One Photo (Van x reader) part 3
Ever since that night, Van had been distant.
It had been two weeks since you guys saw or even spoke to each other. You tried to reach out. Calls, texts, even a stupid meme you thought might make him laugh, but nothing. Maybe it was really business for him and sleeping with him just was you being another girl to him.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t heard his name throughout this period. You’d see posts online about Van being spotted going in and out of shops, buying flowers but then chucking them in the bin straight after.
You told yourself you didn’t care. Told yourself it was for the better this way. Less complicated. It was just for publicity after all. However, that didn’t’t stop you from wondering if he’d thought about it at all. About you.
Your phone bleep. It was from your agent.
Don’t forget about the. Brit Awards this weekend. Van’s driver will be picking you up so make sure you’re ready by 3pm. You’ll be arriving together. The cameras will love it.
The Brit awards. The day you had been dreading.
You laughed to yourself. If only they knew.
The day came faster than you’d expected. Hair, makeup, fittings; all blur of stylists, perfume, and bright lights. You kept busy because thinking meant remembering, and that gave you an anxious feeling in your stomach.
By the time the clock read 3, your apartment looked like a hurricane of dresses had passed through. Hair pins on the floor and about 50 pairs of high heels. You’d barely finished picking out what earrings to wear when your phone buzzed again.
You froze. Fuck. Your heart gave that annoying little kick, the one you swore you’d trained yourself out of. You caught your own reflection in the hallway mirror. You looked at yourself one last time and took a deep breath.
The sound of a car engine drifted through your open window. You forced a smile, grabbed your clutch, and opened the door.
Outside, Van sat in the backseat of the limo, pretending to scroll through his phone. But, the moment he saw you through the tinted glass, the air leaving his lungs. He blinked once. Twice. Like he wasn’t sure you were real.
As you were walking down the steps to the pavement, you saw van’s door open. He stepped out. The February air hit him, but he’d barely noticed His pulse hammered in his throat.
You reached the last step, clutch in hand, and looked up. There he was. Standing besides the car in his black suit and tie which he was playing with whilst watching you walk down the stairs, staring at you like he’d never seen anything do beautiful in his life.
For a moment, no one moved. The driver looked away politely and somewhere behind you, a nosey neighbour’s door clicked shut. It was like you were the only two people on this planet.
Van swallowed hard. His jaw tensed, eyes darting down your dress. The black lace, paired with your pearl necklace.
“Hey..” Van broke the silence. His voice quivered a little, almost like he was nervous to see you.
Your lips smile at him, but your eyes gave him a look he didn’t quite understand.
He moved out the way to let you get into the limo first, placing a hand on your lower back as you go in front of him, sending shivers down your spine. He shut the door behind you, walked around, and slid in beside you.
Neither of you spoke as the car pulled away, London blurring past. The space between you felt electric. Too charged for words, too fragile for silence. You could feel the warmth of hi beside you, even though neither of you were touching.
Van cleared his throat softly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You look…” he trailed off, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You look really good.” He looked you up and down. “You look beautiful y/n.”
You turned your head just enough to catch his reflection in the window. The way his jaw flexed as he spoke, like saying it out loud cost him something.
“Thanks,” you said, voice steady. “You too.”
He gave a small nod, hands fidgeting in his lap. For a man who could command a stage, he suddenly look nervous. It was almost endearing, and you hated that it was.
Minutes passed. The closer you got to the arena, the thicker the air felt. Your heart was somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Van kept sneaking glances at you, each one lingering a second too long.
When the driver finally announced, “we’re here,” you both exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the entire ride.
Outside, camera flashes painted the sky. You could already hear the crowd chanting names, his name, over the barriers.
Van looked over at you, eyes softer now, almost apologetic.
“No,” you admitted, voice barely above the hum of the car.
He smiled, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Tough luck, love.”
Shouting, flashes, chaos; the door opened and the noise hit you instantly. You froze for half a second, glided by the lights. But then Van’s hand was there, reaching for yours. Steady. Warm.
He led you out, the crowd erupting as you stepped onto the red carpet together. It was like a movie scene. The world narrowing to just you and him. Cameras flashed, fans screamed, your name was shouted alongside his.
Then, without warning, Van turned to you. His eyes locked on yours. Deep, unreadable, but something flickered behind them. Before you could even process it, his hand slid to your waist and he kissed you.
It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t careful. It was real.
In that instant, every out, every sleepless night, every ‘what if’ vanished. The world melted away. All you should feel was him. His mouth on yours, firm and desperate, as if he was trying to tell you everything he hasn’t said for the past 2 weeks.
It was like his lips were made for yours.
When he pulled back, your heart was racing so hard you thought the cameras might catch it. The crowd roared, flashes binding you both.
He smiled. That dangerous smile. He leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the chaos.
The words hit you harder than the camera flashes. You blinked, trying to find something to say, but before you should, he straightened up again. His hand still on your waist.
You forced yourself to smile for the cameras. You were meant to be the perfect couple. That was your job. It’s what they want.
Van guided you along the carpet, hand never leaving your back. Every time a flash went off, he leaned in closer, whispering little things that didn’t match his expression.
“You are.” His tone softened. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
And he was. Every step, every fake wave, every tight smile for the cameras. There he was. Close enough that you could feel the ghost of that kiss still tingling on your lips.
Inside, the noise dulled to a low hum. You were ushered through corridors of people in gowns and tuxedos, managers barking orders, champagne glasses clinking. Van walked beside you nodding to a few people he knew, but his attention kept flicking back to you like he couldn’t help himself.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” You murmured once you were clear of the press.
He raised an eyebro. “What? Kiss you?”
You gave him a sharp look.
He signed, running a hand through his hair, the same way he always did when he was trying not to lose it. “Yeah. I know. But… I couldn’t not.”
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, folding your arms.
He smirked, stepping closer. “You’re the one who looks like that and expects me to stay sane.”
That did it. The fragile calm between you snapped.
You took a step back, voice low but sharp. “Oh, don’t start with that, Van.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Where the hell have you been for the past two weeks?” You demanded, keeping your tone quiett enough not to draw attention but edged enough to make him flinch. “You disappear, ignore my calls, texts, act like I don’t exist, and then you just, what? Kiss me in front of every bloody camera in London like nothing happened?”
He ran a hadn’t through his hair, exhaling hard. “Y/N..”
“No,” you cut in. “Don’t. Because I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to figur out what I did wrong. I told myself it was fine. That it was just business. That maybe that night meant nothing. But at least say something instead of vanishing.”
He stopped closer, voice rough now. “It’’s not that simple.”
“It is,” you shot back, throat tight. “We spent one night together, Van. It was supposed to be a bit of fun, a publicity stunt. It didn’t have to mean anything.”
For a moment, he just stared at you. Then, quietly, he said, “but it did.”
“It meant something,” he continued, his voice trembling slightly as he forced the words out. “To me, it did. And that’s why I’ve been ignoring you, okay? Because usually I don’t… I don’t feel this way after spending a night with someone. I’ve done this before. The fake dating, the PR shit, the hookups. But, with you, it’s different.”
He shook his head, trying to steady his breathing. “It wasn’t supposed to be. It was meant to be simple. I was meant to smile for cameras, kiss you once or twice, move on. But every time I close my eyes, it’s you. I get this,” he gestured to his stomach, laughing under his breath. “This fucking knot that won’t go away. I thought if I stayed away, it would fade”
You stared at him, heart pounding, caught between anger and disbelief. “So, what about the flowers?”
He looked up, eyes flicking to yours. “They were for you.”
“The flowers,” he said again, softer this time. “Every time I tried to forget about you, id end up in some shop, buying flowers. And then id think, what am I doing? She doesn’t care, it was one night, and I’d throw them away before I got to your door.”
“I tried calling you,” you blurted, the words sharper than you intended. “Messaging you. What makes you think I didn’t care?”
Van eyes widened, his whole posture faltering. “You…what?”
“I reached out, Van. More than once. And every time I got nothing back. Radio silence.” You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping. “Do you know how small that made me? I thought I was just another name on your list.”
He took a hesitant step closer. “Y/N, I swear…”
“No,” you interrupted =, voice breaking slightly. “You don’t get to disappear for two weeks and then kiss me like that in front of everyone. You don’t get to act like you care now.”
Van’s jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t been losing my mind these past two weeks? You think it was easy for me to stay away?” His voice cracked mid-sentence, raw and unguarded. “I didn’t answer becuase I thought you didn’t want me to. I thought I’d just ruin it. You made me feel like…” he stopped, shaking his head. “I don’t even know. Different. Scared.”
You scared at him, your pulse pounding. “Scared of what?”
He laughed, quiet and hollow. “Of how much I wanted to see you again. Of how much it actually mattered.”
The silence between you stretched thin. Somewhere down the corridor, you could still hear the muffled noise of the awards show; music, laughter, life continuing without you. But in this moment, it was just him.”
You swallowed, your voice trembling when you finally spoke. “Then why didn’t you just say that?”
He looked at you helplessly. “Because I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”
For a moment, neither if you breathed. The noise of the ceremony carried faintly from behind the door. The music, laughter, the rest of the world spinning on, but in here, nothing. It was just the two of you. His confession hung between you like static, close enough to touch, too fragile to name.
Before you could say anything, someone called from the other end of the corridor.
“Van, they’re announcing your category, cmon mate!”
He blinked, like he’d forgotten there was a whole world outside this hallway. He tore his eyes from yours, running a hand through his hair. “Right,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then, softer, “you coming?”
You nodded, barely trusting your voice.
The two of you walked side by side down the corridor, close but not touching. Every few steps, your hands would almost brush. Neither of you said a word.
When you reached the Ian room, the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into applause. The screen above the stage flashed the nominations.
Breakthrough Artist of the Year
His band’s nae lit up in bold white.
Van glanced at you once more before the spotlight hit him.
“And this year’s breakthrough artist is…”
“Catfish and the Bottlemen!”
The crowd exploded. Cameras swung in every direction, his bandmates shouted, hugging him, pushing him toward the stage. He hesitated, just for a second, looking back at you. That same look from earlier, the one that said everything words couldn’t.
You smiled, small and shaky, mouthing, congratulations.
You watched him climb the steps, heart pounding, lights flashing off his suit. He took the mic, grinning, breathless, pretending like this was just another night. But when the cheers faded and the room fell quiet, his smile softened.
“Uh…wow,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t think I’d actually be standing up here tonight.” The audience laughed, a warm ripple through the hall.
He looked down for a moment, his voice lower when he spoke again. “There’s someone I need to thank. Someone who…probably doesn’t even know what she means to me.”
You froze. The cameras panned at you, you could feel it, but Van didn’t care. He won’t even looking at the crowd. His eyes were on you.
“She knows who she is,” he said, smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
The crowd cheered, loud and wild, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat.
“This one’s for Y/N. I love you”
He gave one last grin, said a quick “thank you,” and handed the mic back, stepping away as the music swelled again. But before leaving the stage, he looked for you in the crowd, found you, and just smiled.
The rest of the night felt like a dream you couldn’t quite wake up from. The applause, the flashing lights, the champagne. Everything blurred together. People clapped Van on the back, congratulated him, shoved cameras in his face, but your ears were still ringing from what he said on stage.
“This one’s for Y/N. I love you.”
It was supposed to be pretend. You were supposed to pretend. Now you couldn’t tell where the act ended and the truth began.
When the ceremony wrapped, you followed the crowd into the afterparty, every step feeling heavier than the last. Van was somewhere behind you, caught in a sea of press and publicists, his award glinting under the flashing bulbs. You didn’t;t look back. You couldn’t.
The club they rented out was loud and stifling, all gold lights and smoke machines, but it still felt cold somehow. You stood by the car, half listening to someone from your PR team ramble about brand collaborations, when you saw him walk in.
His shirt was slightly undone, hair a mess from hardcore fans grabbing him. And yet somehow, he looked like the only person in the room who wasn’t acting.
He caught your eye across the crowd, and the noise faded. It was like everyone else blurred out, and it was just the two of you again. Same as when the cameras stopped flashing earlier, and he’d looked at you like he didn’t know where to put all the feelings spilling out of him.
You turned away first, slipping outside for air.
The London night hit cool and sharp against your skin. You leaned against a railing, your clutch dancing from your hand. The silence was a relief, until you heard the door open again.
You turned, pulse catching. Van was there, holding the brit Award in one hand, another shoved in his pocked.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” you said softly. “People will wonder where you are.”
“Let them,” he said, stepping closer. “I needed a minute.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “To rehearse your next speech?”
His lips twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. “You didn’t like what I said?”
You scoffed. “You think I liked being blindsided on live television? You saying you love me? Van, that wasn’t part of the plan.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I know.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“Because…” he exhaled, voice low. “Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like acting.”
You stared at him, heat flooding your chest. “Oh, come on. Don’t do that.”
“Im serious,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I wasn’t supposed to me.”
You shook your head, trying to laugh it off, but it came out brittle. “You don’t get to say that after everything. You don’t get to disappear for two weeks, ignore me, and then stand on stage saying you love me. Even if it’s just pretend.”
“I didn’t pan it,” he said. “It just came out.”
“I know.” He ran his thumb over the edge of the award, eyes flicking away. “But when I saw you sitting there, I just couldn’t think of anything else. Not the cameras, to the crowd. Just you.”
Your stomach twisted. “Stop.”
He took another step forward. “I can’t. I’ve been trying to stop thinking about you for weeks, and it’s not working. You’re everywhere. Every song I write turns into you.”
You let out a shaky exhale, your back hitting the cold brick wall behind you. “You’re only saying this because of tonight. Because of the adrenaline, the cameras-…”
“No,” he cut in, his voice cracking. “I’m saying it because it’s true. I love you, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”
You blinked at him, stunned silent. The city hummed around you. Cars, laughter, the muffled bass from inside. But it all faded under the weight of his words.
He swallowed, the confidence from the stage gone completely now. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were supposed to be my fake girlfriend, my PR cover. We’d smile, take the photos, sell the story. Easy. Fuck I knew you for quite a day.” His laugh was low, humourless. “But then you went and ruined it.”
“Ruined it?” you echoed, voice trembling.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Because now I can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s for show.”
You stared at him, your pulse roaring in your ears. “You think you’re the only one confused?” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You think I haven’t spent the last two weeks wondering if I imagined everything? If my sex was really that bad?”
“It meant everything,” he said instantly, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That’s why I panicked. That’s why I stayed away.”
“Then why now?” you whispered. “Why say it now, when everyone’s watching?”
He stepped closer again, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of smoke and cologne on him. “Because I was tired of pretending I didn’t care.”
The space between you shrank to nothing. His hand hovered near yours. Not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat. His eyes searched yours, like he was asking for permission to close the distance.
But before you could answer, a voice called from the doorway.
“Van! Mate, they want you back inside for press photos!”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right,” he muttered. Then, softer, to you, “Come with me?”
You hesitated, still catching your breath. “I can’t. Not like this.”
“Then how?” he asked, desperate now. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
You took a step toward him this time. His eyes softened the second you did.
“Come over,” you said quietly. “After all this. When it’s quiet. We can… talk it out. Get all the weird out of the way.”
He blinked, almost like he didn’t believe what he’d heard. “You mean that?”
You nodded. “Yeah. We’ll start again.”
A slow smile tugged at his lips. Small, relieved, a little disbelieving. “Start again,” he repeated.
“Exactly,” you said. “Just… don’t be late.”
He laughed under his breath, eyes still on you. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
And as he turned to walk back toward the flashing lights, he looked over his shoulder one last time, that same look from the limo, from the red carpet, the one that made your heart ache in the best and worst way.
You didn’t know what would happen next.
But for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel so impossible anymore.
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