Untitled

Your eyes dart up, wide and apologetic. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”

At the exact same time, the stranger takes a step back with an equally as regretful look on his face. One of his hands hovers a little awkwardly beside your shoulder, the other clutching his phone with three fingers and thumb, like he’d almost dropped it. “Jesus, sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

Your first thought as you recover from the surprise and look up - up - at him is Shit, this guy’s tall… and handsome. He’s got a cap on, leaving his eyes gleaming in shadow behind his glasses. A Nike vest reveals toned arms tattooed like a kid’s colouring book, and the gym bag on his shoulder cements where those toned arms have come from.

Your face burns when you realise you’re staring.

Once the awkward apologies are out of the way, you shuffle around each other for another uncomfortable second, both trying to get on, when he nods his head down the street, eyebrows raised. “You goin’.. This way?”

You nod, a little apologetic smile on your face. He nods too, steps back, and lets you go forward. With a near-silent sigh, you set off again ahead of him, listening to his footsteps (purposely slowed down, you think) fall back behind you. Not your proudest social interaction.

Sighing lowly, you walk quickly up the street and turn onto the court, slipping past the fence and checking your watch again. Five to two - enough time to set up your court (or at least look busy when your client gets here) and fill up your water bottle.

But as you set your bag down on the empty court, your hear those footsteps approaching again, lighter now. You look up. Slipping through the fencing, a sheepish expression now on his face, is the guy you just left behind.   

You blink at him stupidly for a second, until you have the good sense to pull out your phone and check your schedule.

“James?” you eventually ask, when you’ve found both your voice and your calendar for today. He nods. “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” he retorts, a cheeky grin creeping across his face.

Despite yourself, you let out a little chuckle. “Technically, I’ve got two minutes.”

He laughs, shrugging his bag from his shoulder. “No worries. I’ll go fill up. You need water?”

“Er, yeah, please.” You unzip your own gym bag and toss your bottle over to him, unaware that he’s busy digging for his own. To your surprise, he catches it one-handed without so much as a flinch. Nice reflexes, you note to yourself. He’s gonna need them.

James nods once, then wanders off towards the club, looking simultaneously out of place and right where he belongs.

“Take your time,” you call, eying the cones you packed. The only response you get is a chuckle, floating back to you on the spring breeze.

Exactly the impression you did not want to give, and you went right ahead and gave it. God hep you, he’s gorgeous. Still, at least you managed to talk this time. 

Shaking your head as though it can shake out the self-deprecating thoughts, you start focusing on setting up - and quick.

First, you place your foldable ball basket by the baseline at the far end of the court, then toss a few balls around the court for easy access. Then, you set up a few cone markers, planning to guide target practice. Finally, you pull out your racket, plus a couple of spare ones - one for James, and another in case one breaks. It happens.

As you move through the motions, the familiar routine of setting up court, normally you’d be assessing the upcoming session (What level will they be at? How can I get them rallying quickly? Where should I start?). But all you can think about is the client you’re going to be having it with.

The client who strolls back over, casually swinging his waterbottle from a finger, just as you’re shifting the cones. 

“You ready now?” James asks as he places both bottles down beside the net and surveys your set up with interest. There’s no malice in his voice, though, only humour. Rolling your eyes, you check your watch. Bang on 2:00 pm.

“And right on schedule,” you hit back, and you actually have to resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him like a child.

He smirks, but only shrugs.

You give him a satisfied nod, like you’d won an argument. “Okay,” you breathe out, turning your back to him to be sure that you’re happy with your set up (and hold on yourself). “Let’s start with the basics. 

That slightly smug air about him dissipates as you put him through his paces. He’s fit, yes, but not entirely light on his feet, with a hand eye coordination that leaves something to be desired.

Still, he works hard throughout the hour, lightening up as he gets used to the movements and your style. The first lesson is always a simple one in terms of coaching, since you want to ease a client in gently. Often, though, they’re are so eager to please that they push themselves too hard, their tenacity like a fog that doesn’t allow them to see that, in order to get good, they have to start at the very beginning.

But James is a breeze. He listens carefully to your instructions, your mini-lectures, your encouragements. Plus, his easy demeanour and ability to poke fun at himself manages to make you laugh throughout. You can’t remember ever having such a fun first lesson.

However, he isn’t completely chill. There’s a burning determined with every swing of the racket, every dash across the court. His eyes are slitted in focus when you demonstrate, head tilting as you shout directions through the technical drills you give him - “Little steps, you got it”, “Watch the ball, that’s it”, “Recover! Recover!”

The selfish side of you wants to call it an eagerness to please you. But, really, you see it as an eagerness to please himself. 

When you part ways after this first session, the awkwardness from the beginning has dissipated. You walk together to the corner you’d collided on, where James waves goodbye and promises to look where he’s going next week.

He slots very easily into your coaching routine. Too easily. You’re not having to check his name before sessions, as you’ve had to do before with newbies. You learn quickly what kind of tennis racket he prefers working with, and stock up on extra just to bring to his lessons. You’re even thinking about him during other clients sessions - how he follows your instructions better than her, or how he would have nailed that hit better than him. And you’re never late to lessons again. In fact, it gets a bit ridiculous, because he starts racing you to get there first.

On your seventh lesson, you actually spot each other on the same street you’d almost mowed each other down on, and race on opposite sides of the road to get to the court first. Breathless and sweaty already, he wins. (Damn him and his long legs).

By this point, he’s visibly improved both in his tennis technique and in his confidence. But not just his confidence in tennis. 

It’s at the end of this very same lesson that…. Well, you stop being his coach,

The session has gone well. Mostly, you’ve been focusing on foot work, which isn’t James’s strong point. He always seems to forget how big his feet are when in pursuit of the ball, as you never miss the opportunity to tease him about. But, with cones and patience, he’s just about learnt how to balance his focus over the last hour.

Towards the end of the hour, as you’re packing up your markers and balls, you notice a glimmer in his eyes. He never hides his mischief well. You can always tell when he’s trying to hit a slice serve, because his eyes shine with the idea. (Not that you focus on his eyes. No. Not at all.) You dread to think what he has coming for you now.

Just when you’re zipping up your bag, James’s voice echoes across the court. “How about a game?”

You turn to him, eyebrows raised. He’s standing in front of you on the other side of the net, watching you clear up with his head tilted. His eyes are squinted against the sun - but you can tell they’re glimmering at the top of that smirk. 

“A game?” you repeat disdainfully, not because you doubt that you heard him right, but because you can hardly believe his audacity.

He just nods, smile fixed in place. The racket’s still in his hand - your racket - and he’s spinning it against his palm with his thumb. 

You’ve not played a proper game with James yet. Sure, you’ve rallied, and taught him all the rules, but you don’t typically challenge your clients to a proper game until at least a few months into training. And you’ve certainly never had a client challenge you.

“Why?” you ask, suspicion dripping from your tone. You shade your eyes against the sun with your hand, as though seeing him clearer will expose his intentions.

“Don’t think I can beat you?” James challenges.

You scoff. “No. You couldn’t.”

His smile widens. “That’s not very encouraging, coach.” He braces one hand on the net post, fingers wrapping tightly around the top, then leans closer to you. His eyes, still bright with excitement, hold your stare falteringly. “Prove it. One set.”

You consider him for a moment. He’s still leant against the net, watching you carefully. The perfect picture of calm and controlled. Except for the racket tapping against his leg, the hunch to his shoulders, and the very slight bite of his bottom lip as he waits for you to respond.

“Fine,” you say confidently. “One set. But you’ll lose.”

Tension seems to release from James’s body the second you agree. He exhales in a long huff, then shrugs. You can’t quite read it. The defeat of someone who’s resigned to their losing? Or the quiet confidence of someone who has a hidden agenda? Before you can decide, he’s scooping up a tennis ball from your random scatterings across the court, then pacing back towards the baseline.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you walk to your starting point, stretching out your neck, your arms, your shoulders. The thrill of a game is already thrumming through you. Right now, he’s not a client. He’s an opponent. And you’ll be damned if he’s going to beat you. Even if he does have pretty eyes. Focus.

You’re ready in seconds. Racket in hand. Feet shoulder width apart. Eyes focused on him. You raise your eyebrows at him once - game on.

He’s about to throw up the ball and start the first set, but he stops just before it leaves his fingertips. For a moment, he stands there like a Michelangelo.

“Hey!” His voice carries clear as the sky across the court. “If you’re so confident. What do I get if I win?” There’s a darkness in his voice. A tease. A dare. “A date?”

You’d been ready for the game to start. Not for a proposition of this size. The blood that had begun thrumming at his challenge seems to freeze within your veins. 

Something has gone unspoken of over these sessions. You know it. Thought about it almost any time you weren’t occupied with coaching or planning. Often thought it about when you were occupied with coaching or planning too. 

But now it’s verbalised.

And you have to consider… do you dare? 

The way he’s tilting his head at you? That little, knowing smile tugging at his lips? The glimmer in his eyes, shining through the shadow his shading hand casts? The confidence in his stance?

Yes. Yes, you do.

“A date,” you repeat firmly, loud and clear across the court.

He cocks his head. A grin - unrestrained and giddy - grows on his face. “And if you win?” 

You shrug, looking away demurely to give yourself a second to think. To realise just what you’re doing right now. You look back at him. “I keep coaching you in a completely professional capacity.”

His nose twitches, a little wrinkle. Can’t be having that. “Fine. You’re on. Love-All.”

He’s not even finished speaking when he throws the ball up and starts the game. Still, he doesn’t catch you out. You hit it back with a graceful dart, and the game is on.

The court is your kingdom, and not even is that adorable wrinkle of concentration above his nose as he bounces after the ball enough for your crown to slip. 

At least, not until you want it to.

The thwack of the ball against his racket sends it hurling back to you, and you only just make the hit back. James hadn’t expected that. He thought that point was a shoo in. Your hit lands cleanly out of his reach, and bounces out. 

15-Love.

You smirk at him across the court, eyebrows raising. He doesn’t even meet the look, never mind acknowledge it. Just retrieves the ball, and starts the next set immediately. There’s determination in every fibre of his being unlike anything you’ve seen from him before. His eyebrows and lips are set, body tense, eyes laser focused on the ball. And when they’re not, they’re laser focused on you.

His first score is a damn good hit. You were never going to catch it. Finally, his resolute mask cracks just slightly with a smug smirk. Sweat is beading along his hairline, and he swipes at it with his inked forearm, holding your stare like he knows you want to see the movement. Even though there’s a small smile on your face, you shake your head. 

You’re deliberately slow in picking up the ball, giving him the moment to recoup. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him take a sip of water. You go even slower when he pours some water into his hands and washes his face with it, letting it drip down his neck. 

You watch him get back into position with a sharp, unblinking stare. The second he’s steady, you’re launching the ball into the sky - and hitting it his way with deliberate, calculated slowness. 

15-All.

The game goes on.

You’ve taught him all he knows, so you can tentatively predict his movements. And, most of the time, you’re right. You're proud to see, though, that you’ve taught him well. His footwork’s rarely out of place, and he even starts predicting some of your moves, with as much eerie foresight as you naturally use to predict his. He even throws in a few grunts that Serena would be proud of.

As the game progresses, your muscles start to tighten. Adrenaline, focus, and a touch of fatigue. You’ve been too busy being a tennis coach, rather than a tennis player, for far too long. But your determination to end this game exactly as you want remains second to none. And you know exactly what prize you’re working towards.

40-40.

The dreaded deuce.

But this game has played beautifully into your hands.

Sweat drips down James’s forehead, glinting in the mid-afternoon sun as he bounces the ball once, twice off the floor. Your body’s poised. Ready. Two more points.

And you know who’s going to get them.

James holds the ball in his fist for one second of stillness. His eyes meet yours, and you grin. He shakes his head minutely. Then, he serves.

The ball flies over the net, and you see it almost in slow motion, the long shadow it casts stealing the sunlight from the court. You jog forward, hit it straight back. It’s an easy forehand hit for James, and he manages it with impressive effortlessness - and aim. The ball spirals to the opposite corner of the court and, though you run after it, it’s a halfhearted chase.

“Advantage you,” you call across the court, panting. Just for emphasis, you add, “You prick.”

James laughs, twisting his racket. “Sounds like the professional coaching’s already out of the window, even if I win.”

You pull a face at him before tossing the ball up, and serving. It’s a near miss, since James is laughing at himself, but he just about manages to catch it. 

The ball flies back to you and you hit it no problem, feet crossing as you bounce along the court. The rally continues, getting more aggressive the longer it goes on - from both sides.

Until…

Wham.

The ball falls outside of your boundary line.

Panting, James stares at the spot as the ball rolls away. Your eyes dart from the ball to his face. You can’t hide your smile as you call, “Game.”

Slowly, James’s slitted eyes glide to yours. His tongue is pushed behind his teeth, jutting out his stubbled jaw. His face is sheened with sweat.

“Fuck off,” he eventually says. You can’t quite tell if it’s disbelief or suspicion that taints his voice. You don’t really fucking care.

“Oh,” you say, in a knowing voice. “You win.”

Carelessly, you toss your racket to the floor as you bound over to the net. From there, you can see the knowing smirking beginning to raise one side of his mouth. “So, where are you taking me?”

He blinks at you once. Twice. Then shakes his head, smirk finally emerging full force. “Back to the fucking starting position, you cheat.”

You’re grinning at the disbelief and amusement in his voice. “You want a rematch?”

He looks at you for a moment more, completely still. Then, he marches over to the net, leans one hand against the same post he’d coyly propped himself up on when starting this match, and places the other on the net’s centre strap. He’s looming over you now, his shadow blocking you from the sun.

His voice is quiet. “The pier. That’s where I’m taking you. Friday night.”

You look up at him, eyes bright. “I won’t date a client,” you warn, but the authority that should be behind it is lost within the soft mumble of your voice.

He tilts his head slightly, so close to your face now that his nose brushes yours as he moves. “You’re fired, then.”

You smirk. “Nah, I quit.”

He’s shaking his head even as he leans down to kiss you.

He’s gentle, careful, keeping his hands on the net. It’s only when you separate that you realise he’s clutching the net for dear life. 

Silence reigns for a moment, the air settling around you at this seismic shift. He’s still close, even despite the net separating your bodies, and you can feel his heavy breaths against your lips. James breaks the quiet with a low mumble “I could beat you, though.”

You grin down at him. “Okay,” you chuckle. James watches you intently through dark eyes. The scented dehumidifier on the dressing table momentarily breaks the silence, spurting up a cloud of steam behind James’ head. Almost immediately, the room smells intoxicatingly of roses. Just for a moment, your eyes dart up to the fog in surprise. When they slip back to his face, his eyes haven’t left you. Gently, his hands squeeze at your back. Their grip doesn’t loosen. 

Your smile softens. “Come here, Pete Wentz.” Steadily, you bring your fingers up to his face. His eyes flutter closed as your fingertips run up his cheekbone, until they can gently stretch out his right eyelid.  

Despite his hands still tremoring where they hold you, James stays still as you touch the eyeliner pencil to his lash line. Your knees dig more into his thighs than they do the plush leather of the sofa, keeping you settled snugly on his lap. No moving for you, either.

Once his right eye’s done, you lean back into his hold, your hand falling to rest against the hair peeking out of the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt. Below your palm, through the heat of his skin, you can just feel the thump of his heart steady and sure. 

You tilt your head, guiding his face to the side with the hand that still holds the eyeliner, checking your handiwork. Hmm. It’s a little bit wonky, but not enough to be noticed by the thousands of fans already queuing up outside to see him. He’ll sweat most of it off on stage anyway.

You settle back into place, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek. Your lip gloss stains his stubbly skin. A smirk grows on your lips, but you don’t say anything. James grins back at you, no doubt thinking you’re smiling at him. You can’t resist cupping his face and kissing him properly.

When you separate, you’re straight back to work. Holding the eyeliner aloft between your faces, you close one eye as you release more of the pencil, eyeballing how much you’ll need. You hum along to the instrumental underneath your breath, focused on the pencil.

Slightly blurred in your peripheral vision, you don’t notice James staring up at you, eyes darker and pupils blown wider. His hands have stopped shaking.

You lower the pencil, and are pinned suddenly by the weight of his stare. Even with only one of his eyes made up, highlighting his thick lashes and the golden flecks of his eyes, he looks beautiful. 

He slides his hands up your back, into your hair, and nudges your face back to his with just an ounce of strength. Nothing matters to him - not his half made-up eyes, not the crew beginning to bustle around in preparation outside, not the fans causing a ruckus beyond the arena walls. Nothing, besides his hands in your hair, your body in his lap, and your lips on his.

“I’ve got to…” you try to speak into his mouth, but his lips are relentless. “.... do the other eye.”

He ignores you for a moment longer, until a crash outside, followed by raised voices, makes him finally pull back with a groan. Gulping, you watch his Adam’s apple bob beneath a patch of missed stubble on his throat. 

“That had better not’ve been one of my guitars.”

His face is definitely covered in lip gloss now, and he shines like a disco ball as he lifts his head, eyes glazed. 

“I hope it was,” you grumble jokingly, still panting slightly from his kiss. He pokes you in the side, chuckling. “If you stay still for just one more second, I’ll let you up and you can find out.”

James wrinkles his nose, and pretends to dodge away from you. With a little tap of the eyeliner pencil on his forehead, he’s back to sitting like an angel, looking up to the ceiling as you finish off the other eye.

“There,” you finally mutter, tossing the eyeliner to the sofa. You hold his cheeks once more, checking the lines are even. Close enough.

Outside, a babbling drone of excited conversations, lost within each other, echoes down the backstage hallways. The doors have opened. There’s a knock on the dressing room door.

City lights flared and glimmered through the indigo-tinted windows, passing cars and glowing streetlamps, painting his skin in shades of violet. When James turned his head just right, the colours refracted in his glasses and covered his glowing eyes. The clock on the wall, also tainted slightly purple, ticked past midnight.

“Man, it’s five o’clock in the morning for us right now. Why the fuck are we awake?” Although you didn’t mean to, you’d been moaning almost the entire time you’d spent in James’ presence, slouched over a steaming mug of nearly-empty coffee. You’d flown in only that morning, and very cleverly spent the entire afternoon sleeping.

James was looking distinctly more chipper, having been in the city for several days already. He watched you with a smirk that he tried in vain to hide behind the straw of his iced latte. 

You jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t look at me like that, you cheeky bastard.”

Of course, his grin only grew. You felt his knee nudge deliberately against yours beneath the table as he leant forward, elbows resting either side of his plastic cup. His eyes flashed momentarily purple, and you found yourself leaning forward to see them properly. Before he could speak (no doubt another teasing remark) a shadow fell across your table.

“Refill?” 

You jerked back into your seat, exhaling heavily, then squinted up at the waitress. Finally, someone who seemed as miserable as you did. She was middle-aged, with heavily-lined eyes, a rumpled uniform, and an expression of compete despair. Nodding, you slid your cup towards her. She smelt of stale smoke, like a lot of New York, and hacked out an uncovered cough as she poured. You had to bite the corner of your lip to hide your smile when your eyes met James’ just beneath her coffee pot. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled as she swayed away, and took a big gulp of fresh coffee. It burnt your mouth, but it felt good.

James raised his eyebrows. “You going to a rave?”

You rolled your eyes. “‘M tryna push through until tomorrow night. Fix my sleep schedule. I’m only here for a few days anyway.”

“You never said. What are you doing here?”

The memory of the phone call from the day before, coming back to you in stereo, made you sigh. “Meeting with the big studio boss. Apparently it’s too important to tell me over Zoom, so I have to come all this fucking way. You got a show?”

“Er, no. I’m recording here, actually.” James was almost bashful in his admittance. 

You raised your eyebrows. Your eyes lingered on his, even blinking causing an obstruction. “Oh, yeah? Anything I can hear?”

“Not unless you pay me a tenner,” James laughed. “Oh, wait. Make that thirteen dollars.” He affected a barely passable New York accent, and you shook your head, grinning. 

But he almost missed it behind the appearance of two plates between you, which clanked onto the table. Your kindred spirit was back. She didn’t even speak this time, and was already halfway down the aisle before either of you could even say thank you.

James pulled a face at you through the steam rising from the plates, and you spluttered through a gulp of coffee.

“I reckon she heard your shitty accent,” you laughed, after swallowing your still-burning drink.

He grinned, glancing back to the retreating woman. Meanwhile, you were mopping up coffee, checking that you hadn’t dribbled any on your shirt, only to spot that it was already stained with what looked to be toothpaste. You’d been sat there for almost an hour, but still you pulled at your t-shirt in the seconds that James wasn’t looking, trying to rearrange it so the dabbed-at stain was less noticeable.

James turned around just as your hands were reaching across the stained chrome towards the cutlery bucket. In that same moment, unconsciously, James reached out too, fingers colliding with yours.

You balled your fingers into a fist, and opened your mouth to apologise. James didn’t. The words stuck in your throat like gum. He was looking at you pointedly, pupils wide. Your eyes darted back down to his hand, resting now on the table. Reaching out. 

After a charged second, you uncurled your fingers, and slid them in between his. 

When you looked back at him, there was a smile growing on his face, but he was focused on picking out a fork from the basket with his free hand. He laid it on your plate, then plucked one out for himself and started eating. It was almost like nothing had changed, save for the slight flush to his pale skin.

After a moment, you picked up the fork he had given you. The metal was warm where James’ hand had briefly been. 

When the plates were empty, following a conversation mainly focused on his new music, the diner’s fluorescent lights found James slipping into the booth next to you, arm stretched along the top of the back rest as he leant closer to hear you. You were laughing as he scoured the internet for cures to your jet lag, and he was glancing down at you intermittently with a little smile on his face. 

However, it was getting a bit ridiculous. He’d already suggested melatonin, aromatherapy, walking barefoot on the ground, something called ‘clock-blocking’ (whatever the hell that was), some dodgy pills from Amazon, and that you should’ve fasted before your flight.

His thumbs moved furiously across the screen, nails tapping against the glass as he searched for a cure as ferociously as a witch doctor. 

“Have you tried…” he met your eyes with a grin during his dramatic pause. “....Drinking water?”

You could’ve punched him. 

If your hand wasn’t still holding his, the one that had moved subtly from the back rest to your shoulders.

“You know, it says you should avoid caffeine completely.” 

You glared at him through the steam of your re-filled coffee. He looked a bit fuzzy, and it wasn’t just because of your steaming drink; more to do with the fact that you were almost falling asleep into it. According to the clock, it was nearly half 1 in the morning, and you were definitely feeling it. 

So fuzzy, in fact, that you couldn’t fully make out the smug smile that had returned to his face. 

“I told -”

You cut him off in what you intended to be a grumpy tone, but what in reality was almost a yawn. “Don’t you dare say you told me so.”

The vain air about him only expanded. “But I did.”

You rolled your eyes. Pressed up so close, he could see it clearly, and laughed.

At that moment, the waitress came by again, looking (you were happy to say) a lot worse than you felt. 

“Excuse me?” James called, and she turned to him with dead eyes. “Can I get another iced latte, please? To go?”

New York was a completely different place at 2 o’clock in the morning, but it felt even stranger with James by your side. Mostly because, in one of the world’s most notorious cities, you felt safe walking the streets with him in lamp lit darkness. Stupid, really.

His hand was warm and steady in yours, rough from years sliding along guitar strings. It had been there so long, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have space between your fingers. Being exhausted wasn’t helping either.

“I told you we should’ve gotten an Uber,” James muttered, side-stepping a puddle of vomit on the sidewalk. It had started raining not long after you’d left the diner, but that drizzle had quickly turned into a shower. You didn’t care much about getting wet - it was actually helping to keep you awake - but James seemed much more disgruntled.

“Nah. The fresh air’ll wake me up.” Your voice already sounded like it was coming from a dream.

“Yeah, that’s working,” he retorted sarcastically. His shoulders were squared and drawn up to full height, eyes scanning every angle of the street. With you only just in a fit enough state to give him your hotel address, he’d been careful to lead you down well-lit, busy streets. Unfortunately, in New York, that meant a lot of drunkards and vagrants. 

Fortunately, though, it meant that you could look at him rather than your unpleasant surroundings. He was furrowing his brow, which crooked his glasses. Absentmindedly, you reached up to straighten them, finally dislodging your hands. His alert gaze fell to you, but you were already leaning back into him, arm winding now around his waist. 

“Shut up, I’m feeling better already.” You yawned shamelessly. “Anyway, my hotel’s right there.”

You waved your free arm in the general direction of the haze of beaming light you recognised as your home for the next few days. 

It was James’ turn to moan, which he did, the whole way up to your room - through the lobby, in the lift, down the hallway, right up to your door. At some point, you couldn’t really tell when, his arm had wound itself around you in return.

“Right,” he sighed, loosening his grip as you pushed the door open. “Go to bed, you nutter.”

You didn’t let go, not completely. Although you moved into the doorway, your arm ran tantalisingly along the small of his back, coming around to his hand again. Slouching inside, you tugged. You weren’t exactly forceful, but James was off balance holding the door open, and stumbled in when you pulled. 

You barely even noticed, releasing him as you lurched towards the bed. James stood, bemused, in the entryway, fingers drumming against his empty iced latte cup while you blundered in like nothing was different. Like he was supposed to be there. For a moment, the room was illuminated by the hallway’s fluorescent lights spilling inside. Until the door slammed shut behind him.

Through the darkness, he watched you apprehensively, shuffling on his feet. Oblivious, you slipped off your bag, casted it onto the floor, then flopped face forward onto the double bed with a groan. It was like falling onto a cloud - although a brick wall would have felt like heaven in that state. Your wet clothes squeaked against the duvet, but you were too tired to care.

“Fuck jet lag.”

You popped an eye open, but it took a second to find him. Your eyebrows raised when you found his silhouette still looming in the doorway. Street lamps and shop signs, flashing red and blue through the window, were the only source of light. They illuminated his towering shadow in alternate colours, streaked by the rivulets of rain running down the pane. James swallowed, his fingers curling around his thumb in his jacket pocket. 

“What are you, a bouncer?”

He blinked at your sarcastic question. After a moment, he shuffled into the room. 

“I’m having a shower first,” you declared. “And the left side of the bed.” You paused, eying him pointedly. “Unless you’d rather walk back to your hotel?”

His hotel was downtown - at least a 40 minute walk away. The diner had been the ideal midpoint.

James knew he could get an Uber. It was New York, for Christ’s sake. 

But Christ could keep it out of it, because he didn’t want to.

“Fine,” he managed, once his brain had caught up with what was actually going on. “But stay on your side of the bed.” Even to his ears, the threat was empty. 

Finally, he moved with purpose around the room, first to turn on the light, then to drop his cup in the bin, and lastly to start untucking the sheets on the right side of the bed.

You grumbled what was supposed to be a witty retort, but even you couldn’t tell what you were trying to say. Fortunately, you were already dragging yourself off the bed and to the bathroom before you could face the grin you knew would be creeping onto his lips. You shut the door on his chuckle. He’d gotten over that awkwardness pretty quick.

It didn’t occur to you how… strange this situation had become until you were turning on the shower. You would’ve done the same for any friend, sure, but this felt like more than that. It was more than that, and you knew it. However, it struck you as you were stepping into the warm water that you probably wouldn’t have had the confidence if you were fully alert. Maybe that was a good thing.

You were in and out of the shower quickly, save for what almost became a little nap. By the time James was turning off the bathroom light, his hair still dripping on the carpet, you’d tucked yourself in, pyjamas and all. 

“You sure you’re okay sleeping in that?” you asked again, gesturing to the hotel bath robe you’d let him commandeer, even though you could offer him no alternative. 

James shrugged, the towel robe lifting with his broad shoulders. You could just see tufts of dark hair peeking through the gaping opening. “Better than sleeping in them.” He nodded to his damp clothes, which were hung up next to yours on the heater. It was almost intimate, in a domestic sort of way. 

Nodding, you slumped back into the pillows, eyes closing almost instantly. “Well, goodnight,” you mumbled, groping for the light switch until the harsh light against your eyelids disappeared. It took a few moments, but eventually the bed creaked, the mattress dipped. A brush of cool air as the duvet was lifted, quickly replaced by body heat. 

James stayed chastely on the right side of the bed, but you could feel him across the sheets. Like he was reaching out to touch you.

He was reaching out to touch you. Suddenly, you felt his fingers trailing down your arm, until they found your hand again. His skin was damp and warm, apart from where a ring rested on his knuckle and electrified your tired brain.

You let your fingers entwine with his. 

He hadn’t moved any closer. You didn’t shuffle backwards. 

The rain was hammering against the window now, a drum beat echoing through the strange room.

“Y’know,” James’s voice was low, thoughtful. But you could hear the smirk in it. “We could kiss.”

“Shut up,” you grumbled. “Go to sleep.”

The interaction, lost in the blink of an eye, is over in seconds. Still, it’s all you need. 

You slip away in the same way you’d been standing there since the encore: like a ghost, unnoticed, even by those you know. Leaving the noise behind, you dodge through backstage halls until you reach the calmness of James’ dressing room. Outside, the stampede of people, both backstage and, distantly, those leaving the venue, rumbles like a distant storm, barely muted through the walls. 

Collapsing onto the worn sofa inside, you sigh heavily and lean your head back, eyes closing. It’s going to be a long few minutes. A long night. 

Your friendship with James is an interesting one. He had stumbled into your life one morning in your regular coffee shop, and you haven’t been able to get rid of him since. Not even when he’d revealed his career to you (by varying degrees). You were more than supportive, attending every concert you could, even those miles away, and singing your heart out, to his initially astounded delight. Friendship was effortless with him, despite busy schedules and faraway homes, and it became routine to meet whenever you could.  

But, when had it become something more, turned from the relaxed fun of two friends to a strange, awkward purgatory, where a single glance could charge the space between you? You couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. Probably at some point in the shadows of near-forgotten evenings in James’s apartment, in walks through parks up and down the country, at tables loaded with food or games or Lego or magazines with his face in, during train rides listening to new music through shared headphones, in whispered conversations in loud rooms.

And when did it break, become the near hostility that now swirled between you? Now, that you could specify. Because it was last night, after the first of James’ two London shows. In a hotel room you’d booked to surprise him for the end of tour. 

He’d been so shocked to see you through the flashing lights, after you’d told him you couldn’t make it, that he almost missed the right chord midway through a song. Afterwards, he slipped you both out of the venue with surprising ease and followed you to your hotel, where he abused room service and forced you to watch some video essay on his phone.

You were half-asleep (partly because of your confused day of travel, partly because of his terrible taste in video essays) when he accidentally nudged you awake, shuffling further up against the headboard. Closer to you. He apologised, finally tearing his eyes away from the video, lips pursed in a slight ‘o’, already forming words that you watched die on his lips and from his eyes when he looked at you.

Your face flamed under his stare. You weren’t even close, stretched out modestly on either side of the bed with his phone propped up on the duvet between you, the way you’d done in countless other hotels. But it was suddenly as though someone had turned the heating up, as though he pressed his chest right against your arm. The space between you sizzled.

He was right there. So close, you could smell him, shower gel and shampoo and traces of sweated-off body spray. How easy it would’ve been to just…

That stupid video essay played on to itself. James’ lips parted, and you leaned closer. Just to hear him speak. Honest.

And then he brought a tentative hand to your arm - smooth, warm fingers running against goosebumped skin. Just one touch… and you sprang away, like it reminded you where you were, who you were, who he was. Immediately, James yanked his hand back.

Squirming and fidgeting, you both let the video essay finish, neither really watching but neither offering an alternative either. When the screen faded to black, James made quiet excuses and left quickly.

You hadn’t been able to face him earlier today. Even though he and the band had gone out for breakfast, wandered around Soho, and sound checked. You’d stayed in your hotel room, barely noticing the passing of time except for the sunlight inching across the carpet.

And still you turned up tonight. Still you found yourself here, waiting in James’ dressing room, eyes closed almost shamefully as though it could repress the searing memory of his fingers so gentle on your skin, of his lips just inches from your own. Waiting to have the conversation that had been bubbling up for weeks, that had been within your reach last night, and that now may be gone forever. 

Outside the dressing room, things seem to be calming. The noise is beginning to die down, with more people pacing past the door, away from the stage. As minutes pass and the venue settles, every fresh set of footsteps sets you on edge. Any second, he could be here… 

And then the door swings open. 

James appears in the doorway, illuminated like an angel, a towel tossed around his shoulders. He strides in and kicks the door closed behind him, drying his hair with one hand. The towel covers his face, his eyes, and you’re sure it’s on purpose.  

Your stare follows him towards the dressing table, where he checks his phone, then throws the towel onto the chair. He sighs and, finally, turns to you. His eyeliner is smudged almost clean off, remnants of it standing out on the discarded towel. You meet his uncovered eyes with guarded curiosity, head tilting slightly. Even you aren’t sure if you’re inviting him to sit beside you. 

He doesn’t. 

The silence stretches, almost awkward, if it weren’t for the electric tension lingering in his hunched shoulders and your fumbling hands. Your eyes dart from his to the floor, the chair, the mirror, where they settle, because you can watch him without feeling seen.

He’s surprisingly still as he swallows, risking a look at you that flashes away within seconds. Silence doesn’t suit him. Doesn’t suit either of you. Not this terrified kind. Nevertheless, you don’t know how to break it. Because doing so means making this conversation real. And no magic wand can make you go back to the way you were weeks ago. You can only go forward, down a path neither can see the end of yet. 

Finally, he says your name in a voice strained not from months of touring but from weeks of missed chances and confusing touches. The stillness shatters around you. Like this, his voice is intoxicating, even more so than usual. You swallow, and almost choke on the words you can’t get out. 

"I didn't think you'd come tonight," he finally admits softly. 

Neither did you. 

But if you'd stayed in your hotel room, all you would have done was thought of him. 

"Where else could I have gone?" You barely recognise your own voice.

"Home," he says lowly, almost instantly. Like that’s what you should have done. 

Maybe you should have. 

"Already paid for the hotel room," you huff, laughing a little despite the weighted tension. 

He smiles, just a quick quirk of his lips, but you see the slight fall of his taut shoulders. 

You both go quiet again. After a moment, James comes to sit beside you. Not too close. Not too far. And the space between you tightens once more. His leg bounces beside yours, seemingly of its own accord, and you want to reach out a hand to stop it. One touch is all it’ll take, you know. You’ve done it before, a gentle hand on his knee. Your fingers twitch. Your hand doesn’t move.

“Why did you come back?” he asks. You can almost feel the burden shifting on to your shoulders with just that one question. 

“Why didn’t you send me home last night?” you counter. There’s a bite in your words, something close to contempt. You wince slightly at the harshness behind them, because you don’t mean it. Not really. 

He sighs heavily, jaw clenching. “Because I didn’t want you to go.”

The words settle into the room around you. It’s strange – you can hear the roar still going on outside, but this room is like a vacuum. Nothing except the heavy, unsteady sounds of breathing. 

“I wanted to come back,” you mumble, then take a deep breath. “’Cause I - I don’t want to be in this... like this anymore.” The admission is quiet, though the meaning behind it speaks loud enough. 

James doesn’t answer it. Not at first.  

“You were fantastic out there,” you say eventually, almost wistfully. You don’t really know why. Maybe because you’d meant to tell him the second he’d come off stage, but hadn’t been sure if it was even your place anymore.

“‘Cause you were watching,” he whispers. Then, suddenly, he's up on his feet, pacing. 

You stay put, neck craning to watch him unabashedly. You know your staring probably isn't helping him think; still, you can’t stop yourself. He’s still a little sweaty, and it’s not from the heat or lights anymore. His shirt’s coming untucked, ruffled above his carved belt buckle, revealing a strip of pale stomach as he runs his hands through his hair. The dim dressing room light glosses over his exposed skin, dappling the lightness until it’s almost glowing, at his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up, at his stomach where his shirt’s rumpled, at his face. That face, which is pulled taut, lips downturned, the slight lines creasing along his forehead - if he had a goatee, you could see him stroking it right now. There’s bags under his eyes, but still they shine with that spark of life performing always gives him.

“So....” he starts, and you snap to attention, rearranging yourself as though you hadn’t just been watching him. However, he says nothing more, his focus still on the floor. 

“So....” you repeat, not sure if you’re encouraging him or just desperate not to fall back into strained silence.

He stops pacing, standing directly in front of you, towering above you... and then... he bursts out laughing. 

“This is ridiculous,” he says through the tail-end of his laughter, voice rough. “Look. I like you. Have done for a while. So, if you wanna… do something with that -” he shrugs, falling back onto the sofa beside you. It’s on you.

God, it’s like a dam’s burst. It’s out there. Real. Spoken of. No longer up in the air between confused, misinterpreted moments.  And it’s not as anxiety-inducing as you’d thought. It feels… right. Normal. Like it could be real. 

All you can do at first is sit there staring at him with your eyebrows raised, until the words click.

“I -” you start, then swallow when his eyes dart to you. There’s no running away from it now. “I don’t want anything to change.” And there it is. The truth, the reason you’d balked last night, why you’ve been so defensive tonight, muttered into the scariness of reality. Because you value what you share, and the possibility of ruining it is unthinkable. 

“Things already have,” he replies with his soft certainty. 

And you know he’s right. Things have been changing between you for weeks, months. Missed glances, lingering touches, private meet-ups, a paint-by-numbers creating the artwork that is this. 

You sigh. “Yeah. I guess they have.” Your voice is almost nostalgic, yet you find yourself nodding. Yes, things have changed. Yes, it could be for the better. Yes, I want to hang around and find out. 

He chuckles, as if the same memories are playing through his mind. “Come here,” he mumbles, winding an arm around your shoulders. Finally, you don’t shy away from his touch. It makes him beam when you lean into it instead, resting your cheek on his shoulder, a little smile on your face as you look up to him.

You’re not sure who kisses who first, only that once you’ve started, you can’t stop. Innocent, explorative little pecks (briefly interrupted by you mumbling “You need a shower” and his quick counter of “Shut up”) become deeper, more desperate kisses until you’re clambering on to his lap, letting his guitar-scarred hands run cautiously up your back, into your hair.

This time, the thing that startles you away from him is a knock on the door, like you’re a pair of teenagers with the bedroom door closed. If not for his hands, holding just a bit tighter at the small of your back, you’d probably have tumbled right back off the sofa.

James’ laugh is sudden, a hysterical burst that he tries to muffle into your shoulder. “Yeah?” he calls when he’s composed himself. 

A voice - who cares who’s? - comes through the door. “You got an encore waiting outside.”

You don’t give him a chance to respond, tugging him into another unbreakable kiss, keeping him close with your hands in his hair. Now you’ve had one taste, now that you’ve allowed yourself to, you can’t get enough. “I need to get outside,” he murmurs, but you swallow the words.

“They can wait.”

You’ve barely finished speaking when there’s another, more urgent knock at the door, followed by a disgruntled shout of “James!”

You finally pull away, groaning. James only laughs, a faint pink dusting his freckled cheeks. “Don’t think they can. Come on, off.” 

He deposits you, gently, back down beside him on the sofa, and pushes himself to his feet, sighing gruffly. You watch him with a little smile on your face as he dithers for a moment before pulling his coat from where he’d discarded it over a chair. He’s just grabbing his acoustic when another shout of his name comes through the door.

Despite the annoyance evident in the voice, James goes still, looking at you while clutching his guitar by the neck. 

He nods at you once, eyes crinkling. I’m coming back.