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The Balcony (Van x reader)

The first thing you notice is the sound. Low, muffled, almost swallowed by the thick quiet of the hotel room, but steady. A voice. His voice.

For a few seconds you hover on the edge of sleep, caught between dream and reality, and you let yourself believe it's part of a dream but then you roll onto your side, and the empty space in the bed confirms what you already know: Van’s not there

The room is dim, curtains drawn halfway against the pale light creeping in from outside. The sheets are tangled around you, warm with the imprint of sleep, but the quiet other, than his voice, feels too awake. You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes, the hum of the air conditioning brushing against your skin as you strain to listen.

He's talking in a low voice. The way he always does when it's something that matters. Not the careless, laughing Van you hear backstage, nor the sunny frontman on stage, but the version that surfaces in rare moments: serious, intent, carrying a gravity that makes you wonder what's spinning in his head.

Your bare feet hit the carpet softly as you slip out of bed, tugging the hotel blanket around your shoulders like a shield against the chill. The sound is clearer now. It's coming from the sliding glass door cracked open onto the balcony.

You hesitate at first, standing in the doorway, the faint morning breeze brushing against your face. And then you see him.

Van is leaning against the railing, a white long-sleeved top covering his torso, his hair falling untamed, still mussed from the night. He's got a cigarette in one hand, the other holding his phone to his ear. In the filtered morning light, he looks almost like he doesn't belong to the world you know, like he's stepped out of a film, frozen in monochrome. The kind of scene you'd pause just to hold onto.

You watch him for a moment. Your chest tightens with something you can’t quite put your tongue on. Maybe it's the quiet intimacy of seeing him like this, stripped of noise and spotlight. Maybe it's the fragile feeling that you've stumbled into a version of him few people get to see.

The balcony floor is cool against your skin as you step out. The air smells faintly of damp earth and coffee grounds drifting from inside. Van lowers his phone from his ear, just for a moment, long enough to lean in and brush his lips against yours. Warm. Quick. Fleeting. But it leaves you breathless all the same.

"Fresh pot of coffee's on," he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. "Help yourself."

And then he's back on the call, his tone shifting again, that measured focus settling over him like a second skin.

You slip back inside, the blanket trailing behind you, and follow the smell of coffee to the small counter tucked against the wall. The machine is still warm, steam rising from the pot. You pour a cup, the liquid dark and steady, and wrap your hands around it, savoring the heat against your palms.

When you return to the balcony, Van's still talking, his voice weaving through the morning. You settle into the chair across from him, curling the blanket tighter around your shoulders, and take a slow sip.

The coffee is strong, bitter in a way that makes you wince, but it feels like him somehow. Grounding. Honest. Real.

Van's pacing now, one hand gesturing as if whoever's on the other end can see it. His brow furrows slightly, then smooths, then furrows again. You watch him quietly, every detail etching itself into you. The slope of his shoulders beneath the sweater, the restless way his fingers tap the railing, the light in his eyes that sharpens whenever he speaks with conviction.

The world around you is barely awake. Palm trees shift lazily in the breeze. A bird cuts across the sky. Somewhere below, a car engine stirs to life. But here, on this balcony, it feels like time has slowed just for you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, sipping your coffee, letting the steam curl against your face while you watch him. He’s magnetic even like this. There’s no crowd, no spotlight, no stage to hold him up. Just Van.

Eventually, he ends the call. He lowers the phone, staring at it for a moment like the words he just heard are still echoing inside him. Then, with a small sigh, he slips it into his pocket and turns to you fully.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice softer now, touched with something apologetic. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “It’s fine. Better than an alarm.”

That earns you a smile. A real one this time, small but warm, the kind that tugs at the corners of his mouth like it can’t help itself. He walks over, leaning down to steal another kiss. Longer this time, slow and tasting faintly of mint and sleep.

When he pulls back, he nods toward your cup. “Strong enough for you?”

You laugh softly, cradling it between your hands. “It’s practically jet fuel.”

“Good. That’s the only way.” He drags over a chair and drops into it beside you, stretching his legs out, ankles crossing. For the first time since you woke up, he looks relaxed, shoulders unclenching, gaze softening.

For a while, you both just sit there, the quiet settling around you like a second blanket. You sip your coffee. He leans back, head tilted toward the sky, eyes half-lidded as if he’s still halfway in a dream.

It’s peaceful. Unfamiliar, almost, considering the last few nights have been a blur of venues and late-night drives, music bleeding into laughter, exhaustion masked by adrenaline. To have this stillness feels like stumbling onto something rare.

“You’ve got that look,” Van says suddenly, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, brows lifting. “What look?”

He turns his head to study you, a lazy smile playing on his lips. “Like you’re watching me more than the view.”

Caught, you roll your eyes, though heat creeps up the back of your neck. “Maybe the view just isn’t that impressive.”

He chuckles, low and rough, the sound threading into your chest. “Cheeky.” He leans closer, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Don’t stop, though. Kinda like being watched by you.”

Your heart stutters at that, but you try to play it off with another sip of coffee, your gaze drifting out toward the trees. It doesn’t work. You can feel him watching you now, that unrelenting focus of his, like you’re the only thing worth noticing.

After a moment, you set the mug down on the railing, turning to face him. “Who was on the phone?”

He exhales through his nose, looking away briefly. “Manager. Sorting stuff for tonight’s show. Boring shit, really.” Then his eyes flick back to yours, more earnest now. “Didn’t mean to start the day with all that noise.”

“It wasn’t noise,” you say softly. “It’s just… you. I like hearing you.”

The words slip out before you can second-guess them, but you don’t regret it. Because it’s true. You like hearing him in all his variations; laughing, serious, thoughtful, careless. Each one feels like a different note in a song only you get to hear up close.

Something shifts in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His smile fades into something more serious, more searching. He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours where they rest on the arm of the chair.

“Y’know,” he says quietly, “sometimes I forget how mad this all is. Constant movement. People pulling at me. Feels like I never really stop. But then…” His thumb strokes lightly against your hand. “Then I get mornings like this.”

Your throat tightens, and you squeeze his hand gently. “Mornings like this are the best part.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The air hums with it. The weight of the words left unsaid, the comfort of the ones that don’t need to be.

Finally, Van leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks out at the trees swaying in the distance. “You know I don’t always say it,” he murmurs, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

The simplicity of it nearly undoes you. Not grand declarations, not dramatic confessions. just that quiet honesty that slips through in unguarded moments.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He shifts instinctively, pressing a kiss to the top of your hair, his hand finding yours again. The top is soft beneath your cheek, carrying the faint scent of him: cigarettes, coffee, faint smell of his cologne

It feels like the two of you are suspended in your own little bubble.

The balcony has gone quiet again, save for the faint hum of traffic far below and the clink of your mug as you set it back down. Van hasn’t moved much but, you can feel his attention on you, even when his eyes are on the horizon.

You shift closer, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, until your knee brushes his. He glances sideways, lips tugging into the kind of smile that says he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Cold?” he asks, though there’s no real question in his voice.

“A little,” you admit.

He doesn’t hesitate. One arm slips around your waist, tugging you closer until you’re practically in his lap, your legs brushing against his thighs. The blanket falls open a little with the movement, baring the thin strap of your top. His fingers find it immediately, tracing along the line of fabric, lazy and deliberate.

“You’re warm now,” he murmurs, and the way his breath ghosts across your skin makes you shiver for an entirely different reason.

“Convenient,” you tease, but your voice is thinner than you mean it to be.

He grins, eyes glinting. “Don’t sound very convinced.”

The hand at your waist drifts lower, fingers splayed against your hip. He doesn’t push, doesn’t take it further, just rests there, casual, like he could stay this way forever. But the weight of it makes your pulse quicken anyway.

“You like watching me, yeah?” he says suddenly, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. “Back there… thought I didn’t notice.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again, heat crawling up your neck. “You weren’t supposed to.”

“Didn’t mind,” he says, his thumb brushing idly along your hipbone. His gaze flicks down to your lips, then back up. “Felt good, actually. Being seen like that.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he counters, leaning in until his nose nearly brushes yours, “are blushing.”

You can’t deny it. Not with his eyes on you like that, stripping away any chance of hiding. You bite your lip, and his breath catches at the movement.

For a moment, the air between you thickens, charged with the possibility of what could happen if you just leaned that last inch. But Van only smirks, pulling back just slightly, like he’s deliberately drawing it out.

“Coffee’s not the only thing keeping me awake this morning,” he says, almost too casual, though the tension in his jaw betrays him.

You roll your eyes, but your laugh is shaky. “Subtle.”

“Never claimed to be.” He presses his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

The choice hangs there, heavy but electric. And instead of answering, you tilt your head, catching his mouth with yours.

The kiss is nothing like the quick ones from before. This one is slow but deep, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you against him. His hand tightens at your hip, pulling you flush against him, while the other comes up to cradle the back of your neck.

You melt into it, fingers curling into his sweater, the knit soft under your hands as you cling to him. Every shift of his lips against yours sends sparks racing down your spine, every small sound from him unraveling you a little more.

When you finally break apart, breathless, his smile is wrecked in the best way. It’s messy, lopsided, boyish but hungry.

“Fuck,” he mutters, resting his head against your shoulder for a moment, laughter shaking through him. “You ruin me, you know that?”

You press a kiss to the top of his head, your heart still racing. “Likewise.”

He looks up again, eyes brighter now, and kisses you once more quick, almost playful this time. “Still think the view’s not that impressive?”

You grin, leaning in close enough that your lips brush his ear as you whisper: “Depends on which one I’m looking at.”

The sound he makes at that, half laugh, half groan, is enough to tell you the teasing has worked. His grip on you tightens, and for a moment you think he might lose the careful restraint he’s holding onto.

But instead, he just kisses you again, slow and lingering, like he’s savoring the taste of the morning, of you, of everything in between.

Van’s lips trail away from yours, but he doesn’t move far. He’s grinning again, boyish and mischievous, the kind of smile that always means trouble is coming. His thumb strokes lazy circles against your hip, like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t be.

“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, his grin spreading. “Just… thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He chuckles, tilting his head back against the chair. “Was just wondering…” He pauses, biting back a laugh before leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “How bad would it be if I asked for a ya know before breakfast?”

You choke on a laugh, swatting at his chest through the sweater. “Van!”

“What?!” He throws up his free hand in mock innocence, though his eyes are sparkling. “I’m only asking! Coffee’s great and all, but there are… other ways to start the day.”

You can’t stop laughing, shaking your head as you bury your face in his shoulder for a second. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, but you love me for it.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple, smug. “So… yes?”

You pull back, giving him your most mock-serious expression. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He arches a brow.

“Yeah,” you say, sipping the last of your coffee just to draw it out. “Depending on how good of a show you put on tonight.”

That wipes the smugness right off his face. His mouth drops open a little, and then he laughs, the sound bubbling up so genuine it makes your chest ache. He leans back, dragging a hand down his face, still shaking his head.

“You’re evil,” he says through a grin.

“Motivated,” you correct, enjoying the way he looks at you now like you’ve just thrown down a challenge he’s desperate to rise to.

He leans closer again, his hand sliding up your thigh under the blanket, slow and deliberate. “So if I give the crowd my all, scream my lungs out, sweat buckets-”

“-basically your job,” you interrupt, smirking.

“-then,” he continues, ignoring you, “I get my reward?”

“Maybe,” you repeat, drawing the word out.

He groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck dramatically. “You’re killing me.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.” His lips brush against your skin, lingering just a second longer than casual. “Guess I’ll just have to make it the best fucking show of my life, then.”

You laugh, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “Good. I’ll be watching.”

His eyes catch yours again, and for a moment the teasing fades into something softer, heavier. There’s a flicker there. Want, yes, but also affection so raw it makes your heart skip. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he needs the anchor.

“Always watching,” he murmurs, and you know he’s not just talking about the show.

The rest of the morning drifts by in that suspended bubble, quiet laughter, lazy kisses, shared warmth under the blanket. The noise of the world grows louder below, but up here, it’s just you and him, coffee gone cold on the railing, promises hanging in the air like something sacred.

The morning stretches, slow and unhurried, until the coffee’s gone cold and the world outside has fully woken. Van disappears inside for a moment, rummaging around the hotel room, humming absently under his breath. You stay where you are, curled up in the chair on the balcony, the blanket pulled close around you.

The air is warmer now, sunlight spilling over the railing, catching in your hair. From here, you can see him moving through the room barefoot, still in that white top, pacing like he always does when his thoughts are too quick to sit still.

He tosses his phone onto the bed, runs a hand through his messy hair, and then crouches to dig through his bag for something. It’s ordinary, even a little clumsy, but you can’t look away.

Your heart does that thing again, that quiet, stubborn ache you’ve learned to stop fighting. Because there’s something about moments like this, stripped of lights and noise, that hits harder than any concert, any whirlwind night on tour. Just him, unguarded, moving through a hotel room like it’s the most natural thing in the world to let you see him like this.

He glances up, catches you watching, and grins. He mouths something what? exaggerated and teasing.

You shake your head, smiling back, and he rolls his eyes before returning to his search.

And still, you watch.

You watch the way he hums without realising, the way he talks to himself when he thinks no one’s listening, the way his body carries the exhaustion of constant movement but somehow still burns with restless energy. You watch him, and it hits you again like it always does: how stupidly, terrifyingly, beautifully in love you are with him.

You don’t need the grand gestures. You don’t need the chaos of the stage or the thrill of the crowd. It’s this. Coffee cooling on the balcony, sunlight soft against your skin, Van in the middle of a messy hotel room, glancing up every so often just to make sure you’re still there.

And you are.

You’re here. You’re happy. You’re his, in all the ways that matter.

You lean back in the chair, let the warmth of the morning settle into your bones, and think to yourself: if this is what forever feels like, you’d take it in a heartbeat.

#catfish and the bottlemen #van mccann #catb #van x reader #admiring him