mads

He wasn’t asleep. You could tell by the way his thumb was tracing slow, possessive circles into the skin of your hip, a rhythmic movement that felt like he was still keeping time to a song only the two of you knew.

"You're thinking too loud," Jaime murmured, his voice a gravelly, sleep-thickened rumble against the back of your neck.

"I’m thinking about how many unread emails Dave probably has right now," you whispered, reaching for your phone.

Jaime’s hand moved instantly, pinning your wrist to the mattress before you could even light up the screen. He rolled over, hovering above you with a slow, smug grin. His hair was a mess, falling over his eyes, and the wild intensity from the stage hadn't fully faded, it had just shifted into something deeper, something quieter.

"The emails can wait. The label can wait. Even the band can wait," he said, his gaze dropping to your lips. "They’ve had me for two hours on stage every night. The rest of the time belongs to you."

The peace didn't last long. A rhythmic, aggressive pounding started at the door, followed by the muffled sound of Dave’s voice, sounding like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Jaime! I know you're in there! Open the door before the hotel manager calls the cops on the paparazzi in the lobby!"

Jaime groaned into the crook of your neck, a sound of pure frustration. "I should have left the bass plugged in and the amps on. Maybe the feedback would have kept him away."

"We have to deal with it, Jaime," you said, though you didn't pull away. "There are only three shows left on this tour. We can’t spend them hiding in a hotel room while the internet tries to figure out who I am."

"They already know who you are," Jaime countered, pulling back to look you in the eyes. "You're the girl I kissed on a Jumbotron in front of ten thousand people. You're the girl I've been losing my mind over for three months."

He stood up, grabbing a discarded shirt from the floor, his movements casual despite the chaos waiting on the other side of the wood. When he opened the door, Dave practically fell into the room, holding a tablet like a shield.

"Do you have any idea?" Dave started, gesturing wildly to the screen. "Every music blog, every fan page, even some mainstream gossip sites, they’re all asking the same thing. 'Who is she? Is she crew? Is she a fan?' The label is breathing down my neck about 'brand image' and 'professionalism'!"

Vic wandered in behind him, looking remarkably relaxed, a cup of coffee in hand. He caught your eye and gave that same amused, knowing head-shake he’d given from the stage.

"I told him you guys looked good on the big screen," Vic said with a shrug. "The lighting was perfect. Great shot, Y/N."

"Vic, not helping!" Dave snapped, then turned back to Jaime. "We need a statement. Something about 'heat of the moment' or 'tour adrenaline' to calm the waters."

Jaime’s expression shifted, his jaw tightening as he stepped back toward you. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his side in a gesture that was anything but 'accidental adrenaline.'

"No statement," Jaime said, his voice flat and final. "No damage control. I’m not lying to them, and I’m definitely not apologizing for it. If the label wants a brand, tell them the brand is that I’m in love with our photographer. If they don't like it, they can find a new bassist for the next tour."

The room went silent. Even Dave seemed stunned into speechlessness by the sheer, blunt honesty of it.

The tour was ending in twenty-four hours. The professional life you had built was currently being dismantled by a million comments and shares, but as Jaime’s hand squeezed your shoulder, you realized you didn't care. The "secret" was dead, but for the first time since the tour began, you felt like you could finally breathe.

"So," Vic said, breaking the silence as he took a sip of his coffee. "Are we doing a group photo for the final night, or just another ten-minute make-out session on the risers?"

The final night of the tour didn’t feel like a victory lap; it felt like a countdown. The air in the arena was thick with the scent of pyrotechnics and the bittersweet hum of a closing chapter. On stage, Jaime was a force of nature. Every time he stepped toward the edge of the risers, the crowd screamed, a deafening reminder that the "Jumbotron Kiss" had become the tour's defining legend.

But for you, standing in the pit with your camera, every shutter click felt like a goodbye.

The venue’s VIP lounge was a blur of neon lights, expensive gin, and high-octane bass. The rest of the band was deep in "celebration mode," but Jaime was hovering. He didn’t care about the industry executives or the local models trying to catch his eye. He was a predator in a room full of prey, his gaze never leaving you.

When he finally caught you near the bar, his hand found the small of your back, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with a desperate, grounding force.

"I can't do this," he muttered, his breath hot against your ear, smelling of whiskey and mint. "I can't stand all these people looking at you, wondering if you're coming home with me."

"Jaime, everyone knows," you whispered, the adrenaline of the night still making your hands shake.

"That's not enough," he growled.

He didn't wait for the party to end. He dragged you toward the back of the lounge, through a heavy steel door that led to a private green room. The moment the lock clicked, he was on you.

It wasn't the slow, teasing build-up from the tour bus. This was frantic. This was a man trying to memorize the feel of you through his fingertips before the clock struck midnight. He pressed you against the cool leather of the sofa, his hands sliding up your thighs with a rough, needy weight.

"Tell me you're mine," he gasped, his mouth crashing onto yours, tasting of hunger and sweat. "Say it."

"I'm yours, Jaime," you breathed, your nails catching in the hair at the nape of his neck. "Always."

The sex was loud and desperate, a chaotic collision of limbs and muffled cries. He moved inside you with a fierce, possessive rhythm, his eyes never leaving yours. It felt like a claim, a physical manifestation of the "Mine" he had mouthed on stage for weeks. Every time you arched into him, he gripped your hips tighter, as if he could physically weld your lives together right there on the floor of a venue in a city you'd be leaving in five hours.

Afterward, the silence was suffocating. The muffled thud of the party continued outside the door, but inside, the air was heavy with unspoken questions. Jaime sat on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands, his chest still heaving.

"The bus leaves at 4:00 AM," you said softly, adjusting your dress. Your voice was thin, brittle. "You're going back to San Diego for the break. My flight is at 6:00."

Jaime looked up, his eyes bloodshot and filled with a raw, jagged angst. The rockstar persona was gone; there was just the man who didn't know how to let go.

"So that's it?" he asked, his voice cracking. "We play the final song, we have the party, and then you just... disappear back into your life? Like this was just a three-month highlight reel?"

"I don't know, Jaime," you admitted, a tear finally escaping. "We had a deal. We had the 'quiet.' But the quiet is over, and the world is going to be so loud when we get home."

He stood up, crossing the small space in a single stride. He took your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the salt on your cheeks. He looked like he wanted to scream, to break something, to stay in this room forever.

"I don't care about the loud," he vowed, his forehead pressing against yours. "I’ll fight the whole damn world if I have to. Just don't tell me this is the end. I didn't claim you just to lose you at the airport."

The door rattled, someone from the crew calling for him. The tour was officially over. The party was winding down. And as you looked into his wild, desperate eyes, you realized that the real fight wasn't on the stage or against the fans, it was the terrifying uncertainty of what happened when the music finally stopped.

The neon-drenched high of the after-party had faded into the brutal, fluorescent reality of the airport terminal. It was 4:30 AM, and the air smelled of floor wax and stale coffee.

Jaime looked like he was vibrating out of his skin. He was still wearing the same black hoodie from the night before, the hood pulled low to avoid the stray phone cameras that were already starting to track him. He hadn't let go of your hand since the Uber pulled up to the curb. His grip wasn't just firm; it was a desperate, grounding anchor, his pulse thrumming against your palm in a frantic, uneven rhythm.

"This is stupid," he muttered, his voice a low, jagged rasp. "The tour is over. Why are you getting on a plane to a different time zone? I have a house. I have a bed. You should be in it."

"Jaime, my life is back there," you said, though the words felt hollow and thin. "My gear, my apartment... I can’t just disappear into your tour cycle forever."

He stopped walking, pulling you into a corner beside a row of empty terminal seats. He didn't care about the few travelers staring or the "professionalism" you had spent months trying to guard. He stepped into your space, his broad shoulders shielding you from the world, and took your face in his hands. His fingers were trembling.

"Listen to me," he said, his eyes burning into yours with that same "hungry ownership" from the stage. "I didn't blow up my life and yours just to say goodbye at a gate. If you get on that plane, I’m going to spend every second until you land figuring out how to get you back. You’re not just the photographer. You’re the only thing that kept me sane out there."

The overhead speakers chimed, the final call for your flight. The sound felt like a physical blow, a "wall of noise" that signaled the end of the bubble.

"Go," he whispered, his forehead dropping against yours. "Go do what you have to do. But you're mine. Remember that. Every shot you take, every city you're in. You’re mine."

He kissed you then, a searing, desperate thing that tasted of salt and the terrifying unknown. It wasn't a "secret" kiss, and it wasn't for a Jumbotron. It was a promise. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were "wild and blown wide," mirroring the panic rising in your own chest.

You walked toward the jet bridge, your legs feeling like lead. You didn't look back until you reached the door. Jaime was still standing there, a solitary figure in the middle of the sterile terminal, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, watching you with an intensity that felt like he was touching you even with fifty feet of air between you.

Two Weeks Later

The silence of your New York apartment was deafening. You were sitting on your floor, surrounded by printed shots from the tour, thousands of frames of Jaime. Jaime jumping off risers. Jaime drenched in sweat. Jaime looking directly into your lens with that "smug, slow smirk."

Your phone buzzed on the hardwood floor. It wasn't a text. It was a notification from an airline app.

Confirmed: One-way flight to San Diego. Departure: Tomorrow, 8:00 AM.

Attached was a photo from Jaime. It was a shot you had taken of him on the final night, but he had edited it. Across the bottom, in messy, digital handwriting, he had written:

The quiet is boring. Come home and make some noise with me.

You looked at the camera bag sitting by your door, the same one that had been your shield for months. You realized then that the "professional mask" wasn't just broken, it was gone. You weren't the photographer anymore. You were his.

You hit Confirm, and for the first time since the tour ended, your heart finally matched the tempo of the drums.

————————————————————————

Then there were the Twitter threads. The "receipts" that were nothing more than blurred shadows and anonymous tips. Logically, you knew the internet was a vacuum of lies, but after three months of long-distance and missed FaceTime calls, logic was losing the war.

When the front door clicked open, you didn't move. You stayed curled in the armchair, the laptop heavy on your knees, your eyes red and dry.

"Y/N? Baby, I’m home!"

Jamie’s voice was like a physical jolt. It was warm, familiar, and sounded exactly like safety—but the images on the screen made it feel like a trap.

He came around the corner, his tour bag dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. He was wearing his favorite worn-out hoodie, his hair a mess from the flight, and his face lit up the second he saw you. "Hey! Why are you sitting in the dark? I—"

He stopped mid-sentence when he saw your face. The smile died instantly, replaced by a look of sharp, immediate concern. "Y/N? What happened? Are you hurt?"

He was at your side in two seconds, dropping to his knees. You tried to close the laptop, but you were too slow. His hand caught the edge of the screen, and his eyes scanned the open tabs.

He went dead quiet. You watched his eyes move over the grainy photos, the hateful comments, the "unloyal" tags. His jaw tightened so hard you heard the bone click.

"Is this what you’ve been looking at?" he asked, his voice low and vibrating with a mix of heartbreak and fury.

"I tried not to," you whispered, your voice breaking as the first sob finally escaped. "I know it's probably fake, but Jamie... you were right there. It looked so real. And everyone was saying..."

"Y/N, look at me." He reached up, his hands trembling slightly as he cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Look at me. Look into my eyes."

You looked. There was no guilt there. No hiding. Just a deep, aching sincerity that was almost painful to witness.

"That girl? That was the promoter’s assistant. It was a loud-ass club, and she was trying to tell me the van was waiting outside. My hand was on her shoulder because I was trying to hear her over the music. That’s it."

He pulled the laptop from your lap and moved it to the table, effectively silencing the static. He moved into the space between your knees, pulling your body flush against his chest.

"I have spent every single night on that tour bus staring at your picture," he murmured into your hair, his grip so tight it was almost bruising. "I have spent every after-show ignoring everyone else because all I wanted was to hear your voice. I’m not unloyal. I’m obsessed with you. You’re my fiancé. You’re my entire world."

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, finally letting the breakdown happen. The months of suppressed anxiety poured out in jagged, messy sobs.

Jamie didn't move. He just rocked you, his large hands rubbing steady, grounding circles into your back. He pressed a long, lingering kiss to the side of your head.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to shut it down," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry you had to see that trash. I’m going to go on every single social account I have and make it very clear that anyone talking shit about us can go to hell. I'm yours, Y/N. Only yours. Forever. Do you hear me?"

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his thumbs wiping the tears from your cheeks. "I bought the ring because I wanted a life with you. Not a life with some random girl in a club. You're the only one I want to come home to."

He kissed you then, not a quick greeting, but something deep, grounding, and filled with a promise of protection. In the quiet of your living room, the rumors felt like they belonged to another planet.

It was a photo from you. Specifically, a photo of you in the dark red lace lingerie set he’d bought you right before the tour started. You were arched on your bed, the lighting soft, looking exactly like the kind of trouble he couldn't afford to be thousands of miles away from.

He didn't even text back. He hit the FaceTime button immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs harder than it ever did on stage.

You picked up on the second ring. You were still in the red lace, propping your phone up against a pillow so he had a full, devastating view of your body.

“Hi, Jamie,” you whispered, your voice low and knowing.

“You’re killing me,” Jamie groaned, his voice already thick and raspy. He was staring at the screen, his eyes blown wide, his hand already moving restlessly to the waistband of his boxers. “I’m in this shitty hotel room, and you’re sending me that? Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

“I have an idea,” you teased, shifting slightly so the lace strained against your chest. “You look tired, baby. Did you have a good show?”

“I don’t care about the show,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the screen. He was watching the way your breath hitched when he spoke. “I want to be there. I want to rip that lace off you with my teeth. I want to pin your wrists above your head and remind you exactly who you belong to.”

He shifted, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself. He didn't look away from your eyes as his hand closed around his length, his grip tight and rhythmic.

“Show me more,” he demanded, his voice dropping into a low, commanding growl. “Touch yourself for me, baby. I need to see it.”

You obeyed, your fingers sliding slowly beneath the edge of the red lace. Jamie let out a strangled, choked sound, his head falling back against the headboard for a brief second before he forced himself to look at you again.

“Yeah, just like that,” he panted, his pace quickening. “Talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do to you when I get home. Tell me how much you need me.”

“I want you to rail me into the mattress until I can’t walk,” you whispered, watching him through the screen. “I want you to be as messy and needy as you are right now, but I want to feel it.”

Jamie’s breathing was loud and ragged now, echoing in the quiet room. He was moving faster, his eyes glazed with a mixture of frustration and pure, unadulterated lust. The sight of you, combined with the sound of your voice and the filth you were promising him, was pushing him over the edge.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he promised, his voice breaking. “I’m going to spend the first three days back just making up for every second I spent staring at this fucking screen. I’m going to make you scream my name so loud the neighbors call the cops.”

He was close now, his movements frantic and desperate. He wasn't the funny, energetic bass player anymore; he was a man possessed by the image of the woman he couldn't touch.

“Don’t stop,” he gasped, his eyes locking onto yours. “Watch me. Watch me come for you, baby. Just for you.”

He let out a long, low moan, his body going rigid as he finally found release. He stayed there for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, his hand still trembling against his skin, breathing in shallow, exhausted pulls.

He finally opened his eyes, looking at you with a gaze that was soft, spent, and intensely possessive.

He caught your eye near the tuning station. He didn't say a word, just jerked his head toward the dark corridor that led to the secondary equipment storage, a place the local security didn't bother patrolling.

The moment you stepped into the dim light behind a wall of black road cases, Jaime was on you.

He didn't grab you roughly; he pulled you into his space with a frantic, needy weight, his hands immediately sliding under your jacket to find the heat of your skin. He pressed you back against a cold metal case, his body a hot, solid barrier.

"You're a nightmare," he breathed against your neck, his voice rough and low. "Do you have any idea what you did to me on that bus? I couldn't think for four hours."

"I was just being a good girlfriend, Jaime," you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Giving you the attention you wanted."

"Liar," he muttered, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath your ear. He was all hands, tracing your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. He was clingy, his touch lingering on every curve as if he were trying to memorize you through the fabric. "I've been wanting to touch you since we landed. I can't breathe when you're across the room and I can't reach you."

He kissed you deeply, a hungry, searching thing that tasted like mint and pre-show adrenaline.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed nearby. The beam of a flashlight swept the far wall.

"Hey, is the bassist back here?" a random security guard called out, his voice echoing. "Stage manager needs a count."

Jaime didn't move, but his body went completely still. He shielded you entirely, his broad shoulders blocking you from view in the shadows. He didn't let go; he just shifted his hands to your waist, holding you tight.

"Over here," Jaime shouted back, his voice instantly dropping the intimacy and adopting his usual arrogant, bored tone. "Just checking my wireless pack. Give me a second."

"Copy that, Mr. Preciado. Two minutes to side-stage," the guard replied, his footsteps fading away.

The second the guard was gone, Jaime let out a sharp exhale, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The switch back to 'clinging mode' was instantaneous.

"I hate this," he growled, his grip tightening. "I hate having to hide. I want to walk out there and tell everyone to look at you so they know who you belong to."

"Not yet, Jaime," you whispered, smoothing his hair back. "We talked about this. No randoms. No press. Just us."

He let out a frustrated huff but nodded, giving you one last, lingering squeeze. He pulled back, his eyes dark and possessive. He reached out, adjusting your collar to make sure it hid any potential marks, his touch surprisingly tender.

"Fine," he said, his voice dropping to a low promise. "But when I'm on that stage, I'm playing every single note for you. Don't you dare look at Vic. You keep that camera on me."

He gave you one final, quick kiss, sweet and lingering, before stepping out of the shadows and donning his 'rock star' persona, leaving you breathless in the dark, the secret heat of him still radiating off your skin.

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wall of sound that hit you the moment you stepped into the photo pit. The house lights went down, the intro track bled into the speakers, and then the stage exploded into a strobe-lit frenzy of violet and gold.

Vic stepped up to the mic, his voice cutting through the noise like a serrated blade, commanding the room instantly. But as the first heavy bass line of the opening song kicked in, the air changed.

Jaime didn't just play the stage; he haunted it.

Usually, Jaime was a blur of motion, a chaotic force of energy jumping off risers and headbanging. Tonight, he was different. He was anchored. He stood at the very edge of the stage, his boots inches from the drop into the pit where you stood with your camera.

Every time you lifted your lens to capture a wide shot of the band, you found him already there, staring directly down into your eyes. He wasn't looking at the front row of screaming girls. He wasn't looking at the balcony.

He was looking at you.

His fingers moved over the strings with a violent, precise grace, but his expression was one of intense, hungry ownership. He leaned over the edge, his bass tilted toward you, playing the low, vibrating notes so close you could feel the hum in your chest.

He was following your every move. If you drifted to the left to get a shot of Tony, Jaime shifted his stance, his eyes tracking you like a predator. He was making it impossible for you to focus on anyone else.

At one point, during a slower, grittier bridge, he crouched down at the edge of the stage. He was so close that the sweat dripping from his hair hit your shoulder. He didn't break the rhythm, but he leaned in, his dark eyes burning into yours, a slow, smug smirk spreading across his face. He mouthed the lyrics, mine, mine, mine,right as the beat dropped.

Vic wasn't blind. Between verses, he glanced over, seeing his bassist practically hovering over the photographer. Vic caught your eye and gave a subtle, amused shake of his head before spinning back to the crowd. He knew Jaime was playing a dangerous game of "public-but-not-public," and he was clearly enjoying the spectacle of Jaime’s absolute undoing.

But Jaime didn't care about Vic’s amusement.

He stayed focused on you for the entire set. Every time you lowered your camera to check a shot, he was there, waiting for you to look back up. He was marking his territory with every chord, his gaze so heavy and possessive that it felt like he was touching you even with ten feet of air between you.

He was showing the world that he was inspired, but he was showing you that he was obsessed. By the time the final encore hit, you were flushed, your heart racing faster than the tempo of the drums, fully aware that the man on stage wasn't just performing for a crowd, he was performing for his life, and he was doing it all for you.

The final notes of King for a Day crashed through the arena like a physical blow. The feedback from the guitars was a sustained, screaming wall of noise, and the crowd was a literal ocean of flashing lights and roaring voices.

Jaime was a mess. He was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his neck, his chest heaving as he unslung his bass. The adrenaline was clearly at a dangerous high; he looked wild-eyed, his pupils blown wide under the harsh white spotlights of the "curtain call."

The band stood at the edge of the stage to take their final bow. Vic was waving, throwing guitar picks into the crowd, his face lit up with a triumphant grin. Tony and Loniel were bumping shoulders, soaking in the deafening applause.

You were standing right at the barricade, your camera raised to capture the wide shot of the band against the backdrop of ten thousand fans. It was the perfect professional moment.

Jaime didn't bow. He didn't wave. He walked straight to the edge of the stage, right above where you were standing.

He looked down at you, and the "professional mask" he had been trying to maintain all day simply disintegrated. All the teasing from the bus, the "quiet" intimacy in the closet, and the sheer high of the performance converged into a single, reckless impulse.

He didn't care about the "no randoms" rule. He didn't care about the thousands of phone cameras pointed at the stage. He just needed to touch you.

He dropped to his knees at the very edge of the stage, his hands reaching down to grab your shoulders. Before you could even register the shock, he hauled you upward, pulling you half-way out of the photo pit until your faces were inches apart.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn't a "secret" kiss. It was a searing, hungry, possessive claim. It tasted like salt, adrenaline, and pure, unadulterated Jaime. He tilted your head back, his fingers tangling in your hair, oblivious to the fact that he was currently on the jumbotron for the entire arena to see.

The crowd went nuclear. A deafening, high-pitched wall of sound erupted as ten thousand people realized they were witnessing the "volatile bassist" officially claim his girl.

Behind him, you heard Vic choke on a laugh, the sound caught by his still-live headset. "Oh, god... he actually did it," Vic muttered, his voice echoing faintly through the monitors.

Jaime didn't pull away. He deepened the kiss, his body shielding yours from the front row, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest. He was shaking, partly from exhaustion, but mostly from the sheer relief of finally being able to touch you without hiding.

He finally broke the kiss, but he didn't let go. He kept his forehead pressed against yours for a long, heavy second, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Mine," he whispered, the word lost to the crowd but vibrating clearly against your lips. "Everyone knows. You're mine."

He let you go, allowing you to drop back into the safety of the photo pit, but he didn't look away. He stood up, his face flushed with a mixture of pride and defiance, and gave the crowd a sharp, arrogant nod before turning to follow the band offstage.

You stood there, stunned, your camera hanging forgotten around your neck, as the house lights came up. The "secret" was dead. The "quiet" was over.

Jaime Preciado had just told the world exactly who you were to him, and there was no going back.

The transition from the roar of the arena to the sterile, concrete tunnel of the backstage area was jarring. You were practically vibrating with a mix of shock, adrenaline, and genuine panic. You pushed through the heavy black curtains just as the band was stepping off the stage risers, their gear being snatched away by frantic roadies.

Jaime was at the front of the pack. He looked like he’d been through a war, sweat-soaked, chest heaving, his eyes still wild and pupils blown wide.

The second he saw you, he didn't even slow down. He marched straight toward you.

"Jaime!" you hissed, your voice cracking with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "What the hell was that? WTF, Jaime! Do you have any idea what you just did? There are ten thousand phones in there! My face is going to be on every fan page on the internet in ten seconds! We had a deal!"

You were gesturing wildly, your camera swinging dangerously against your chest. You were ready to scream, to lecture him about "professionalism" and "privacy" and the absolute chaos he had just unleashed on your life.

He didn't let you finish. He didn't even let you breathe.

He reached out, his hands still trembling from the performance, and grabbed the front of your jacket, hauling you flush against his damp, hot chest. He didn't offer an apology or a witty comeback. He just crashed his mouth back onto yours.

It was even more intense than the kiss on stage. This one wasn't for the fans or the cameras; this was a desperate, messy, "I-don't-care-about-the-consequences" kiss. It tasted like salt and pure, unrefined adrenaline. He kissed you until your knees felt weak, his hands tangling deep in your hair, pulling you so close it felt like he was trying to merge your bodies together.

He finally pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot on your face.

"I don't care," he rasped, his voice sounding completely wrecked. "I'm done hiding you. I'm done watching people look at you like you're just some 'crew member.' You're mine. Let them post the pictures. Let the internet explode. I want everyone to know they don't have a chance."

"Guys! Seriously?!"

The voice of Dave, the tour manager, cut through the moment like a siren. He was walking toward you both, clutching a tablet that was already flashing with notifications. Vic, Tony, and Loniel were right behind him, looking a mix of entertained and terrified.

"Jaime, my phone is literally vibrating off the hook," Dave yelled, gesturing at the screen. "The label is calling! The PR team is having a stroke! You just kissed the 'staff photographer' on the jumbotron!"

Jaime didn't even look at Dave. He kept his eyes locked on yours, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a possessive, trembling touch.

"Tell them to mind their own business, Dave," Jaime said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Tell them she's not 'staff' anymore. She's with me. And if they have a problem with it, they can talk to my bass."

He leaned back in, stealing one more quick, defiant kiss before finally turning to face the chaos of the band, his arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like a trophy he had no intention of ever letting go.

The hotel suite was finally quiet. The adrenaline of the show and the public reveal had settled into a heavy, warm exhaustion. Jaime was in peak "clingy" mode, he’d barely let you move three feet away from him since the bus arrived.

He was currently sprawled on the bed, shirtless, pulling you back into his side. He was staring at his phone, a smug, dark grin on his face as he scrolled through the inevitable chaos on Twitter. The "Jumbotron Kiss" was trending.

"Look at this," he murmured, his voice husky. "Everyone is losing their minds. They’re calling you the 'Mystery Muse.' I think I like that."

He leaned over to nip at your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin in a slow, possessive mark. "You're mine, Y/N. The whole world—"

The sharp, jarring buzz of your phone on the nightstand cut him off.

You reached for it, expecting a frantic text from your mom or a friend. But when the screen lit up, your heart did a slow, sickening somersault.

Incoming Call: Ethan.

The name glared at you. Ethan. The ex-boyfriend who had treated you like an accessory, the one Jaime had practically scared off weeks ago. The man who represented everything you had left behind for this beautiful, loud chaos.

Jaime’s eyes flicked to the screen. The smug grin vanished instantly. His entire body went rigid, the playful warmth in the room turning into ice-cold possessiveness in a heartbeat.

"Why is he calling you?" Jaime’s voice was a low, dangerous vibration.

"I don't know," you whispered, your thumb hovering over the decline button. "I haven't talked to him since... well, since you saw him."

But curiosity—and a lingering sense of "what the hell could he want?"—tripped you up. Before you could think, you swiped to answer, putting it on speaker so Jaime could hear every single word. You weren't going to have secrets now.

"Hello?" your voice was steady, but your hand was shaking.

"Y/N? Hey... it's Ethan." His voice sounded thin and strained compared to the raw power of the man currently looming over you. "I... I saw the video. It’s all over my feed. I couldn't believe it."

Jaime’s hand moved to your waist, his grip tightening until it was almost painful. He leaned his head close to the phone, his eyes narrowed like a predator's.

"What do you want, Ethan?" you asked, your voice hardening.

"I just... I realized I made a mistake," Ethan stammered. "Seeing you with him... it’s not you, Y/N. He’s a delinquent. He’s unstable. I saw how he was acting on that stage. You’re a professional. You belong back here, in a real life. Not being some rock star's trophy. I want to talk. I want to make this right."

Jaime didn't wait for you to respond. He reached out and snatched the phone from your hand.

"Listen to me very carefully, you pathetic little prick," Jaime roared into the speaker, his voice dripping with pure, unadulterated venom. "You missed your chance. You didn't appreciate her when you had her, and now she belongs to someone who actually knows what she's worth."

"Jaime—" you started, but he ignored you, his face flushed with rage.

"If I ever see your name on her phone again," Jaime continued, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet hiss, "I will find you. And I promise you, I am every bit as 'unstable' as you think I am. She’s mine. She’s staying here. Delete her number before I delete you."

Jaime slammed the "End Call" button and threw the phone onto the foot of the bed.

He turned back to you, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a mixture of anger and a desperate, raw insecurity he only ever showed you. He didn't wait for you to say anything; he just grabbed you and pulled you into his lap, burying his face in your neck, his arms locking around you like a vice.

"Tell me you don't want him," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Tell me you're not going back to that 'real life.'"

The silence in the room after the call was deafening, broken only by Jaime’s heavy, jagged breathing. He was holding you so tightly it was hard to draw a full breath, his fingers digging into your hips as if he were trying to anchor you to the bed, to the tour, to him.

The arrogance of the stage had vanished. In its place was the raw, terrified vulnerability of a man who had finally found something worth keeping and was deathly afraid of losing it to the "safety" of a normal life.

"Jaime," you whispered, turning in his lap so you could frame his face with your hands. "Look at me."

He didn't want to. He kept his face buried in the crook of your neck, his body trembling slightly.

"He’s right about one thing," Jaime muffled against your skin. "I am a disaster. I’m loud, and I’m possessive, and I drag you into closets and scream at you in front of crowds. You could have a quiet life. You could have someone who doesn't make your life a headline."

You didn't use words at first. You tilted his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze. His dark eyes were shimmering with a rare, honest fear.

"I don't want a quiet life," you said, your voice fierce and unwavering. "I don't want 'safe.' I spent years being safe with Ethan, and I was dying of boredom. I want the chaos. I want the music. I want the man who screams he loves me in a basement lounge."

You leaned in and kissed him, not a desperate stage kiss, but a slow, deep, grounding kiss that tasted like a promise. You poured every ounce of your choice into it, showing him that Ethan was a ghost, and he was the only thing that felt real.

"You're not a delinquent to me," you murmured against his lips, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "You're my person. You're the only one who actually sees me. Ethan wanted a trophy. You want me."

The tension in his shoulders finally snapped. He let out a long, broken sigh and collapsed against you, his forehead resting on yours. His hands moved from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him with a newfound, desperate tenderness.

"I'm never letting you go," he vowed, his voice husky and certain. "I'll fight him, I'll fight the label, I'll fight the whole damn world if I have to."

"You don't have to fight anyone," you whispered, sliding your hands down to his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heart. "I’m already here. I’m staying."

To prove it, you reached back and grabbed your phone from the foot of the bed. Without breaking eye contact with him, you navigated to Ethan’s contact and hit 'Block.'

The small click of the phone locking felt like a final door closing on your old life.

Jaime’s eyes darkened with a flash of smug, relieved heat. He didn't wait another second. He flipped you over, pinning you to the soft duvet, his weight a heavy, welcome comfort. He began to kiss your neck, his touch possessive but infinitely more gentle than before.

"Good," he growled low in his throat. "Because I have no intention of sharing. You're mine, Y/N. Always."

As he moved over you, the world outside the hotel, the fans, the exes, the cameras, faded into nothing. There was only the heat of his skin, the rhythm of his breath, and the beautiful, permanent chaos of being loved by Jaime Preciado.

————————————————————————-

The call always came late, usually between 1:00 AM and 3:00 AM on your end, which meant the chaos of the show was over for him, the bus was rumbling down a dark highway, and the rest of the band was either asleep or quietly dealing with their own exhaustion. Ryan needed that specific window of silence and isolation to connect.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was never the loud, arrogant one he used on stage or in interviews. It was a low, velvet rasp, weighted down by a raw, immediate intimacy that the distance always seemed to sharpen.

“Tell me you’re alone,” he'd start, the words barely a whisper, tasting of nicotine and desperation. “Tell me the door is locked, and the lights are out. I need to know this space is just ours.”

You would confirm the setting, curled under the covers, phone pressed tight to your ear, the world quiet outside your window. The sound of his breath in the receiver became the loudest thing in the room.

“Good,” he’d sigh, the relief audible. “I’ve been trying to focus on these stupid highway lines for three hours, but every mile feels like another layer of separation. I can’t sleep. I can’t write. I just need you to talk me down.”

He wouldn't jump straight into the explicit details. First, he'd ground himself, asking you to describe your outfit (or lack thereof), running his tongue over his teeth as he listened, building the tension with intense verbal imagery.

“I need you to take off that t-shirt you’re wearing,” he’d command, his voice dropping another octave. “I know it smells like me, and I know it’s too soft. I need you to feel the air on your skin. I need to imagine the contrast between your cool skin and the heat I’m feeling right now.”

As you shed the clothes, guided by his precise instructions, his language would intensify. It wasn't just physical desire; it was intellectual and possessive, he needed to own your thoughts before he owned your body.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about right now. Don’t lie. I know it’s me. I know you’re trying to remember exactly how my mouth felt on your neck the last time. Are you touching yourself yet? You’re not allowed to yet.”

He would describe his own state in lush, tortured terms, his breath catching as he spoke.

“I’m staring at the ceiling of this awful bunk, trying to calculate the exact distance between my hand and your hip. It’s unbearable. I can feel you under my skin, like a low-grade fever I can’t shake. I’m rigid, baby. Completely focused on you. You know how hard I get when I’m this desperate.”

Then came the commands, precise and isolating, focusing your attention entirely inward.

“I need you to close your eyes. I don’t want you looking at anything but the inside of your eyelids. I want you to run your hand over your stomach, slowly, yes, like that and then lower it. I need you to feel how wet I’ve made you just with my voice. You’re shaking, aren’t you? I can hear it in your breathing.”

He would always force you to acknowledge the public chaos of his life, only to dismiss it, making his current focus on you feel more vital and exclusive.

“I’ve been signing autographs all night, smiling for pictures with strangers, and all I could think about was dragging you out of the crowd and putting you on the floor of the dressing room. I want to pull that heavy quilt over your head and keep you hidden just for me. But since I can’t, you’re going to touch yourself exactly how I tell you to. You’re going to do it for me, and only for me. You’re going to tell me every single detail.”

The pace would quicken, driven by his ragged breathing and increasingly intense verbal commands. He was focused on pushing you past your edge, needing the sound of your reaction as proof of his power over the miles.

“Faster. You need to speed up. I’m losing my mind listening to you, I can’t wait. Say my name. Say you’re mine and you’re going to come for me. I need to hear it, baby. Tell me how desperate you are, how much you need me inside you right now. I want you to feel it until you can’t think anymore. Now, now.”

The connection would often be loud and messy, a collision of gasps and desperate sounds that ended with a collective, heavy silence.

The phone wouldn't hang up immediately. After the frantic energy dissipated, Ryan would stay on the line, the earlier aggression replaced by an almost unbearable softness. He was drained, grounded, and deeply possessive.

“Stay right there,” he’d whisper, his voice thick with exhaustion. “Just breathe. Don't move your hand. I need you to just lay there and remember what I made you say. You belong to me, right? Even three thousand miles away, you only belong to me.”

He wouldn’t let you go until the sun was just beginning to touch the horizon on your side of the country. He needed your voice to carry him past the sleepless, solitary hours on the road.

You found Jaime stretched out on your sofa, scrolling through Instagram, looking completely relaxed in a black hoodie and ripped jeans. He had his bass case propped up beside him, and he was the picture of comfortable, familiar best friendship.

You tossed your keys onto the coffee table, a sly grin on your face. “Okay, major crisis. Massive crisis.”

Jaime looked up, his dark eyes instantly locking onto yours, his usual easy smile forming. “Crisis? Did Vic try to book a show in a swamp again? What’s up?”

“Worse. I have a date in two hours, and I can’t decide which piece of ammunition to use.” You dropped a chaotic collection of lingerie onto his lap. It was a handful of microfiber, lace, and cutouts, three distinct thongs you were considering for the evening.

Jaime froze immediately. His smile evaporated. His eyes widened, fixing on the fabric that had landed right beside his thigh. His entire body went rigid, and the color seemed to flood his face.

“Which… which that?” he managed, his voice suddenly thick and deep. He looked up at you, his gaze darting frantically from the delicate strips of fabric back to your eyes, a look of shocked, burning lust taking over his features.

“These,” you clarified, pointing. “I need a guy’s perspective. I’m thinking the red lace is classic, but maybe the black mesh is sexier? You have to tell me which one is the sexiest, because you’re a guy, and I need to seal the deal tonight.”

You stood right over him, waiting, unaware that you had just completely shattered the careful distance he had maintained for years.

Jaime swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. He cleared it and finally picked up the black one, a flimsy thing made mostly of elastic and sheer mesh panels. His fingers, usually so confident on the bass strings, were clumsy as he held it up by the elastic waistband.

“The black mesh,” he said instantly, his voice a low, rough whisper that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. He dropped the black one quickly, as if it were burning his fingers, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. He shifted, trying to adjust his rigid arousal beneath the tight denim.

“The black mesh? Why?” you pressed, oblivious. You leaned down a little, waiting for his critique.

He met your eyes now, and his gaze was scorching. “Because it’s a tease. It’s almost nothing. It tells the guy that he’s already winning, but he still has to work for it. It disappears under the clothes. That’s the rule of sexy, right? The secret nobody else knows.”

The intensity of his look was overwhelming. You could see the heat building in his eyes as he described the way the fabric would disappear beneath your dress, the vulnerable skin exposed. He was fighting hard for control, but the image was clearly overwhelming him.

You grabbed the black mesh triumphantly. “Done. Black it is. Thanks, Jaime! You’re the best.”

“Yeah. The best,” he echoed, the words heavy and frustrated.

You disappeared into your bedroom. The second the door clicked shut, the tension in Jaime’s body snapped. He let out a choked, frustrated sound, launching himself off the sofa.

He couldn’t get the image out of his head. The feel of the fabric. The way the black mesh looked like a delicate cage. He could see the outline of your hips, the vulnerable skin exposed, and the sickening knowledge that another man would see this detail tonight was pure agony.

He slammed his forearm against the closed bedroom door, fighting the urge to rip it open. He stumbled toward the hallway, finding the guest bathroom. He kicked the door shut and didn't bother with the light. The room was dark, silent, and felt like a necessary escape.

He leaned his forehead against the cool mirror, pulling the zipper of his jeans down with trembling fingers. He dragged his erection free. It was throbbing, hot, and unbearably hard. He couldn’t be gentle. The sudden, violent wave of lust and frustration was too much.

He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and quick, the image of your exposed skin and the slimmest outline of black mesh burned onto the inside of his eyelids. He imagined the way the black elastic would feel against his knuckles.

He closed his hand around himself, hard and punishing. He wasn’t thinking about anything except the fabric, the space, the pure, agonizing fact that he couldn't touch you.

“God, mine,” he muttered, the sound a desperate, strangled noise. He clenched his fist tighter, pushing his hips forward, using his other hand to brace himself against the counter.

The frantic, sharp pressure was exactly what he needed. He drove himself faster, harder, faster, his mind completely consumed by the perfect, forbidden image.

He bit back a shout, his body tensing, the desperate, raw explosion of lust and emotional anguish leaving him leaning over the sink, shaking and breathing heavily.

He stood there for a long moment, limp and exhausted, before rinsing his hand and cleaning up. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to erase the evidence.

He forced himself to walk back into the living room, grabbing his bass to look busy. When you came out a few minutes later, looking stunning in the date dress, he managed a tiny, strained smile.

The final click of the heavy oak door shutting behind you was a profound, sudden break from the noise. The silence felt heavy, a physical weight after hours spent shoulder to shoulder in the roaring concert venue. You kicked your shoes off by the wall, still vibrating from the incredible bass.

Ryan didn't even drop his bag. He slid it off his shoulder and let it fall with a dull thud onto the carpet. He looked absolutely wrecked, his shirt damp with sweat from the crush of the crowd, his hair sticking to his temples, his eyes wide and dark from sensory overload. Yet, beneath the exhaustion was a purely focused, frantic energy.

He didn't speak. He closed the distance in two long, lanky steps and threw his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a crushing embrace. He pressed his entire body into yours, melting against you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, taking a huge, audible, ragged gulp of air. He held you so tight it almost hurt.

“God,” he breathed, the sound muffled against your skin. “That was so loud. I loved it. I genuinely loved it. But I spent the last three songs thinking about this.”

He began planting frantic, messy, desperate kisses along your neck and your shoulder, quick movements that were more about marking you than actual pleasure. He was clinging, desperate for the solid, familiar feeling of your body against his to ground him after the chaos.

“I was so hard watching you,” he mumbled, the words running together, his voice low and utterly whiny. He started sucking softly on the skin just beneath your ear, leaving a hot, damp trail. “You were just smiling, ignoring all the noise, and I wanted to pull you out of there so bad. I couldn’t focus on the song changes.”

You ran your hands over his damp back, feeling the tension coiled beneath his spine. “We’re here, baby. It’s quiet now.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your mouth, his eyes heavy with lust and raw need. “I know. And I’m too wired. I’m seriously going to lose my mind. I can’t wait. I need you naked. I need to touch you all over, now.”

He reached for the buttons of your shirt, but his hands were shaking slightly. He fumbled, his patience already gone.

“Please. Help me. I can’t be patient,” he begged, his breathing turning into short, ragged gasps. “I need to feel your skin on mine. I’m going to lose it.”

You immediately went to work, pulling his damp shirt up and over his head while unbuttoning your own. The fabric was shed and tossed aside. His chest was flushed, still slick with a faint sheen of sweat, and you ran your hands over the smooth, lean planes, delighting in the way he groaned and leaned into your touch.

He backed you up against the cool wall again, trapping you. He quickly shoved his jeans down his hips. He was thick, hard, and utterly exposed in the dim light. He kicked the denim away and pressed his entire body against yours.

His mouth returned to yours, a demanding, consuming kiss that pressed your lips back against your teeth. His hands were everywhere, strong and insistent. One hand clamped onto your waist, keeping you anchored, while the other slid down your belly, finding you wet and ready.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he gasped, his fingers working quickly, effectively. He rubbed his thumb over your center, eliciting a sharp, immediate cry from you that he swallowed with his mouth. “I need you against me. I need the weight.”

He pushed his way between your legs, filling the sudden space. He leaned down, burying his face in your neck, sucking hard on the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“Tell me I can have you,” he choked out, his voice raw, right before he pushed in, sinking deeply into you.

The sound was a collective, strangled gasp that was immediately smothered by his mouth crashing down on yours. He started a frantic, demanding rhythm, pressing you hard against the wall, forcing the air from your lungs.

He pulled back, his eyes wide and dark, meeting your gaze. He was sweating, breathing heavily, but his focus was terrifyingly complete.

“Look at me. You have to look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and tight. “I need you to see how bad I want you. Tell me you won’t leave. Tell me I get to keep you forever.”

“Yours! I’m yours, Ryan! I love you!” you cried out, clutching his shoulders, the intensity of the feeling completely overwhelming.

The verbal confession fueled his desperation. He sped up, his rhythm becoming a relentless, demanding storm. He leaned back on his arms, watching you, his expression pure lust and desperate love.

“Say it again. Say my name. Say you’re mine,” he demanded, his hips slamming into you, the friction building into a dizzying crescendo.

“Ryan! Oh God, Ryan!”

“I love you. I’m so ridiculously in love with you,” he groaned, his voice cracking as his body tensed, his arms wrapping around your hips like a vise. He shouted your name, the sound of desperation and final release hitting you both in a powerful, exhausting wave.

He didn't let you down immediately. He held you tight against the wall, breathing raggedly into your neck, the aggressive edge replaced by a total, soft, puppy like dependence.

“I’m keeping you right here. Don’t move,” he whispered, the exhaustion finally hitting him hard. His forehead rested on your shoulder. “I just need five minutes of this. I just need you to hold me. Please. You’re my only quiet place.”

He slowly lowered you back to the ground, his arms still wrapped tightly around your waist. He pulled you close, guiding you toward the large, inviting bed. He collapsed onto the duvet, pulling you immediately to his chest and rolling you over so you were completely spooned against him.