaping her before she settled again.
My attention softened immediately, pulled back to something simpler. Something that didn’t demand answers I wasn’t ready to give.
This—this was real.
This was the life I had built.
The one that made sense.
The one that didn’t depend on anyone else’s choices or failures or regrets.
And still—
There were things waiting for me outside of it.
Unfinished.
Unavoidable.
Luke.
The name didn’t hit like a shock. It never did.
It settled instead.
Heavy. Quiet. Persistent.
I hadn’t spoken to him. Not properly. Not in a way that counted.
Not when it would’ve changed anything.
And now…
Now it felt like something I couldn’t keep postponing.
Not because I wanted to.
But because avoiding it was starting to take more from me than facing it would.
I leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Cecilia’s forehead.
“Stay like this,” I murmured, barely above a whisper.
For her.
Or for me.
I wasn’t sure.
Then I stood, turned off the light, and left the room quietly behind me.
But the thought stayed.
Waiting.
***
I knew he shouldn’t be there.
That thought had been sitting in the back of my mind since the moment I opened the door and found him standing there—uncertain, hesitant, like he almost expected me to close it in his face.
I hadn’t.
That was the first mistake.
The second was letting him stay long enough for Cecilia to notice him.
Everything after that… spiraled into something I hadn’t agreed to.
Now he was sitting on the floor of my living room.
Hands stretched out in front of him, palms down, fingers slightly spread—too still, too careful—while Cecilia hovered over him with a bottle of bright green nail polish, her tongue peeking out slightly in concentration.
“Don’t move,” she murmured.
“I’m not,” he answered immediately.
“You are.”
“I’m breathing.”
“That’s moving.”
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene like it didn’t belong to me.
Like I had walked into someone else’s life by accident.
Because it felt—
Right.
That was the problem.
There was something about the way he adjusted himself to her rhythm, the way he lowered his voice without being asked, the way he let her take control of the moment like it was the most natural thing in the world…
It settled too easily.
And he knew it.
When his eyes flickered up and found me, I saw it immediately—the conflict sitting right there, unhidden.
He was aware.
Of the space he was in.
Of the line he had crossed just by being here like this.
Of the fact that I had never given him permission for this kind of access.
And yet… he hadn’t pulled away.
Neither had I.
“I didn’t know she’d be here,” he said quietly.
Not defensive.
Not apologetic.
Just… careful.
“She lives here,” I replied, flat.
Cecilia didn’t look up. “Stop talking.”
Calum pressed his lips together instantly, nodding like he had just been corrected by someone with authority over him.
I had to look away.
Just for a second.
Because something about that—about how easily he adjusted, how naturally she accepted him—pressed against something in my chest I wasn’t ready to examine.
This wasn’t what I had agreed to.
Helping him was one thing.
Controlled. Defined. Temporary.
This—this felt like something else.
Like he had stepped into a space that was supposed to be closed to him and was trying, very carefully, not to break anything inside it.
And the worst part was—
He wasn’t doing it wrong.
“You said you needed help,” I reminded him.
My voice cut through the room more sharply than I intended.
Cecilia frowned slightly but didn’t look up, blowing gently on his nails like that would somehow make them dry faster.
Calum shifted his gaze back to me, something tightening in his expression before settling again.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
He looked down at his hands for a moment, like they gave him an excuse not to look at me while he figured out what to say.
“I just…” He exhaled. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That’s not new,” I said.
A faint smile ghosted across his mouth, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“No,” he admitted. “But this is different.”
Cecilia lifted his hand closer to her face, inspecting one nail with deep suspicion.
“You smudged it,” she accused.
“I didn’t even touch anything.”
“You did.”
“I promise I didn’t.”
She stared at him for a full second, like she was deciding whether or not to believe him.
Then she fixed it without another word.
He didn’t move.
Not even a little.
“I don’t know how to parent,” he went on, quieter now. “Not really. And I definitely don’t know how to co-parent with someone I barely know.”
That landed.
Not loud.
But real.
“I know I said I would help,” I said, watching him, “but every time you come to me, I can’t help asking myself… Why me?”
He looked up at that.
Properly this time.
Because there was no way around the question.
“I still don’t know,” he admitted.
I didn’t react.
“That’s not an answer.”
His jaw shifted, like he was steadying himself against something he didn’t fully want to say.
“It just… feels right,” he said. “Or maybe it feels familiar.” A small pause. “Like it would’ve been like this if life hadn’t decided to put a world of distance between us in every possible way.”
I stayed still.
He kept going.
“Because every time I think about how it could’ve been…” he exhaled softly, almost like he regretted continuing but couldn’t stop now, “I think about us in that apartment. My room. Three in the morning. Talking about everything and nothing until we fell asleep without even realizing it.”
“The guys help,” he added quickly, like he had said too much. “More than I expected.”
I nodded once.
“But it’s not… this,” he finished.
Silence stretched for a second.
“And I haven’t told my family yet,” he said.
That caught me off guard.
“And Chelsea…” His voice lowered. “She’s been trying to get pregnant.”
That one landed differently.
Quieter.
Closer.
Something in my chest shifted—not enough to show, but enough to register.
Understanding.
“I don’t think she has a problem getting pregnant,” he added quickly. “I just… don’t think it’s the right time to throw this at her.”
Cecilia lifted his hand again. “This one is pretty.”
“It is,” he agreed softly, looking at it like it mattered.
She smiled, satisfied, and moved to the next finger.
I watched them for a moment longer.
Then I exhaled.
I studied him for a moment.
“How is she? The mother of the baby.” I said.
Not soft.
Not warm.
Just… decided.
He looked at me again, something in his posture loosening just slightly—not relief, not quite, but close.
“She’s different,” he began. “From anyone I’ve been with.”
“That’s not a high bar.”
He ignored that.
“She works in corporate. She’s not even from the US—just moved here a few months ago because of a job offer.”
I raised an eyebrow slightly.
“She’s not like Brooke,” he added. “Or… any of that.”
That made me look at him properly.
Because I remembered Brooke.
And before her—
Alyssa.
“I saw Brooke that night at Michael’s,” I said. “At that dinner.”
He stilled slightly.
“And I remember thinking,” I continued, “how familiar she looked.”
His expression shifted.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“I mean,” I said lightly, but there was nothing light about it, “you’ve seen what Luke went through. What Alyssa did to him. The kind of damage she left behind.”
I held his gaze.
“And there you were with someone who looked almost exactly like her.”
He exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to his hands—bright green now, Cecilia’s careful work drying unevenly under the light.
“I didn’t feel for her what Luke felt for Alyssa,” he said.
“No,” I agreed.
A small pause.
“But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have,” I added quietly. “Not if you keep surrounding yourself with the same kind of people.”
That one stayed between us.
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t defend.
Just sat there, letting it settle.
“Íris, that’s her name,” he continued, more firmly now, “she’s nothing like that. She’s serious. Structured. She’s not in that world. Not rich. Not chasing anything. She’s just… normal.”
“And you still don’t know her.”
He shook his head once.
“No.”
Cecilia tugged his hand again. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving,” he said, softer now.
I watched him for a second.
Then:
“Then you will,” I said.
He looked up.
“You’ll learn everything there is to learn about the person who’s going to raise your child,” I continued. “Not because you’re curious. Because you don’t have a choice.”
Cecilia blew on his nails again, humming softly, completely detached from the weight of the conversation happening above her head.
“If you want to co-parent with her,” I went on, “there needs to be an agreement. Not assumptions. Not improvisation.”
He nodded slowly.
“You don’t have to like her,” I added. “You don’t have to be friends.”
That seemed to release something in him.
“But the relationship you build with her,” I said, holding his gaze steady, “will define the relationship you have with your child.”
That one stayed.
He didn’t respond immediately.
He just sat there, hands still, nails bright green, a child’s careful work drying slowly on his fingers while something much heavier settled into place inside him.
“You are completely right,” he said eventually.
Cecilia leaned back, examining her work with satisfaction.
“Done.”
Calum looked at his hands, turning them slightly like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now.
“They’re perfect,” he said.
She smiled like she had done something important.
I watched them.
And the thought came back again, uninvited, unwelcome—
He shouldn’t be here.
But something about him being there…
didn’t feel wrong enough to fix.
And that—
That was the part that unsettled me the most.
***
Cecilia followed Calum all the way to the entrance.
Of course she did.
Barefoot, still holding the nail polish bottle like it was part of the ritual, like the moment wasn’t allowed to end unless she walked him out herself.
“Don’t touch anything,” she reminded him again, pointing at his hands.
“I won’t,” he said, lifting them slightly like proof. Careful. Almost amused, but not quite.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
She studied him for a second longer, as if weighing his credibility, then nodded once—satisfied.
“Next time we do purple.”
He glanced at me before answering.
Not long. Not obvious.
But enough.
“Deal,” he said.
Next time.
The words settled somewhere they shouldn’t have.
I ignored it.
“Alright,” I said, gently placing a hand on Cecilia’s shoulder. “Say goodbye.”
She leaned in without hesitation, wrapping her arms around him in a quick, instinctive hug.
He froze for a fraction of a second.
Not because he didn’t want to respond—
but because he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
Then, slowly, carefully, he hugged her back.
Light. Brief. Controlled.
“Bye,” she said, already pulling away.
“Bye, Cecilia.”
He straightened as she disappeared back into the house, her attention already drifting to something else, the moment released as easily as she had entered it.
I stayed by the door.
He didn’t move right away.
Neither did I.
That same pause from before settled between us again—the one filled with everything we weren’t addressing.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Not only for the advice.
Not only for the conversation.
For the access.
For the space.
For not shutting the door when I could have.
I held his gaze for a second.
Then nodded once.
That was all.
He understood.
He always did.
He turned and walked away, hands still lifted slightly in front of him, careful not to ruin the small, bright evidence of a moment that shouldn’t have happened.
I watched him go.
Not long.
Just enough.
Then I began to close the door—
and something pulled my attention across the street.
Luke.
He stood there as if frozen, his expression unreadable, his eyes locked on mine—and the moment they met, something sharp ran through me. Sudden. Jarring. Enough to hold me in place.
I didn’t look away.
For a second—maybe longer—we just stood there, staring at each other across the street. No movement. No gesture. Just that silent, unbroken line between us.
Until I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I broke first.
Slowly, I closed the door.
But I knew—
without needing to look again—
that he hadn’t moved.
***
I was already in bed when the doorbell rang.
Sleep was nowhere near me anyway, so I'd settled for reading instead, curled beneath the blankets while my eyes skimmed over what had to be the most embarrassingly explicit scene anyone had ever managed to publish.
The bell rang again.
My entire body went still.
Please let it be Michael.
He'd left his guitar here earlier that afternoon. Maybe he'd finally realized it.
Clinging to that increasingly unlikely possibility, I slipped out of bed and padded toward the front door on silent feet.
The moment I looked through the peephole, my stomach sank.
Of course.
I rested my forehead against the wood and closed my eyes.
Maybe if I stayed quiet...
Maybe he'd assume I was asleep.
"I know you're not asleep, Y/N." Luke's voice came muffled through the door, the words softened by alcohol. "Open the door, or you're gonna have your neighbors complaining about a drunk sleeping on your doorstep."
I let out a long, resigned sigh.
"You always did know how to emotionally blackmail people."
"What was that?"
I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Luke was leaning against the frame, one shoulder carrying far more of his weight than it should have. His blond hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed from the cold night air—or maybe the whiskey—and his blue eyes were darker than I remembered.
Stormier.
"You've got some nerve showing up here, Hemmings," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "And don't even try to bullshit me. There's no way you knew I was awake."
A lazy smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
"You never go to bed early."
He pointed vaguely past me.
"And your bedroom light's on."
I frowned.
"This building has, what, fifty apartments? You don't know which window is mine."
"Course I do."
He said it with complete conviction.
"I counted."
I blinked.
"You... counted."
"Mhm."
He nodded proudly.
"Needed to know."
"...Why?"
"So I could save you if there was a fire."
I stared at him for a long moment.
Then shook my head.
"You can't even walk in a straight line right now," I muttered as he pushed himself off the doorframe, immediately stumbling over absolutely nothing on his way inside. "How exactly were you planning to count windows when you're seeing double?"
He ignored the question completely, making a determined—if deeply unsteady—beeline for my couch before dropping onto it with the exaggerated relief of a man who had just completed an Olympic event.
"And save me?" I closed the door behind him, crossing my arms. "Luke, you smell like a distillery. If there were a fire, you'd probably combust the second you walked into the building."
He looked up at me with complete seriousness.
"I would've risked it."
The words were ridiculous.
Absurd.
And yet...
Something in the way he said them stole the smile from my lips before it had the chance to fully form.
I looked away first.
"I'm still mad at you," I said quietly. "So what exactly are you doing here?"
"Trying to make you... unmad."
The crooked smile that spread across his face was so unmistakably Luke that it almost hurt. His eyes were glossy, unfocused, and he looked absurdly pleased with the word he'd just invented, as though it deserved a place in the dictionary.
"I couldn't sleep knowing you were angry at me," he admitted, the smile fading almost as quickly as it had appeared. "I never can."
His gaze found mine again.
"I've been awake ever since."
For a heartbeat, everything inside me stopped.
Then reality caught up.
"It's been three days, Luke," I whispered.
Three days since I'd stormed out of his house after he called me selfish for refusing to stay at the party he'd thrown to celebrate the end of the first leg of their tour.
Three days after I'd picked the boys up from the airport.
Three days after I'd spent the entire morning putting together a welcome brunch because I wanted them to come home to something that felt... like home.
Three days after reminding him I had an important exam the next morning.
Three days.
The words settled over him like a weight.
I watched the realization spread across his face.
The crooked smile disappeared, replaced by something heavier. Wearier.
His jaw tightened.
Without saying another word, he pushed himself off the couch.
Slowly.
Despite the alcohol in his system, every step toward me was deliberate, measured—as if moving too quickly might make me disappear before he reached me.
My stomach tightened.
I didn't move.
Couldn't.
He stopped close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, faint beneath the mint he'd probably chewed in a hopeless attempt to hide it.
One hand came to rest against the wall beside my head.
Then the other.
Not pinning me.
Not forcing me to stay.
But leaving nowhere for either of us to pretend there wasn't something immense standing between us.
"I'm going crazy, Y/N."
His voice was rough.
Lower than usual.
The words scraped their way out of him.
He leaned in just enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my temple.
"I'm disappointed, though," he murmured, a sad smile ghosting across his lips. "You promised we'd never go to sleep angry at each other."
His eyes searched mine.
"I kept my promise."
The words found exactly where they were meant to.
Because I remembered.
Lying on the floor of my bedroom in the apartment we used to share after our first real fight—the one that had ended with us stubbornly refusing to speak to each other for an entire week.
By the end of it, we'd decided we were never doing that again.
Never lie to each other.
Never leave without saying goodbye.
Never go to bed angry.
We'd been so young.
So certain promises alone could protect people from becoming strangers.
I swallowed against the knot tightening in my throat.
"I'm not apologizing," I said, holding his gaze. "Not when I wasn't the one who was wrong."
The smile faded from his face.
And for the first time that night—
he looked completely sober.
"I'm sorry," he said.
There wasn't a trace of drunken playfulness left.
"Awfully. Entirely. Truly."
The words weren't rehearsed.
They weren't eloquent.
They were simply everything he had.
"I know," I whispered.
Before I could stop myself—
before pride had the chance to interfere—
I closed the distance between us.
My arms slipped around him almost on instinct.
Because, despite everything, I couldn't bear the thought of spending another second standing this close to him without touching him.
This—
this was the only way I was capable of.
As friends.
For a heartbeat, he didn't move.
Then his arms came around me with a tenderness that almost undid me.
Careful.
As though he were afraid I'd disappear if he held on too tightly.
"Thank God," he breathed into my hair.
The words were so quiet I almost missed them.
He rested his lips against the top of my head, lingering there for the briefest moment.
Neither of us spoke for a long while.
Then, his voice came out muffled against my hair.
"I divided."
I frowned.
"What?"
"I was seeing double." A tiny, sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So I counted the windows... then divided."
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Small.
Barely there.
But real.
I felt him smile against my hair.
"There she is," he murmured, almost to himself.
***
The breeze was cold when I woke with a start in the comfortable cocoon I'd made for myself in the window seat of my library. It was already late. Cecilia had been asleep long before I'd escaped there with a book, hoping reading would quiet a mind that refused to settle.
It hadn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, I found myself back at the front door, Luke standing motionless across the street, watching my house as though he'd forgotten how to leave it behind. Those blue eyes had followed me into sleep.
Exhaustion must have won eventually.
The lamps were off. Margaret must have switched them off before retiring for the night, careful not to wake me.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked out the window.
The moon hung impossibly full above the city.
My oldest companion.
Then my gaze drifted lower.
Toward the street.
Toward him.
Luke stood beneath one of the streetlights, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, staring at the house.
At my house.
For one irrational second, it felt as though he'd never left.
He hadn't seen me.
I didn't move.
Barely breathed.
Some irrational part of me was convinced the smallest shift behind the glass would make him look up.
So I stayed perfectly still.
Watching.
He didn't pace.
Didn't check his phone.
Didn't seem impatient.
He simply... stood there.
As though he were waiting for courage to catch up with him.
Minutes slipped by.
Five.
Maybe ten.
Long enough for the silence to become unsettling.
Finally, his shoulders sagged with quiet resignation.
A small nod.
Almost imperceptible.
A decision.
He turned.
He was leaving.
I didn't think.
I was already moving.
By the time I reached the front door, I'd forgotten my shoes.
The cold pavement bit into my bare feet as I hurried after him, my nightgown stirring in the breeze.
Then I stopped.
I watched him walk away.
And somewhere beneath the hurt, beneath the pride...
I hoped.
I hoped he would do what he hadn't done eight years ago.
I hoped he would look back.
I let him take a few more steps.
Then I looked away.
I couldn't bear to watch him disappear twice.
He stopped.
Then he turned.
Everything inside me tightened with the quiet force of recognition.
No street between us this time.
No front door.
No excuses.
Just the two of us.
He didn't smile.
Neither did I.
For several long seconds, neither of us moved.
The silence wasn't empty.
It was crowded.
With eight years.
With unfinished conversations.
With words that had waited far too long.
Then he started walking toward me.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Instinct told me to retreat.
I took one step back.
Then another.
Before his hand closed gently—but firmly—around my wrist.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to ask me not to leave.
I lowered my gaze to where his fingers rested against my skin before looking back into his eyes.
He didn't let go.
"Seems like you have a lot to say to everyone but me."
His voice was controlled.
Too controlled.
The kind of control people mistake for calm.
"You're right," I answered evenly. "Back then, you were the only one who had the chance to hear what I had to say."
A beat.
"Now all of you are even."
Something flickered across his face.
Gone before I could name it.
"That's convenient," he said quietly.
"For you."
I didn't answer.
"Well," he continued, his thumb shifting almost imperceptibly against my wrist, "you might not want to say anything else..."
He swallowed.
"...but I do."
His eyes never left mine.
"And don't give me that 'I had my chance' bullshit," he said, his voice sharpening for the first time. "Your timing isn't the only one that matters."
There it was.
Not quite anger.
Not quite desperation.
Something raw enough that the line between the two had stopped mattering.
I let the silence settle.
Felt the warmth of his hand.
The steadiness of it.
The quiet certainty that he wasn't going to let me walk away as though another eight years would fix what the first eight hadn't.
I exhaled slowly.
"Alright."
The word carried no softness.
No kindness.
Only resolve.
"I'll do you this favor."
I lifted my chin and met his gaze without flinching.
"But only because my patience is already running thin."
His jaw flexed.
For a second, I thought he might argue.
Instead, something almost imperceptible loosened in his expression.
"Great," he said quietly.
The corner of his mouth lifted into something too weary to be called a smile.
"We've gone to bed angry for far too many nights."
Chapter 7 is finally complete. 🥹 I'm just doing one last round of revisions to make sure everything feels right, and it'll be yours this weekend. Thank you for waiting. 🤍
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you've had me foaming at the mouth for each chapter for nearly a year.... i hope ur doing well 💘
nearly a year?! 😭 i genuinely can't believe it's been that long.
fun fact: i already had three chapters written before i even started posting, so i really thought i was being smart and staying ahead of schedule. clearly, past me was very optimistic.
but i promise you one thing: i'm never going to leave this fic without an ending. i owe that much to you guys and to these characters.
chapter 7 is actually very much alive. i've written a lot of it already. my biggest problem is Luke. every time i get to his interactions, i write them, delete them, rewrite them, stare at them for a while, decide they're all wrong, and start over again. it just never feels quite right. i think part of it is because this is my first time writing anything like this, and i'm constantly rereading from chapter one because i'm terrified of messing up the tone or making the characters feel different from who they've been all along.
so please be patient with me. i'm ridiculously critical of everything i write, and sometimes that's what slows me down the most. and if any of you ever notice inconsistencies in the story, please tell me! i genuinely want to know. i'd much rather fix things than pretend they're not there.
anyway, thank you to everyone who's still here, still waiting, and somehow hasn't given up on me yet. i really don't think i deserve readers this kind after disappearing for this long. and i hope you're all not as good at holding grudges as y/n is. 😭💘
Helloooooo, just finished binge reading ur "the 5th member" series n its soooo good!!! Like it's been a while since i found a 5sos fic that isn't smut n honestly u delivered ❤️❤️❤️
HELLOOOO 😭❤️ Thank you!!! I'm so happy you enjoyed it!! And omg, as someone who also loves a good plot-heavy fic, this is such a compliment 😭 Thank you for binge-reading The 5th Member and for letting me know you liked it. You've absolutely made my day 🫶✨
Synopsis: Y/N was always there. Before the sold-out arenas, the chart-topping albums, the global tours—she was there. A constant in the chaos, the fifth member who didn’t need a mic or a spotlight. She didn’t play an instrument, couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but she was family. She was home.
To the fans, she was the girl in the background of every backstage photo, the laugh behind every chaotic livestream, the one who always seemed to be right where the band needed her. Until one day… she wasn’t.
No announcements. No explanations. Just gone.
Now, years later, the world sees the band rebuilding. But behind closed doors, there’s a name they still don’t say out loud. A silence heavier than any breakup song they’ve ever written. Because losing her wasn’t just a fallout—it was the unraveling of everything they used to be.
And for Y/N? Disappearing wasn’t the end of the story.
It was only the beginning.
2024 - part three
That diner was nothing special.
Two blocks from the house, squeezed between a laundromat and a florist that always smelled damp. Vinyl booths cracked at the seams, mismatched mugs, a bell over the door that rang too loud every time someone came in. If we hadn’t lived nearby, we probably never would’ve noticed it.
But the cappuccino was good. And the pancakes were better.
That was enough.
We went there in the mornings, usually after a late night, when none of us wanted to cook and everyone pretended the day could wait. Same booth by the window. Same order. The waitress stopped asking questions after the second week.
Luke slid in first, hair still wet, hoodie half-zipped. Calum followed, quiet and half-awake. Ashton dropped into the seat across from me with too much energy for that hour of the day. Michael came last, already complaining.
“I don’t get it,” he said, staring at my mug when it arrived. “You hate coffee.”
“I don’t hate cappuccino.”
“That’s still coffee.”
“No,” I said. “Coffee tastes bad. Cappuccino doesn’t.”
Calum snorted. Ashton shook his head like he’d heard this argument too many times.
Luke smiled into his plate, pouring syrup like there was no tomorrow. “Let her live.”
Michael leaned back, pointing his fork at me. “She just likes warm milk with denial.”
I kicked his shin under the table.
“Worth it,” he muttered.
That was the perfect scenario: pancakes stacked too high, butter already melting, syrup everywhere. We ate like we’d earned it, talking about nothing — a lyric that wasn’t working, someone’s alarm not going off, who forgot to buy groceries again.
“Dude, you wanna switch places?” Michael asked Ash. “You keep looking at the waitress and I feel like I’m on the way. Any second now you’re gonna start drooling on my plate.”
“Ew,” I said.
“You should be used to it by now,” Calum added. “Ash flirts with the waitress everywhere we go. I’m starting to think he has an apron kink.”
Ash just smiled.
“Not every waitress,” I said. “You never flirted with me when I worked at the diner.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re a keeper, baby,” Ash said easily.
“Shut up,” I muttered.
“Speaking of which… I miss that diner,” Michael said, poking at his pancakes. “So many memories, dude.”
“Why did we stop going there, by the way?” Luke asked.
“Because just because I found my best friends there,” I said, “doesn’t mean I want to keep going back to the place where I used to be enslaved.”
“Awn,” Luke said, mock-soft.
“But when we weren’t there with you,” he added, smirking, “the only company you had was a passed-out truck driver and a mosquito.”
“Hey,” I protested, pointing my fork at him. “That mosquito was very emotionally supportive.”
Calum snorted, nearly choking on his coffee. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“At least it listened,” I shot back.
Michael laughed, shaking his head. “You’re dramatic. That place wasn’t that bad.”
“It absolutely was,” I said. “I smelled like grease and burnt coffee every day.”
“And yet,” Ashton said, leaning back in his chair, “you survived. Built character.”
“Trauma builds character,” I replied flatly.
Luke grinned, unapologetic. “You loved us coming to get you after your shifts.”
I didn’t deny it. I just rolled my eyes and took another sip of my cappuccino — the one thing from any diner that had ever felt worth it.
The noise of the place wrapped around us: clinking cutlery, low conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine. Outside, the morning was bright and ordinary. No screaming fans. No interviews. No expectations beyond finishing our food and figuring out what the rest of the day might look like.
They were loud and careless and happy, talking over each other, stealing bites off each other’s plates like this was something we could do forever.
***
The space of time between leaving Cecilia at school and coming here felt unreal, like my body had moved on its own while my mind lagged a few steps behind. I didn’t remember the drive. Not the turns, not the traffic, not even the moment I parked.
And now I was standing in front of the diner near the house we used to share.
I hadn’t planned it. I didn’t even remember deciding to come. But after everything that had happened over the last few weeks, it made a quiet, unavoidable kind of sense. My mind had taken me there without asking. Back to a place where things had once felt simple. Or at least survivable.
The bell above the door chimed when I stepped inside. The smell hit me first—coffee, sugar, butter. Too familiar. Too intact.
I chose a booth near the window, out of habit. Ordered a cappuccino I didn’t need. Wrapped my hands around the mug like it might anchor me to the present.
“Y/N?”
I looked up.
Michael stood a few feet away, jacket half-zipped, hair still damp—like he’d showered and left the house without giving himself time to think. He looked genuinely caught off guard, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be here.
“Michael,” I said.
There was a pause. Brief. Uncertain.
“Can I… sit with you?” he asked. Not assuming. Not performing.
I let out a quiet breath, more tired than amused. Of course. I’d just turned Luke down earlier, and somehow the day still wasn’t done with me.
“Do I have a choice?” I said. “Apparently, if it’s not here, the universe makes sure we run into each other somewhere else.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, tired. “The universe, I don’t know. But we are still neighbors.”
“That,” I said evenly, lifting the cup to my lips, “can easily be rearranged.”
He nodded like he deserved it and slid into the booth across from me anyway.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The diner filled the silence for us—cutlery clinking, the coffee machine hissing, someone laughing too loudly two tables over. Life continuing, unapologetic.
“This is the last place on earth I thought I’d see you again,” he said. “Especially after last night.”
“I could say the same.” I glanced around, then back at him. “I didn’t know this place still existed for you after all this time. But I guess life keeps moving. With or without us.”
He nodded once. “I don’t know about the others. But for me… it’s a safe place. Only when I need it.”
“I see.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry about last night,” Michael said finally. No buildup. No defense. “The dinner. All of it.”
I didn’t answer right away.
“It was my idea,” he went on. “I thought—” He stopped, huffed a breath. “I don’t know what I thought. That putting everyone in the same room, with candles and decent food, might make things easier. Or fix something.” He shook his head. “It was stupid.”
“Optimistic,” I corrected. “Naïve.”
“I’ll take either.” His voice was quiet. “It wasn’t fair to you.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
He didn’t flinch.
“And I shouldn’t have put Chelsea in that position either,” he added. “She meant well. I should’ve known better.”
“You should have,” I agreed. Calm. Not cruel.
Another stretch of silence.
“I also wanted to say…” He hesitated, fingers curling against the edge of the table. “I’m sorry about your husband.”
The sentence landed softly—but it landed.
“I know it’s late,” he said. “And I know there’s nothing I can say that makes it less awful. But I am sorry. Truly.”
I met his eyes then. Really looked at him. The sincerity was there—not loud, not rehearsed. Just present.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
He swallowed.
After a moment, Michael leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “I hate that this is how we’re talking again.”
“So do I.”
“We should’ve done this years ago,” he said. “Not… whatever that was last night.”
“We?” I repeated, calm but pointed. “Think about that again.”
His jaw tightened. He nodded slowly, the admission settling in. “You’re right,” he said. “That was never on you.” A pause. “And somehow, I keep finding ways to make it worse.”
I studied him for a moment, then leaned back against the booth. “You weren’t the only one who stayed quiet,” I said. “But you were the one who decided silence was easier than asking if I was okay.”
He flinched—not dramatically. Just enough.
“I know,” he said. “And I hated myself for it. Still do, some days.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I told myself you’d come back when you were ready. That you needed space. That it wasn’t my place to chase you.”
“And it never crossed your mind that I was waiting for someone to?” I asked.
Michael swallowed.
“It did,” he admitted. “That’s the part I don’t like remembering.”
The waitress passed by, topping off my coffee without asking. Muscle memory. Routine. The kind of thing that made the past feel too close.
“I didn’t leave because I was fragile,” I said quietly. “I left because I understood something you didn’t want to look at yet.”
“What?” he asked.
“That I was already alone,” I replied. “I just stopped pretending I wasn’t.”
The words settled between us. Michael stared at the table, jaw working.
“I thought if I kept the band together, everything else would eventually fall back into place,” he said. “Like you were a constant. Something unbreakable.”
I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s the problem with assuming someone is unbreakable.”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
“And you were focused on something else too,” I added. “Chelsea.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t deflect. “At the time, everything was falling apart,” he said. “It felt like I was the only one who still had something good in the middle of the chaos. And I let that be my anchor.” He paused. “My escape.”
He glanced down, then back at me. “I don’t know if the guys will ever get the chance I’m getting right now. This conversation. But if we’re being honest—my dark years were the lightest. Not that that excuses anything. It doesn’t.”
I didn’t argue.
Another pause, heavier this time.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said carefully. “Not explanations. Not forgiveness. I just… needed you to know that I see it now. What we lost. And the part I played in it.”
“I know,” I said.
And for the first time since he’d sat down, something in his shoulders loosened—maybe from finally being heard.
“I don’t expect things to go back,” he continued. “With any of us. As much as I wish that were possible.” He exhaled. “But if there’s a way to exist in the same space without making it worse… I’d like that.”
I considered him for a moment, then nodded once.
“For now,” I said, “let’s work with what we have. No promises about the future.”
He met my gaze, steady. “I can work with that.”
We stayed there a while longer after that. Not fixing anything. Not pretending we had.
Just two people finally letting the truth breathe.
***
The conversation with Michael left me lighter in a way I hadn’t expected. Not because of forgiveness—there was none of that—but because he finally named what had been wrong. There was something grounding about that. About not being asked to absolve him, not being nudged toward closure or resolution. Just the quiet acknowledgment that what happened had weight, and that weight had been misplaced for a long time.
It didn’t mean I suddenly wanted the same conversation with the others. Or any conversation at all. Especially not with Luke, who hadn’t shown much interest in recognizing his own mistakes the last time we crossed paths.
For reasons I hadn’t fully unpacked yet, talking to Michael had been easier than even imagining a conversation with Luke. Or Calum. Or Ashton. Somewhere along the way, I’d failed to notice that my resentment hadn’t been evenly distributed—that each of them occupied a different fault line.
Life kept going as it always did.
For a brief moment, I considered moving again. Leaving had worked wonders when I went to Boston. Distance had given me air, clarity, room to breathe. But things were different now. I wasn’t alone anymore. Cecilia had settled into her routine—school mornings, afternoon snacks, bedtime rituals that mattered more than I liked to admit. I couldn’t disrupt that just because ghosts from my past occasionally crossed the street in front of me.
Michael and I didn’t stay in contact. That would’ve been more than I was willing to give.
But when we ran into each other, we acknowledged one another. A nod. A quiet greeting. Nothing heavy. Nothing loaded. Chelsea too. Polite. Civil. Contained. Exactly where it needed to stay.
I didn’t see Calum again.
At least, not properly.
I assumed he’d changed his routes, adjusted his timing. Avoidance has a shape—you recognize it when you’ve lived inside it long enough. I told myself I didn’t take it personally. Or maybe I did, and simply let it rest where it belonged.
Ashton was different.
I saw him often. On walks. Sometimes alone, sometimes with people I didn’t recognize. He lingered more than the others, always hovering at the edge of a decision he never quite made. Every time our eyes met, I could see it—the impulse to cross the street, to say something, to do anything. And every time, he stopped himself at the last second.
I didn’t help him either way. That was his work to do.
Luke, however, was a much bigger problem.
I didn’t run into him every time I went out, but it felt like I did. Like he existed in the margins of my days—close enough to unsettle me without ever fully stepping into view. Always hovering. Present in a way that felt both accidental and deliberate.
The first time he saw me with Cecilia, time collapsed.
We were at the park near the house—late afternoon, quiet enough that the world felt manageable. Cecilia was laughing, chasing something invisible, her hair catching the light. Then Luke appeared with Petunia, and everything inside him seemed to short-circuit at once.
I watched it happen in real time.
The color drained from his face. Then rushed back. Then settled into something faintly green, like his body hadn’t decided whether to panic or be sick. I could almost see the thoughts piling up behind his eyes, colliding, scrambling to make sense of a reality he hadn’t prepared himself for.
I didn’t give him the chance to come over. I didn’t even know if he would. I wasn’t interested in finding out.
I fake-called Leona—my voice light, practiced—manufacturing urgency where there was none. It gave me an exit. A clean one. I steered Cecilia away before she noticed the big white dog tugging at the leash.
Her brief interaction with Ashton and Calum still replayed in my mind sometimes—sharp, uninvited flashes. One with Luke would’ve been far worse. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t sure I ever would be.
And so the weeks passed.
They filled themselves quietly.
A short trip to Boston for a business meeting—Nicholas and Charles managing everything with the competence I’d leaned on while grief hollowed me out. Suzannah and Leona flew in on alternating weekends, turning my house loud and familiar again. We shopped. We laughed. We reunited Serafina and Cecilia. We cried when they hugged without hesitation, like no time had passed at all.
And somewhere in the middle of all that—between routines and reunions, between grief and noise—my heart settled.
Not healed.
Just steadier.
Steady enough to keep going.
***
The night began lightly.
I let Cecilia spend the weekend with Leona in Boston—her godmother being one of the very few people on earth I trusted, without hesitation, to take care of my daughter. Even so, I sent Margaret along for extra support. Leona was used to one child turning her house upside down. Two felt like tempting fate.
I was fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, mind already halfway inside a glass of red wine and the book I’d started earlier, when the doorbell rang.
I almost forgot to breathe.
He stood on my doorstep like something summoned rather than invited. My 2016 self would’ve closed the door in his face. My current self wanted to do the same—just with better manners. But then I really looked at him, and whatever reflex I’d been about to indulge stalled.
Something was wrong.
“Calum?” I said, neutral.
He looked skittish. Eyes too wide. Skin just a shade too pale.
“Is everything alright?” I raised an eyebrow.
He didn’t answer.
“Come in.”
He stepped inside but didn’t move past the center of the living room, like the space itself had boundaries he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross.
“Sit,” I said, already moving toward the couch. “Whatever this is, it doesn’t need to be said standing.”
He followed suit. Sat. Stared at his hands.
Seconds stretched. Or minutes. Time did something strange—compressed and endless all at once—until he finally spoke.
“I’m going to have a baby.”
The room didn’t react, but my body did.
A sharp, irrational pressure bloomed behind my ribs, like I’d missed a step going down stairs. I inhaled too fast, corrected it just as quickly, and folded my hands together so he wouldn’t see them tense.
Now I was the one who couldn’t speak.
My mouth stayed closed, but I must’ve lost control of my expression. He saw it—the collision of what? and why are you telling me this?
“I just found out this morning,” he added quickly. “I—I haven’t told anyone else.”
“Right,” I said, still catching up to the moment.
“I don’t want anyone to know,” he went on. “Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it. I won’t let—” His voice cracked, then steadied. “I won’t let my kid grow up being watched. Measured. Chewed up.”
This wasn’t the Calum I knew.
Or maybe it was—stripped of everything he used to hide behind.
And I understood. As much as he loved the band, he had grown up under cameras and headlines, under judgment from every direction. I’d witnessed it for a long time. I knew what it cost him, how it shaped him—and, in quieter ways, how it ended up shaping me too. Fame always came with a price.
I schooled my expression. Grounded myself.
“Okay,” I said. “Is it Brooke’s?”
“No. We’re not together anymore.” He hesitated. “It was a one-night stand. The breakup is recent, and if this gets out…” He exhaled sharply. “I’ve been in this long enough to know exactly how it’ll look.”
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
“And the girl—the mother of the baby—she’s not a public figure. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this. Not now. Not ever.”
“You’re already thinking like a parent,” I said.
He looked up at that, startled—like the thought hadn’t fully landed yet.
After a moment, quieter, he asked, “Can you help me? You’ve been through this. Having a kid, I mean.”
“Why are you asking me?” I asked calmly.
He knew what I meant. We’d been strangers for a long time.
“Honestly?” he said. “I don’t know. I think I blacked out from the moment I found out until the moment you opened the door.” He shook his head once. “It just… seemed right.”
I nodded once.
“Okay. I’ll give you my doctor’s contact,” I said, already reaching for my phone. “She’s competent. Discreet. That’s the first thing you’ll need. She’s in Boston—but if she can’t help, she’ll direct you to someone who can.”
I wrote it down and handed him the paper.
“Thank you,” he said, really looking at me now. I saw something shift in his eyes. “I know this can’t be easy. Doing this for me.”
“Not today,” I replied. “You don’t get to unpack eight years in the middle of a life-changing day.”
“I’m done avoiding it,” he said. “This situation just made that clear.”
“Calum,” I said evenly, “today is not about us.”
“It never is,” he replied. “That’s the point.”
I tilted my head slightly. “Be careful. You’re standing in my living room asking for help with news you found out about this morning. Don’t confuse urgency with entitlement.”
His jaw tightened. “You really think that’s what this is?”
“I think,” I said calmly, “that panic makes people reckless. And you don’t get to be reckless with me.”
Silence stretched between us.
“You didn’t go after me either,” he said finally.
I smiled—not kind, not cruel. Just factual.
“No,” I corrected. “There was no point. You stopped being my friend before I left.”
His expression shifted, something unsettled flickering across it.
“Do you remember the day you called me,” I continued, “asking to spend time together? Just the two of us. Like we used to. After months of distance.” I let the silence stretch. “Do you remember what you did that day? Probably not.”
I watched his face carefully.
“I remember what I did,” I went on. “I went to the supermarket. Bought all your favorite snacks. I was excited—because for the first time in a long while, I thought maybe I wasn’t alone in feeling that something between us was wrong. That you wanted to fix it too.”
I paused.
“And then I saw you. In that same supermarket. Buying alcohol. On the phone. Talking about a party I wasn’t invited to.”
I met his eyes.
“You didn’t cancel. You didn’t text. You let me figure it out on my own.” I exhaled slowly. “Turns out I was wrong. You didn’t miss me. I was alone in that feeling the entire time.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” He swallowed. “It’s hard to find the right words when you know you’re in the wrong. I was in a very dark place back then. I’m not even sure I ever got out.” He hesitated. “Not that it excuses anything. But if you gave us the chance to talk—really talk—you’d hear some version of that from all of us.”
“Some things don’t need an excuse, Calum,” I said evenly. “For a long time, I tried to invent one anyway. Something that would explain what happened. Something that would make it hurt less.” I paused. “Eventually, I understood the truth. You just didn’t care.”
“I did care.”
“No, you didn’t.” My voice stayed calm. “Because if you had, you wouldn’t have done that to me. You wouldn’t have left me humiliated and alone when I was there the entire time—helping you from the very beginning. Do you really think that’s what I deserved?”
“It’s not about that, Y/N!” He stood abruptly. “We were rising—cameras everywhere, number-one songs, trying to make it last. The fame, the money. There were girls throwing themselves at us, alcohol and drugs everywhere we went, our idols in the same rooms as us.” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “I was barely twenty. I used to think anyone who fell for that was weak. Pathetic.” His voice cracked. “Until I was the weak one. Until I was the one drowning in it.”
He paced the room while I stayed where I was, watching in silence.
“It doesn’t excuse anything,” he went on. “Hell, it doesn’t even justify it. But it makes me human.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I was watching everyone fall apart—Ashton drinking himself numb. Luke stuck in a relationship so toxic Chernobyl wouldn’t come close. Michael trying to hold everything together, trying to keep the band from imploding.”
He hesitated.
“And you…” He exhaled. “Your life was so normal. I envied that. More than I ever admitted.”
I didn’t interrupt him. I let the words finish spilling, let the room absorb them.
When he finally stopped pacing, he looked at me like he was waiting for something. Understanding. Permission. Maybe relief.
“You’re right,” I said at last. “It does make you human.”
His shoulders loosened, just a fraction.
“But being human doesn’t absolve you,” I continued. “It just explains how you managed to hurt people without meaning to.”
He flinched.
“You keep talking about everything that was happening to you,” I said calmly. “The noise. The pressure. The chaos. And I don’t doubt any of it. I lived close enough to see the cracks forming.”
I held his gaze.
“But while all of that was happening, I was still there. Showing up. Making excuses for you when you didn’t bother to make them yourself. Waiting.”
His jaw tightened.
“I wasn’t asking you to save me,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. “That’s what makes it worse. I wasn’t trying to be your lifeline. I was trying to be your friend.”
The word landed between us. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
“You don’t disappear on someone you respect,” I went on. “You don’t leave them to piece together their own humiliation and call it collateral damage.”
He dragged a hand over his face, breathing out hard.
“I didn’t know how to balance it all,” he said. “I didn’t know how to be who everyone needed me to be.”
“That’s fair,” I said. “But you don’t get to rewrite the damage just because you were overwhelmed.”
Silence stretched again, thick with everything he hadn’t said back then.
“I’m telling you this,” he said finally, quieter, “because I don’t want to be that person anymore.”
“I believe you,” I said. And I did. “But believing you now doesn’t change who you were then.”
He nodded slowly, like each word cost him something.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said.
“Good,” I replied. “Because that’s not what this conversation is for.”
Another pause.
“Then what is it for?” he asked.
I considered him for a moment. The boy he’d been. The man he was trying to become. The distance between them.
“It’s for clarity,” I said. “So we stop pretending this was a misunderstanding.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line.
“And now?” he asked.
“Now,” I said evenly, “you take responsibility for the part you played. You don’t minimize it. You don’t ask me to soften it. And you don’t expect access to me because you’re finally ready to look at it.”
He swallowed and nodded.
“I see.”
The words sat between us, fragile but sincere.
I was about to stand, to signal the end of the conversation, when something on his wrist caught the light.
I froze.
It was subtle—easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. A thin, worn bracelet. Dark cord, frayed at the edges. Familiar in a way that made my chest tighten before my mind could catch up.
I knew that bracelet.
For a moment, the room blurred—not dramatically, not painfully. Just enough for memory to slip in.
My apartment.
The box by the door.
Everything the boys had left behind, folded and packed with more care than necessary.
Me handing it to the doorman, casual, detached, telling him to keep it—just in case.
Knowing no one would come.
Except… someone had.
“This…” I said before I could stop myself.
My voice trailed off. I didn’t need to finish the thought.
He followed my gaze. His hand stilled at his wrist.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I—I went to your old apartment. Turns out I was too late.”
The admission landed softly. No drama. No defense.
“Why didn’t you correct me,” I asked, “when I said you didn’t look for me?”
He hesitated, then met my eyes.
“Because it doesn’t change the fact that I was one of the reasons you left.”
Silence settled between us again.
“I should go,” he said finally.
“Yes,” I agreed. Then, after a beat, I added, “If things get complicated—medically, legally, or otherwise—you can come back. About the baby.”
He looked up, surprised.
“This doesn’t reopen anything,” I said calmly, before he could misunderstand. “And it doesn’t change where we stand. But I won’t pretend I don’t know how isolating the beginning can be.”
He nodded slowly, absorbing that.
“Thank you,” he said. Not hopeful. Just grateful.
“You’re welcome.”
He left quietly, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the house settle around me.
The bracelet lingered in my mind— not as absolution. Just as a fact I hadn’t known before.
I turned back toward the living room, toward the life I’d built in the years since we stopped speaking.
Some stories don’t end when you think they do.
They just wait.
***
Leona and Suzannah stared at me in silence for ten full minutes.
“Do I need to call a doctor or something?” I asked eventually. “You’re not even blinking.”
“A baby?” Leona said.
“That’s not the question,” Suzannah replied. “Why would you be the first to know?”
Leona decided to bring Cecilia back to L.A. after the weekend she’d spent at her place, and Suzannah—surprising no one—came too. I nearly collapsed when I opened the door, grateful not to be left alone with my thoughts after Calum’s news.
Now we were in my living room, watching Cecilia and Serafina play house on the floor, the bunny dragged into it like a willing accomplice. The normalcy of it felt fragile, almost deliberate.
That was when I finally told them what had been keeping me awake.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Honestly, I lose the sense of certainty I used to have a little more each day I wake up here.”
“You wake up here because you want to,” Suzannah said. “I’ll never understand why you chose to come back to L.A.”
“I’ve already told you,” I replied. “Boston—and every other place I went with Stefan—is full of memories of him.”
“And yet,” she said evenly, “you chose a place full of memories with them.”
She didn’t soften it. She never did when she thought the truth mattered more than comfort.
“You’re lying to yourself.”
“Suzannah…” Leona said quietly, her eyes flicking toward the girls on the floor.
Suzannah followed her gaze, exhaled through her nose. “Right. I’ll keep my mouth shut,” she said. Then, softer, almost to herself, “for now.”
The room settled again, filled by the low murmur of Cecilia and Serafina negotiating bedtime rules for the bunny. I watched them longer than necessary, the way children turn everything into something survivable.
“What’s been keeping me awake,” I said finally, “is that I carried that anger for so long it became part of me. Something I learned how to move with.”
I folded my hands together, feeling the familiar tension in my chest.
“Stefan made it possible to live with it,” I went on. “He taught me how not to drown in it. How to build a life that wasn’t ruled by what I lost.” I swallowed. “But he didn’t make me let it go. I don’t think that was ever his job.”
Suzannah watched me closely now. Leona didn’t interrupt.
“And now I’m back here,” I said, gesturing vaguely around us. “In this city. In these rooms. With the past brushing up against my present like it never left.” I shook my head slightly. “Closure. Resolution.”
I let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped for years.
“I don’t know if I want that,” I admitted. “I don’t know who I am without the anger that carried me through it. And I’m terrified that if I let it go now, it won’t be peace I feel.”
The girls laughed at something again. The sound cut through the heaviness, grounding and absurd all at once.
“I’m afraid,” I said quietly, “that it’ll be grief all over again.”
***
“Y/N,” Nicholas said from the other side of the screen, his voice already tired in the way only men who know they’re losing can sound, “when are you giving us our wives back?”
“And my daughter?” Charles added, his voice drifting in from somewhere off-camera, like he’d leaned in just to make sure he was heard.
“If you don’t come here and take them from me,” I said sweetly, “never.”
“No—don’t do this to us,” Nicholas groaned.
“She’s joking, mon cher,” Suzannah said, sliding into view behind me, one hand already fixing her hair in the camera’s reflection. “She’s not strong enough to keep me away from you.”
“Suzan—wow,” Nicholas said, squinting at the screen. “Where are you going looking like that?”
“Out,” she replied simply. Then, with a shrug, “A nice place my cousin told me about. Not exactly a club, but there’s dancing. And drinks.”
Leona appeared beside her, already half-smiling like she knew this was a bad idea and was choosing joy anyway.
“Oh no,” Nicholas muttered, his head tipping back in defeat.
“We’ll be there in an hour,” Charles’s voice said confidently, still refusing to show his face.
“Don’t you dare,” Suzannah snapped, pointing at the screen.
“Yes, ma’am,” Nicholas said quickly. Then his tone shifted, losing the teasing edge. “All jokes aside—be careful. And have fun. All of you deserve it.”
Suzannah softened immediately. “Thank you, babe,” she said. “I’ll be back in Boston soon to bring all this chaos into your life again.”
“Give Serafina a kiss for me,” Charles said, finally stepping into frame. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Leona replied, blushing like she’d never heard it before in her life. As if he hadn’t said it a thousand times already. Typical.
I watched them for a second longer than necessary—this strange, beautiful normal they’d built—and then leaned closer to the screen.
“Well,” I said, “I love you both too. Thanks for asking.”
I ended the FaceTime call before anyone could respond.
“So,” Suzannah said, already reaching for her clutch, “are we ready?”
“I just gave Margaret the final instructions,” Leona replied. “We are.”
“I’ll just retouch my lipstick,” I said, turning toward the nearest mirror.
It was Friday night, and Suzannah had decided we were going out. There was very little Leona and I could—or would—do to challenge that. Plans took shape quickly once she set them in motion.
Dinner first. An Italian restaurant discreet enough to value silence over spectacle. After that, a place just private enough to pretend it wasn’t exclusive—dim lights, expensive drinks, music we’d grown up with, curated to feel effortless.
By the time I stepped back into the room, everything had settled into place.
“I’m ready now.”
Leona looked me over once more, the way she always did before we stepped out together—quick, precise, approving without ever saying it out loud.
“Good,” she said. “Let’s go before Suzannah decides we’re late.”
“As if being late has ever stopped me,” Suzannah replied, already halfway to the door.
Outside, the night was warm, forgiving. As the house disappeared behind us, something in my chest loosened—not relief, not escape, just the quiet permission to exist somewhere else for a few hours.
Suzannah smiled to herself.
“Now,” she said, “let’s see what trouble we can get into.”
***
Dinner was fantastic. The restaurant was chic but cozy, the kind of place that made you forget time existed the second you sat down. The food tasted like it had been pulled straight from my happiest days with Stefan, from our countless trips through Italy—long lunches, too much wine, nowhere else to be. But the place Suzannah’s cousin had recommended was on an entirely different level, the kind of spot that makes you feel slightly underdressed no matter what you’re wearing.
We were already a couple of drinks in, voices louder than they had been at the start of the night, elbows resting on the table as if we’d been there for hours. Gossip flowed as easily as the wine, jumping from topic to topic without ever really finishing one before the next began. Somewhere between a dramatic retelling and a very strong opinion I was forming, I realized I really needed to pee.
“Girls, no need to come with me,” I said, pushing my chair back. “I already know how this one ends.” They groaned in protest, but I lifted a finger. “Just hold the comments until I’m back. I have a very important point to make about it.”
I made my way through the narrow space between tables, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses following me. The lighting was soft and warm, flattering in a way that almost felt intentional, like the place wanted everyone to look a little better, a little happier than they actually were. I caught my reflection briefly in a mirrored column and smoothed my dress without really thinking, taking a breath that felt heavier than it should have.
The hallway to the bathrooms was quieter, cooler, and for the first time all night, I was alone with my thoughts. And that, I realized, was exactly when they tended to get loud.
Inside the bathroom, I rested my hands on the cool marble of the sink and looked at my reflection, really looked this time. Nothing was wrong, not exactly. My hair was in place, makeup untouched, posture impeccable—Leona would have approved without a single note. Still, something beneath the surface felt unsettled, like a faint vibration I couldn’t quite locate. Lately, moments had been stretching too long or slipping by too fast, memories resurfacing at inconvenient times, emotions arriving without invitation.
I exhaled slowly and straightened, giving myself a small shake, as if that could physically dislodge whatever was trying to creep in.
Not tonight, I decided. Tonight was for good food, expensive drinks, and women who loved me enough to tell me the truth even when it stung. I retouched my lipstick with care, pressed my lips together once, and smiled at myself—convincing enough.
On my way back, I took the longer route without really meaning to, passing by the bar that hummed with a different kind of energy than the dining room. Lower voices. Dimmer light. Less performance, more intention. I was halfway past it when something—or someone—made me stop.
Ashton.
He was seated alone, elbow resting on the bar, fingers loosely wrapped around a short glass of whiskey. The drink was untouched. He wasn’t looking around, wasn’t scrolling on his phone, wasn’t even pretending to be distracted. His gaze was fixed on the amber liquid like it held the answer to a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.
I stayed where I was.
Seconds passed. Then more. Nearly a full minute of watching him stare at the glass, his jaw tightening and relaxing as if he were working through an argument only he could hear. His thumb traced the rim once, twice, never quite lifting it. It felt… intimate. Too intimate for a moment I hadn’t been invited into, and yet couldn’t seem to look away from.
My body moved before I had the chance to reconsider.
I crossed the small distance between us and slid onto the stool beside him without asking. Before he could fully register my presence, I took the glass straight from his hand. In one smooth motion, I downed the whiskey—no hesitation, no pause—letting the sharp burn bloom in my chest before settling into something warm and steady.
I placed the empty glass back on the bar.
“Thank you,” I said lightly, turning toward him.
He stared at me, utterly astonished. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide. As if the moment had short-circuited every composed, clever response he might have rehearsed for a stranger.
I tilted my head, meeting his gaze without flinching.
“How did you know my throat was dry?”
Silence lingered between us, thick and charged, the kind that promised the night was about to take a very different turn.
Author's Note: i’m really at fault with you guys, but i wanted to give you a tiny little taste of the next chapter to make up for it
Sneak Peek 1:
“I’m sorry about last night,” Michael said finally. No buildup. No defense. “The dinner. All of it.”
I didn’t answer right away.
“It was my idea,” he went on. “I thought—” He stopped, huffed a breath. “I don’t know what I thought. That putting everyone in the same room, with candles and decent food, might make things easier. Or fix something.” He shook his head. “It was stupid.”
“Optimistic,” I corrected. “Naïve.”
“I’ll take either.” His voice was quiet. “It wasn’t fair to you.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
Sneak Peek 2:
I was fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, mind already halfway inside a glass of red wine and the book I’d started earlier, when the doorbell rang.
I almost forgot to breathe.
He stood on my doorstep like something summoned rather than invited. My 2016 self would’ve closed the door in his face. My current self wanted to do the same—just with better manners. But then I really looked at him, and whatever reflex I’d been about to indulge stalled.
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Hi! I hope you're doing well!! I hope you know we have not forgotten about you and are definitely still on the edge of our seats waiting for the next chapter.
Hi!!!! I’m also on the edge of my seat for your reaction to the next chapter 😭🫶 it’s honestly getting harder to write now that we’re in the middle of the story and moving closer to the ending. There are still a few chapters to go, probably, but I don’t want to undo all the anger we’ve built so slowly in just a few sentences, so I’m really trying to be careful with it.
Hopefully the next chapter will be out soon enough 💕
girl im so excited for what ur cooking up i stg i always think about ur fic im like a fan at this point
pls this is making me blush so bad 😭🫶 i’m just having way too much fun with this story right now. the fact that you think about the fic??? actually unreal. i still can’t believe someone besides the voices in my head is actually reading and liking it. i’ll try not to let you down, but things are going to get heated in the next chapter. hope you’re ready… and if you’re not, honestly, that might make it even better 👀
you better tell me rn that the next chapter is in the works. i literally love u thank u for writing my fave fanfic to ever exist.
by now you already know it is in the works… 😌🫶 and comments like this are exactly what keep me going. i literally love you too, thank you so much for all the love and support, it means more than i can ever explain 😭💕 i’m so glad this fic found you and that you’re enjoying it this much. i promise i’m not going anywhere <3
at this point i feel like im a fan..... but pls never stop writing. the last chapter had me kicking my feet and giggling. she is so petty and i love it. shes so me fr 🤞
It’s not like the guys don’t give her a million reasons to be this petty hahaha 😅 I’m the one kicking my feet and giggling reading your ask, though. I’m so glad you’re vibing with her — she’s definitely me too 🤞😂 Thank you for all the love, seriously!
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