Idiots very much in love. How an accidental hickey and an argument gets way out of hand. Mdni!
A/N: This has been collecting dust in my drafts and I’ve decided to admit that I lost the motivation to work on it any further. So have this mini angsty fic of our beloved Vessel <3
You’ve always been quite cheeky with your antics, especially when it came to Vessel. One time, you even swore that you just couldn’t help it; he was irresistible, after all.
Oftentimes he’d fix you with a look that said he was unimpressed, but you knew better. Vessel believed that you must’ve hung the moon, so his adoration could never falter. His mind behaved differently whenever you were involved.
This time was different, though. You really hadn’t meant to leave such a distinct mark on him, certainly not one that was so plainly visible. Never in a million years would you have imagined he would be so worked up about it. And really, you hadn’t even noticed it before he so urgently brought it to your attention.
Which was where you found yourself now, sandwiched between him and the wall of the venue he’d perform in tonight. His presence had never been intimidating, not before this moment. But he was acting so unlike himself you couldn’t help but to back up a bit.
“So you didn’t think it was necessary to tell me before we left the room?”
You’d never seen him angry before. Frustrated, maybe. But not angry, and certainly never towards you. “I didn’t notice, Ves. Obviously, or I would’ve-”
“How could you not notice? I seem to be drawing every eye in the room,” he shot back. His attitude begged the question of why a hickey had him so bent out of shape, but you knew him well enough not to bite back at this moment. It couldn’t have anything to do with the ever-present company you two were among whilst on the road– your relationship was no secret. It was hard to keep it completely private given the circumstances, but this was the first time that you felt like that was a problem. He certainly had never bothered to keep his affections to himself where you were concerned. So where on earth was this attitude coming from?
You resisted the urge to bite back at him, knowing it would do very little to ease the tension between the two of you. “You’re drawing eyes right now because you’ve backed me into a corner and are speaking to me rather unkindly.” Sure, you didn’t want to escalate whatever was going on here, but no way were you just going to roll over and take it.
At this, he straightened up his posture, like he became aware that you were still in a hallway full of people. People you’d be seeing on a daily basis for another month, at that. “Maybe consider some self-control from time to time,” he huffed. “No need for us to act like animals.”
Oh, he was lucky you were painfully aware of your surroundings. All thoughts of attempting to be the bigger person went right down the drain. There was a string of endless curses you could have choked on when attempting to swallow them down.
But you knew Vessel. Loved him more than your own heart could fathom. This was not him, and you were no stranger to the idea that there was something else going on inside his head. There was no telling what, though, seeing as he decided to snap at you over a hickey instead of just telling you what was up.
His words took straight to your heart though, and you let them settle. If he didn’t want you leaving your trace on him, of course you would respect that. He meant the world to you, after all– you’d do anything he asked of you. Horrible efforts at communication aside.
You must have let on that you were done with the conversation, because he turned and stalked off towards the dressing room. It was for the best that you let eachother be for a while, you figured. Neither one of you seemed keen to argue back and forth. Maybe after the show he will have blown off enough of the steam that he was simmering in to have an actual conversation with you. Meanwhile you could be left alone to wallow in the sudden embarrassment that this situation had left you in.
You exhaled a shaky breath then. There was plenty of time for a talk back in the privacy of your shared hotel room. Or an argument, whatever it came to. Such matters should be handled in privacy, after all.
-
Whatever remained of the argument never came, though. And neither did any acknowledgement of the topic. You’d gotten back to the hotel room that night, continuing about as though the earlier part of your day never happened. You opted not to bring it up. There was a much more familiar Vessel sleeping next to you now, and that felt like enough.
Sweeping feelings under the rug is never a good idea, and you knew that. But it felt okay in the moment– and it certainly was the easier option.
It was easy until you had to put thought into how you were to handle your boyfriend going forward. Vessel had expressed a boundary to you, and you ached to be respectful of it. It was new and a little unnatural, but after a few days you fell into habits of giving him space until he initiated contact.
You realized that it had been a full week since your guys’ little hiccup, therefore a week since you’d had sex. It wasn’t intentional, not really. You craved Vessel like he was air, like he was an actual requirement to your survival– but the both of you were adults and perfectly capable of keeping it in your pants. You began to notice an aching in your heart whenever you were longing for him. You’d sat with your own thoughts long enough to convince your mind that the safest bet in your relationship was to just let Vessel take any initiatives.
This didn’t allow for much opportunity, though. He really did pour every part of himself out on stage, he rarely was left with much energy afterwards. He’d argued long ago that he could never be too deprived of energy when it came to you. ‘You light a fire within me, darling’ he’d cooed.
But your mind was not kind to you amidst these new feelings. The thought of trying to express your need to him and being rejected made your stomach churn. Pairing this with the fact that he’d made no effort towards you either was eating away at you.
Just as long as it’s not me who pushes too far again. You told yourself. Over and over and over again.
-
Vessel was in a particularly good mood tonight following the show. He was always pretty rambunctious with his guys, but the energy was definitely higher amongst the four of them right now.
Seeing him so lively brought a pang to your chest, right where your heart resided. It actually upset you how happy he seemed right now. And for what reason? You could have asked yourself that, if you weren’t already grossly aware of the answer. You’d been festering on hurt feelings for a week now. Whether it was still about the unresolved conflict, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was that you noticed his severe lack of attention towards you since you’d been advised to control yourself around him.
Maybe it was that you were beginning to feel angry. Upset at him, not just upset. This distance was destroying you, could he seriously not feel it? Did it not eat away at him that the closest you’d gotten to each other all week was a goodnight kiss? It felt like each hotel room you found yourselves in, the less comfortable you felt in his presence. His presence was like home to you, but you were beginning to feel unwelcome.
This newfound insecurity of yours was proving increasingly difficult to ignore when Vessel laid over top of you for the first time in what felt like ages. He curled his back over top of you in his kneeled position between your knees, hands wandering lightly up and down your clothed sides. You were trying to focus on him, how much you missed him, how thankful you were that he was here with you and finally present in the moment, but your thoughts shattered the moment his lips met the juncture of your neck and shoulder.
It felt like an instinct when your head nudged him away.
You felt him falter, but only momentarily. His hands persisted, now moving to take hold of your waist lightly. A hum of satisfaction slipped past your lips just before you felt those lips again, this time sucking lightly just below your ear. That might’ve been your undoing, if you didn’t find yourself pushing his head away again.
He did pause this time. “Darling?”
Your hum of acknowledgement must’ve satiated his curiosity, because he did not speak further. Instead he slipped his hand beneath the fabric of your shirt, hands finding purchase on your soft skin. His head dipped and captured your lips with eager force. Your nails trailing up his arms and moving to thread between the hairs at the nape of his neck must’ve read to him as an invitation, because his head descended once more. You didn’t let him get far though before you were tugging his head back up, and this finally brought him out of the moment.
He sat back on his knees, peering down at you in confusion. “Why aren’t you letting me kiss you?”
It sounded like an innocent question leaving him, but it stirred those unresolved feelings of yours. Evidently allowing a week to pass by did you no favors in deciding to be adults about this situation. You felt your own pettiness clawing to come out.
“You literally just did.” Of course you knew what he meant, but you had to feign confusion. Suddenly you felt ready to play with fire. He only huffed in response. “Is that not what you just did?”
“You keep pulling me away,” he overlooked your attempt to be smart-mouthed. “Since when do you not like me kissing your neck?”
There was a very fleeting moment that you almost felt bad for what you were inevitably about to put him through. Still, you furrowed your brow. A confused pout might do you well, too. “Just didn’t want you to get carried away.. I thought we were trying not to leave marks.”
He made an obvious attempt not to scoff. He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin then. “You’re upset about that? It wasn’t really that big of a deal, was it?”
It was obvious now more than ever that he hadn’t paid your argument any mind since the moment that it had happened. You weren’t entirely sure what to do with that. You’ve been turning yourself in circles for days over it, and he might as well have forgotten about it altogether.
You hoped he would have begun to apologize with how upset you so clearly were, but his silence remained deafening. You fixed a glare on him instead. He sure made it seem like a huge deal in the hallway of that venue, so what changed? “It’s not a big deal,” you offered easily, although it was a lie. “But you seem to be having some self-control issues on your end.”
More silence. His face betrayed no sign of what was turning the gears in his head, but you knew they had to be in overdrive right now.
“That’s different, though,” he said helplessly– pathetically, even. This brought an incredulous laugh from where you still lay on the bed. How he managed to act so small while he was still knelt above you.
“In what way is it different, Vessel? You can do it to me but don’t want me to do it to you?”
You knew he didn’t actually have an argument for this matter. Not a good one, at least. But of course he persisted. “There are thousands of people that I stand in front of every night that would run rampant with conspiracy if they noticed something like that.”
You wanted to laugh again, but you rolled your eyes and moved out from under him instead. “You are covered in black paint on stage, Vessel,” you spit. “Do not try to act like that was the problem, you and I both know that whatever was wrong with you had nothing to do with me.”
You didn’t see him run a hand down his face or the cringe of remembrance of how he had treated you. You continued before he could come up with anything to say.
“But you know what? It doesn’t matter now what was up with you, because you decided to take it out on me. You chose to humiliate me in front of your entire crew.”
You heard him call your name, but you continued to work yourself under the already unmade covers, trying like hell to put space between the two of you. This was already a mess. You really should’ve insisted you talked about it after it happened. Or maybe brought it up some other way. No matter, because now you were even more upset and fighting tears while the man you loved only just now realized how upset you’d been.
You needed to sleep. The can was open, but now you were too upset to talk about it the way you knew you needed to. There was no doubt in your mind that it would only get worse if you continued now.
“Baby..” he crawled over to you, running his knuckles along your back.
“I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight, Vessel. I’m not really in the mood.”
You knew he didn’t like it when you said his name like that. If it wasn’t Ves, it was always a pet name. Normally you’d only do so to tease him, to get him to fake his annoyance and “punish” you in return.
He slithered down now, placing his chest close to your back, his hand coming to lay a featherlight touch against your hip. “Please don’t go to bed upset.”
Vessel usually wasn’t one to just let stuff go, and bless him, sometimes he did need to be told twice. Your silence gave him the nerve to curl his arm around your stomach, moving just a little bit closer. It must have finally clicked just how upset you were, so his lips descended to press against the back of your neck, the way he knew you loved.
“Get off of me,”
He stiffened behind you but made no effort to move. You knew how wrecked your voice must have sounded. Your throat was on fire, and it felt like it was going to close any minute. He was about to crack your resolve without even trying. “Vessel, move.”
“No.”
“No?” you questioned. You didn’t make an attempt to move from his grasp, but you turned just enough to address him. “So you tell me to control myself around you, and I oblige.. But I tell you to get off of me and all I get is ‘no’?” You couldn’t actually meet his stare to give him a proper glare in this position, but you damn well were going to try. “Got it. You’re a hypocrite.”
“I don’t want you to go to bed upset,” he whispered.
“I’ve been going to be upset for a week now, I think I can survive another night.” You felt his sigh against your skin, but he relented and pulled his arm from around you. That was as far as he went, though, and he offered no response. “You can sleep on the other side of the bed so we can talk about this in the morning.”
“Don’t sleep alone,” his voice was soft, pleading. It cracked you a little bit, but not enough for him to notice.
“Move away from me unless you’d prefer that I sleep on the couch.”
It was with obvious reluctance when he finally moved away from you. He didn’t go far enough that his body heat didn’t still radiate over to you. You knew it would be torture for him though. Not that it didn’t tear you apart inside as well, but you really believed that this would do you both well to sleep before sorting this out. His stubbornness to leave you alone was admittedly endearing, and you silently cursed him for it.
It was silent for a moment before you heard his soft call again. “You won’t really sleep on the sofa, will you?”
“As long as you think you can stay over there.”
Well of course he wouldn’t be able to do that. It was natural the way his body longed for you. You were meant to fit together. It felt wrong to have this much space between you.
Oh, how you wanted him to hold you. You’d never be able to sleep like this, not with him right next to you. Your stubbornness persisted, though. You had to talk this through, and you figured caving into your need for him and choosing to ignore it for another night would do no good.
He sighed loud enough that you heard him- felt him, even. It took every fibre of your being not to roll over to face him. Instead you opted to close your eyes and try to steady your breathing. Sleep would find you eventually.
-
It did find you eventually, but not for very long. There was no way to tell how long you’d been asleep, but the fatigue in your body led you to guess an hour at most. You lifted your head trying to adjust your position, but you caught your boyfriend looking at you.. From the floor.
Immediately, you frowned. “What are you doing?”
His head lowered, like he was guilty. “Couldn’t sleep”
“Did you even try?”
“No.”
You fought the urge to roll your eyes and sighed. He’s lucky you think he’s cute, “Get in bed and go to sleep,” all he could do was stare back at you. He made no effort to move. “You have to perform tomorrow. You’ll never make it through if you don’t sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep without you.” He whispered. His long fingers were absentmindedly tracing the seam of the mattress, where he had his head only a moment ago. “I can sleep right here. I can be closer without being too close.”
“No, you can’t. You’ll fuck your neck and your back up.” This whole ordeal had brought upon a new level of stubbornness you didn’t even know existed in him. You didn’t want to admit that his persistence made your tummy flutter, even though you felt bad that he’d been sitting on the floor watching you sleep.
“I can lay down,”
“Vessel,” you groaned. God, he made it so hard to be mad at him. You weren’t going to let the entire thing go, not so easily. But you loved him and under no circumstance would you ever fail to take care of him when he needed you to. “I am asking you to get into bed. Please. You cannot stay on the floor.”
“Can I hold you?” He had tears pooling, just waiting to spill over. Oh, your sweet (albeit oblivious) boy.
“Ves, baby,” you called to him so softly. Not unlike the gentle grip you coaxed his head into. You tugged gently until he took the hint to stand and crawl into the bed right beside you. You scooted back to accommodate his form. He’d only just settled down, his face so close to yours when you took the opportunity to kiss away one of the tears that had fallen. Your thumbs caught the ones your lips didn’t.
With much hesitation his hands finally gripped your hips, the way they’d been itching to all night. His eyes closed while he breathed you in, fighting back a sob that choked in his throat.
“Shh, don’t wreck your voice by crying,” he nodded so you knew he heard you. “We’re going to be okay, you know that. We’re just gonna have to work this one out. I promise it’ll take a lot more than one argument to tear me from you.”
He nuzzled his face at the base of your throat and made an effort to settle his breathing. Even after all of this, you're still here looking after him. But he nodded his understanding and gripped you tighter. “I don’t think I deserve you,”
“Ves,” you warned. He knew how you felt when he talked poorly of himself, no matter the anger you held for him not too long ago. “We’ll talk and apologize in the morning. Right now you need to rest.”
You smoothed your hand over the back of his head, waiting until you felt his body loosen a bit. A few kisses were placed on his head, and he finally spoke.
“I love you,” he managed. “I am not one to overlook my blessings– so I need you to know that you are my greatest one.”
“You know that I love you– I’ll love you through everything.”
You lay in silence for a minute or two, your fingers absentmindedly combing through his hair. He’d been so still you figured he had finally fallen asleep. Of course, you really should’ve known better– this was Ves, after all.
“I used to wander around, trying to wrap my head around the idea that you’d actually allow me to kiss you,” his voice sounded muffled with the way he had his face pressed into your chest. “And that you wanted to kiss me back,” his head shook like he was trying to convey genuine disbelief. “And now I’ve made you think I don’t want your affections. Please know that I do. I don’t think I could ever make it if I had to go on without you to love me.”
You did manage to breathe out the smallest laugh then. “I would take a bite out of you if I could, Ves. Don’t ever think I don’t want to be all over you.” You could feel his smile then. “We’re fine, baby. You just go to sleep and I’ll be here ready to make up with you in the morning.”
He squeezed your waist one last time before he finally relaxed and allowed you to hold him. You might’ve laughed at how this came from him wanting to hold you, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Synopsis: When Vessel changes the rules with one quiet request, the reader suddenly has to face it - has she been loving the man or the mask?
Word Count: 9,8k
Warnings: SMUT: fingering, squirting, oral sex with female receiving, unprotected penetrative sex, creampie.
A/N: I want to make it explicitly clear that I will never—under any circumstances—use Ves’s real name or that of any other ST member in my stories. That being said, I know I’ve said this before, but this is my favorite chapter so far. I really hope you enjoy it and have a great read.
SERIES MASTERLIST
“Oh my God, I loved your necklace!”
You nearly jumped out of your chair.
The exclamation cut through your concentration so suddenly that the red pen slipped from your fingers and rolled across the stack of exam papers you had been correcting. Your heart gave a startled thump in your chest.
It was Monday morning. Break time. The teachers’ dining hall smelled faintly of coffee, toast, and printer ink. A weak grey light filtered through the tall windows overlooking the courtyard, where a handful of students wandered across the damp pavement under the typical London drizzle.
You had chosen to stay inside and work.
Correcting exams during the break meant you wouldn’t have to take them home later. At least that was the plan.
You looked up, still slightly dazed from being pulled out of your reading, and found yourself staring at a woman standing beside the table. She seemed a little younger than you. Her hair was bright copper-red, wild long curls that instantly reminded you of Princess Merida. The curls were slightly frizzy from the damp air outside, and a few rebellious strands escaped around her temples.
The woman’s eyes widened when she noticed how violently you had flinched.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she rushed out, lifting both hands apologetically. “It’s just that of all places… I didn’t expect to find a sleepy head here.”
She lowered her voice at the last words, whispering them like a secret that only the two of you were meant to hear. But you had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.
The sleepless night you had spent thinking too much had probably left your brain slower than usual.
As usual. And, for a change, it had also been several days since you had heard from Vessel. That alone was enough to leave you somewhere between sad and irritated.
“Sleep Token,” she added quickly when she noticed your blank expression, pointing enthusiastically toward the gift Vessel had given you.
“That's how the fans call themselves.”
She shifted the heavy pile of books she had been carrying and dropped them onto the table with a dull thud. A few loose papers slid halfway out between the covers. Then she extended her hand across the table toward you.
“I’m Nancy, by the way. The new history teacher.”
You smiled, still a little startled, and shook her hand somewhat awkwardly.
Up close, you couldn’t help noticing how eccentric her outfit was. She wore a heavy plaid skirt that looked almost Scottish. A short-sleeved white shirt tucked neatly beneath the skirt’s waistband, and a thin black tie hanging slightly crooked against her chest.
“You must have taken Peter’s position. He retired a few weeks ago,” you said. Then you gestured toward the empty chair across from you.
“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I’m Y/n. English teacher.”
Nancy sat immediately, pushing the books aside and leaning forward with visible excitement. Then she glanced around the dining hall as if she were about to reveal a dangerous secret.
The room was still mostly empty. A couple of teachers sat in the far corner sipping tea while quietly discussing lesson plans.
Apparently satisfied, Nancy extended her arm across the table and turned her wrist upward to reveal a small tattoo. The Sleep Token symbol was inked delicately on the inside of her wrist. The lines were thin, elegant, painted in a deep red that gradually darkened into black.
It was beautiful.
“They saved my life,” she confessed quietly. “I really can’t explain how much I love this band.”
You smiled back at her instinctively.
“Me too.”
Nancy leaned forward again, her gaze dropping to your necklace.
“I’ve never seen anything like that on their website. It’s beautiful.”
You smiled. A private smile. One whose true meaning only you knew.
“My mother gave it to me as a gift,” you said, lowering your gaze back to the exam you had been correcting. “She said she had it made.”
You lied smoothly, picking up your pen again.
But Nancy clearly had no intention of ending the conversation.
“It’s incredible how something like that helps us survive, isn’t it?” she continued “Sometimes I feel so sad… and I look at this tattoo and it gives me strength to keep going. Somehow.”
That made you look up again.
You had never heard anyone speak like that before. Not in your real life. Not outside the online groups you sometimes visited late at night.
“How long have you been a fan?” you asked, genuinely curious.
Nancy smiled brightly.
“Since Tomb. I’d heard a few songs before, but I really became a fan when I listened to Atlantic. That song is heavy. It speaks to me in a lot of dark ways.”
You nodded slowly. Apparently Sleep Token fans all had something in common. Emotional wounds that made them recognize themselves in Vessel’s painfully raw lyrics.
“And you?” she asked.
“Sundowning,” you lied. Again.
For some reason, you didn’t want to admit that she had been a fan longer than you. As if that somehow determined something.
A strange flicker of jealousy stirred inside you.
You returned your attention to the exam papers.
Little by little, the dining hall began to fill as the time for class changes approached. More teachers wandered in carrying coffee cups, sandwiches, and stacks of papers, clearly planning to do exactly what you were doing.
“Did you see yesterday’s show?” Nancy continued enthusiastically. “God, I want to see them live so badly. I might go to Paris. There’s a small chance.”
“You didn’t see them here?” you asked.
“I wasn’t living here at the time. I just moved, actually. But I’m visiting some relatives in France soon and they’re still selling tickets. So I think I’ll take the opportunity.”
She sighed dreamily.
“I need to see Vessel up close.”
You shifted slightly in your chair. Without lifting your eyes from the paper in front of you, you replied calmly, “He’s even more incredible live.”
Nancy’s head snapped toward you.
“You’ve seen them? Oh my God. What was it like? Was it this tour or another one?” She sounded genuinely thrilled.
You set your pen down.
“I saw them months ago. Managed to get to the barricade. He sat right in front of me to sing Aqua Regia. And the rest was history."
That you couldn’t tell anyone. That no one would believe anyway.
Nancy let out a theatrical groan.
“I swear I would give anything for that man. The world is so unfair!”
Not to you.
A small smile tugged at your lips. Part pride. Part disbelief at how absurd your reality actually was.
“I hope you get the chance to see them too. It’s an experi—”
Your phone suddenly began to ring. The vibration buzzed sharply against the wooden table.
You were already reaching to decline the call when your eyes fell on the name on the screen.
His name.
That was new.
“Sorry, I need to take this,” you said quickly as you stood up, already stepping away from the table.
...
When you finally arrived home that evening after two absurdly long shifts, you were twice irritated. First because you had been stupid enough to decline the chance to see Vessel that night. And second, because you had absolutely been right to do it.
You were exhausted. Your eyes felt heavy, your head dull with the kind of fatigue that settled deep behind your temples. You already knew you would not have the energy for anything more complicated than a hot shower and collapsing into bed.
And yet, despite knowing that, you still felt restless. Dissatisfied.
But you were a little happy, too. Happy because he had called this time instead of sending a message.
And because he had sounded so… needy.
Maybe that was just your own loneliness interpreting things the way it wanted to. But he had sounded genuinely disappointed when you told him you couldn’t meet him that night.
Maybe that was good in some strange way. Let him miss you a little. Even if you were missing him just as badly.
You took a three-minute shower, the fastest one you could manage. The bathroom mirror was still fogged when you stepped out, your hair damp and clinging to your back.
You reheated the leftover frozen lasagna you had meant to eat for Sunday dinner. The microwave hummed loudly in the quiet flat while the street outside remained mostly silent, the occasional distant sound of a passing car slipping through the wet London night.
You ate standing at the kitchen counter. Too impatient to go to bed. Then you brushed your teeth and finally crawled under the blankets.
It was nine in the evening. You were already halfway to sleep, your body sinking gratefully into the mattress, eyelids were already drooping.
And then your phone rang.
You sat up immediately in bed, sleep evaporating as your hand grabbed the device and pressed it to your ear.
“Hello,” your voice came out a bit rough.
“Hello, sugar. Were you already sleeping? Did I wake you?”
You smiled automatically. You liked how attentive he always was to your reactions. Even over the phone.
And his voice… Would you ever get used to hearing him speak to you?
Your chest tightened slightly. Not painfully. Just that familiar pressure you felt whenever the feeling inside you grew too big to fit in your body.
“No. But I’m already in bed.”
You said it while absentmindedly twisting a corner of the bedsheet between your fingers.
He hummed softly on the other end of the line. Provocatively.
“Wish I was there with you.”
You bit your lower lip.
“Yeah? To do what?” you decided to tease back.
He chuckled quietly.
“Everything. But mostly kiss you. That’s what I’m missing the most. Your kiss.”
Your heart thumped harder in your chest and you felt heat rise quickly to your cheeks. Suddenly you felt like a teenager talking to her first boyfriend on the phone late at night.
“Tomorrow I’ll give you all the kisses you want. And so much more.”
You let yourself fall back against the pillows, staring up at the dim ceiling.
He groaned quietly, clearly impatient with the idea of waiting.
“3PM?” he asked.
“I need to come home first. Take a shower…”
“I’m absolutely sure you can do that at the hotel,” he interrupted making you smile, noticing the unmistakable urgency in his tone confirming what you had realised earlier.
“Someone is impatient.”
You pushed.
He didn't try to hide it.
“You have no idea. Don’t make me wait longer than necessary, sugar. Promise?”
You covered your face with one hand, staring at the ceiling while trying to absorb the reality of everything that was happening. Why he kept doing that to you? Talking to you like you were his favorite person in the world.
“Okay. I promise.”
“3PM then?”
“I leave at 3. It’ll take a few minutes to get there. Several minutes.”
He groaned again.
“You’re killing me, sugar.”
You chuckled softly.
“Well, you went five days without sending me a single message. I’m sure you can survive a few minutes.”
There was more truth in that sentence than you intended. You weren’t exactly fighting with him. But you were still a little upset about the way he had disappeared again, even after everything you had said to him the last time you saw each other.
“I know. But I promise I had my reasons.”
You heard him sigh heavily on the other side of the line.
His voice turned more serious now.
“I’ll explain everything tomorrow."
“Okay.”
You shifted slightly under the sheets, pulling them higher over your shoulders.
“You were incredible yesterday,” you said, trying to lighten the conversation again. Suddenly it felt like the mood had drifted somewhere you didn’t like, and you couldn’t quite explain why.
“Were you able to watch it? Did you like it?”
He sounded excited again now. The seriousness vanished, replaced by that delicious teasing tone you were beginning to recognize so well.
“Yes. Especially Provider. I think I watched about ten videos from every possible angle.”
You brought your index finger to your mouth, biting your nail absentmindedly.
He chuckled with clear satisfaction.
“And when will I have the honor of seeing you again at that barricade?”
You smiled.
“Oh, you don’t need me there. There are plenty of sleepy heads screaming your name. Enough to inflate your ego.”
“But I only care about one.”
Your heart jumped. The sentence lingered in the air between you. You wanted to believe he meant it.
“I can’t believe you’re familiar with that ridiculous term.”
It almost sounded like an accusation.
He laughed then. Loudly and beautifully.
“I’m very aware of everything related to my fans, sugar. I’m always lurking online.”
You laughed softly, incredulous and your chest seemed to swell with a love so deep it was almost suffocating.
“Did I tell you I love you today?”
The words left your mouth before you could filter them.
He hummed slowly. As if he was appreciating the words.
“You did. But I’d love to hear it again. And again. ”
You smiled to yourself in the dim room.
You were being so silly. Both of you. Yet it didn't feel silly. Somehow that call was the most important thing you had done all week.
“I love you,” you said slowly, deliberately. Teasing.
He groaned dramatically.
“God, sugar. Can’t wait for tomorrow. I want you in my arms.”
You smiled to yourself.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
...
Tuesday passed far more quickly than you had expected. Usually, the day before you were meant to see Vessel seemed to drag endlessly, every hour stretching itself thin with anticipation. But this time you barely noticed the day slipping away. Work swallowed you whole - preparing lessons for the new term, finishing the correction of your students’ tests, calculating final marks before the system closed. Papers covered every surface of your desk, red pen marks bleeding across margins as the clock moved forward unnoticed.
By lunchtime you were still buried in the same pile. You even tried working through your break, eating absent-mindedly while continuing to mark answers, hoping to finish everything before the end of the day. It didn’t work. When the final bell rang, the stack of unfinished papers was still sitting there, accusing and impossible.
So you stuffed them into your bag anyway. The papers crumpled as you forced the zip closed, and you already knew very well that most of them would return to school exactly the same way they had left it: untouched. Because once Vessel was waiting for you in Wetherby, there would be no time left in the world for grading essays.
The underground ride to the hotel was calm and surprisingly quick. The train hummed softly along the rails, the carriage half-empty in the fading evening light. You spent most of the journey staring absent-mindedly at your reflection in the window, your mind already drifting ahead to the moment you would see him. And when you finally arrived, he greeted you with a warmth that wrapped around you instantly.
But as you stood beneath the hot stream of water later, letting it loosen the tightness in your shoulders and wash away the exhaustion of the day, a thought kept returning.
Something felt different. Vessel was quiet. Contemplative. Even though he had been speaking to you - an enormous step forward that had only begun the previous night and one you still didn’t know would last - there was something more inward about him tonight. As if part of his attention was turned somewhere else. Something seemed to weigh on him, something you couldn’t see or name.
And not knowing what it was set your nerves on edge.
Your mind, ever loyal to catastrophe, began listing every possible explanation.
Your unease only deepened when you stepped out of the bathroom. Your hair was still damp, the hotel’s white robe loosely tied around your waist as you dried your hair with a towel. Steam curled lazily from the open bathroom door as you walked back into the bedroom.
And there he was sitting at the foot of the bed. His back was straight, posture almost rigid. You couldn’t see his face behind the mask, of course, but something in the set of his shoulders, in the tension visible along his jawline, told you he wasn’t relaxed.
“Did you order our food?” you asked, keeping your voice calm, doing your best to hide the flicker of nervousness that threatened to betray you.
It felt irrational, the sudden fear tightening your chest. After all, he had been affectionate the moment you arrived. Almost needy.
And yet the feeling lingered.
“Grilled salmon with potatoes and vegetables,” he replied. “Brownie for dessert for you. And a Snickers for me.”
His voice was calm. Beautiful.
God, would you ever grow used to hearing it? It was even more beautiful spoken than when he sang. You hadn’t thought that was possible.
“Great choice,” you said, smiling softly as you continued drying your hair. “You know me so well.”
That seemed to please him. You saw the small shift in his posture, the faint tilt of his head before he lifted his hand and extended it toward you, silently beckoning you closer.
“I’m afraid it might take a good thirty minutes,” he added. “Come here.”
You complied gladly. Crossed the short distance between you, slipping your hand into his without hesitation and allowing him to guide you forward until you stood comfortably between his knees. The position felt natural, almost instinctive. Your arms settled loosely around his shoulders, holding him close in a gesture that was both comforting and necessary.
You simply wanted to be as close to him as he would allow.
“You’re different today,” you murmured after a moment, giving in to the unease stirring in your chest. “Too quiet.”
To your surprise, he laughed. The sound was low and warm, a deep note that sent a sudden flutter through your chest.
“I think I’m just a little nervous,” he admitted.
And instantly every alarm in your mind began ringing.
“Did something happen?” you asked quickly. “Was it something I did?”
The questions left your mouth before you could stop them. They sounded painfully insecure even to your own ears, but he immediately shook his head.
“Never,” he said softly. The back of his fingers brushed against your cheek in a gentle caress.
“You can only make me feel better.”
But he still looked serious. Still troubled by something you couldn’t see or name.
You were about to press him for an answer when he surprised you.
“I need you to do something for me,” he said quietly, “because I won’t be able to do it myself.”
You frowned slightly, confusion knitting your brows together. What could he possibly ask of you that he couldn’t do himself?
Unless...
“Give me a kiss first,” he added suddenly, interrupting the spiral forming in your mind.
You leaned down without hesitation, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. But the insecurity clung to every movement, making the gesture gentler than usual, more tentative.
For a heartbeat he allowed it. Then he took control.
His hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss with sudden urgency. His lips pressed against yours with a hunger that felt almost desperate, his tongue demanding entrance in a way that caught you off guard.
You let him lead. You always did. But something about the intensity felt different tonight. Not just desire. There was something else hidden beneath it. Something bitter.
Your fingers tightened slightly against his shoulders as your breath hitched against his mouth, and when he finally broke the kiss he did so reluctantly, lingering just a fraction longer before pulling away.
“I adore you, you know?” he said quietly. “You’ve become so important to me.”
You didn’t know what your face revealed in that moment, but inside, you trembled. Your eyes filled instantly with tears.
It felt like a goodbye.
Was that what he wanted from you? For you to leave first? Was this the end? Would you never see him again?
How could you possibly survive that?
“What do you want me to do?” you asked softly.
Instead of answering, he asked another question.
“Do you love me?”
You nodded immediately. Too quickly.
“More than anything.”
How could he even ask that? Hadn’t you shown him in every possible way? Was there something you had failed to say or do to prove it?
He only had to tell you. You would do anything.
Just don’t leave me.
You watched him drawing in a slow breath, and you braced yourself for the worst.
And then nothing made sense anymore.
“I want you to take this off my face.”
You froze.
Your heart pounded loudly enough in your ears that for a moment you wondered if you had heard him correctly. Because it didn’t make sense. He couldn’t possibly have said what you thought he had. Could he?
“Ves…”
“Sugar, I can’t hide from you anymore,” he interrupted softly. His voice trembled with something overwhelming. “I can’t. Please.”
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you simply looked at him for a long moment. Then you nodded.
Your hands rose slowly to his hood, gently grasping the fabric before pushing it back. The motion felt almost unreal, as though time had slowed around you.
Your heart skipped when you saw his hair for the first time.
Cut short. Dark blond.
Your fingers moved instinctively through it, brushing the strands as if trying to confirm through touch what your eyes were seeing. The same hair you had once touched before -blindfolded.
It was soft.
Your fingers found the elastic strap holding the mask in place, and your breath caught in your throat. Tears slipped quietly down your cheeks as you began to pull it away.
You had expected something different.
Something harsher, perhaps. A face shaped by the same weight the mask seemed to carry whenever he wore it. But when you lifted it away and his features were finally revealed, the first thing you noticed was how unexpectedly gentle he looked.
Not delicate. There was still something grounded about him, something steady beneath the quietness, but the severity you had imagined simply wasn’t there.
His features were softer than you expected, the lines of his face calm rather than sharp, touched by a kind of unguarded youth the mask had never hinted at.
A few loose strands of hair fell across his forehead. The warm lamplight caught the colour faintly, turning the edges almost golden.
He didn’t meet your gaze. In fact, he barely allowed himself to look at you at all. The moment the mask left his face, his eyes shifted away. His head turned slightly to the side as though the simple act of being seen had startled him. His gaze fixed somewhere lower, refusing to rise.
The movement was small and quiet, but it carried the unmistakable hesitation of someone deeply unaccustomed to standing unhidden before another person.
His mouth rested in a thoughtful line, neither tense nor smiling, simply calm in a way that felt strangely vulnerable now that nothing stood between him and your gaze.
“There you are,” you whispered. The words left your lips almost unconsciously, carrying nothing but recognition.
The man you loved.
The man who saved you a little more every day.
Finally revealed.
The sound of your voice made him look at you at last. And then you truly noticed his eyes. They weren’t guarded the way you might have expected. Instead, they held a softness that felt almost disarming -something gentle, quietly expressive, even as he struggled not to hold your gaze for too long.
“And you are still here,” he murmured. His voice was barely more than a whisper.
And suddenly you understood everything.
The silence. The tension. The need to hear you say that you loved him. All of it born from the fear that you might not accept him as he truly was.
God, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Somehow, without being able to explain it, you knew you loved him even more now.
For a moment you simply stood there, the mask still resting in your hand. Then you carefully placed it beside him on the mattress.
Your hands rose to cradle his face, warm palms against his cheeks, and you leaned down to kiss him.
Him.
Not the mask.
Not the god.
Your man.
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered softly against his lips and feeling him relax slowly at your touch.
Vessel trembled beneath your hands when your lips finally parted. His eyes kept slipping away from yours, almost as if maintaining eye contact required a herculean effort. The composure and quiet confidence he carried so effortlessly while masked had vanished, replaced by a vulnerability that was just as captivating in its own way.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The silence stretched between you, thick and fragile. No words seemed strong enough to hold what both of you were feeling.
Your fingers drifted back into his hair, gently threading through the short strands at the back of his head. With your index finger, you traced slowly along the line of his jaw, feeling the shape of it beneath your touch before gliding upward across his cheek.
He closed his eyes when your fingertips brushed over his eyelids.
Just like the last time.
Only now there was no blindfold.
A broken sigh escaped his chest, soft and shaky, and something inside you twisted in response. Something hungry. Needy. Drawn toward him with an urgency you could no longer pretend to control.
Your hands moved to the sash of your robe. You untied it slowly, the fabric loosening before sliding from your shoulders. It slipped down your arms and pooled quietly at your feet, leaving your body bare in the warm glow of the bedside lamps.
His breath caught. His gentle eyes wandered over your curves in silent reverence, as if committing every detail to memory. He didn’t rush. He simply looked, drinking in the sight of you.
You took both of his hands and guided them upward.
When you placed them over your breasts, your nipples hardened instantly beneath his palms. His hands were warm against your skin - Vessel’s hands were always warm. And soft.
He cradled your breasts carefully, thumbs rolling over the sensitive buds in slow, gentle movements.
Your eyes closed at once. The smallest touch from him was enough to undo you completely.
But you wanted more. You wanted everything.
You took one of his hands again and guided it slowly down your stomach, over the soft curve of your abdomen, lower and lower until you placed it exactly where you needed him.
His middle and ring finger curled inside you.
A quiet hiss slipped from his lips when he found you already soaked for him. Your thighs pressed together instinctively as a soft moan escaped you.
Slowly, he began to move his fingers in and out, curling them just right inside you, and the sensation made stars burst behind your eyes.
Your gaze stayed fixed on his face as you watched the subtle changes in his expression with complete fascination. The way his features tightened with growing desire, the softness in his eyes now shadowed by something darker. Something lustful.
You rolled your hips subtly against his hand, lips parting in breathless bliss while his fingers worked inside you.
He was still a little hesitant. Still uncertain. The control and confidence he carried so easily behind the mask were gone now, replaced by an uncertainty that was equally intoxicating.
But you needed so much more.
You leaned down and kissed him again. Harder this time. With intention. He moaned against your mouth, the sound low and raw, and it nearly made your knees give out beneath you. That seemed to give him courage.
His fingers moved with more confidence now, thrusting into you harder. The wet, intimate sounds filled the quiet room, mingling with the increasingly unsteady rhythm of your breathing.
You broke the kiss when you could no longer hold it.
Your legs opened wider for him, your knees trembling as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. You rested your forehead against his at last, skin touching skin this time.
Your eyes locked with his. And this time he didn’t look away. He held your gaze steadily, almost stubbornly, as if he needed to prove something to himself.
He added his index finger. Three fingers moving inside you now, fast and deep, curling just right, pressing exactly where you needed.
A small scream tore from your throat. Your breathing quickened sharply.
He grabbed your waist in response, pulling you even closer to him. Then his hand slid upward to cradle the back of your neck, holding you there with your forehead resting against his.
Eyes locked.
You cried out again as the familiar heat began climbing up your legs. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you, but you steadied yourself by gripping his shoulders.
He didn’t slow down. If anything, he went faster.
And that was all it took. You collapsed into the sensation. A loud cry scaped from your lips when the wave finally crashed over you. Warm liquid spilling from you, running down your thighs as he pulled you into another kiss, swallowing the sounds you could no longer control.
He kissed you with hunger. With desperation.
Like proof and confirmation.
When he realised you had finished, he gently guided you down until you were sitting in his lap. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you impossibly close while his other hand remained comfortably at the back of your neck.
His forehead rested against yours.
A shy smile appeared on his lips while you began pressing soft kisses across his face - his mouth, his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his eyelids.
God. He was so beautiful. In a quiet, gentle way that felt entirely his own.
You stayed like that for an unmeasurable stretch of time. Time itself seemed irrelevant, something distant and unimportant. It felt as if the two of you were suspended somewhere outside of it.
You were the one who eventually broke the silence.
And that was a pattern that only existed with him. Vessel was the only person in the world you ever felt truly comfortable speaking with.
“I still don’t know your name.”
It wasn’t a complaint. Nor a request. Just a quiet observation about how peculiar your relationship really was. And the best part was that you didn’t mind the peculiarity at all. If anything, you liked it.
He laughed softly. The low sound came with a slow exhale that seemed to carry a deep sense of relief.
“What?”
You blinked in confusion.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled you back into another kiss. This one slower now. More certain. Comfortable.
“You are the best thing that could have happened in my life.”
Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest and you bit the inside of your cheek.
“You keep saying things like that…”
He nodded.
“Because it’s true.”
You smiled, feeling your cheeks grow warm. Somehow you weren’t embarrassed about having squirted all over him, but compliments like that still made you blush.
“Will you tell me? Eventually?”
You asked it gently. You didn’t want to pressure him. You only wanted to understand. And he seemed to understand that, because he nodded.
His answer was clear and simple.
“I will. But not now. I am not ready to let go of you calling me Vessel.”
You nodded and pressed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“I doubt I will ever stop calling you Ves. Unless you want me to.”
He sighed thoughtfully.
“I won’t.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but the sharp sound of the room service bell interrupted you.
You moved quickly to stand, instinctively reaching for your robe, but before you could even put it back on, Ves stood first. He removed the cloak from his shoulders and let it fall carelessly to the floor before walking - gloriously - toward the door.
And you remained there in the middle of the room, robe clutched in your hands, trying to process everything that had just happened.
...
You were both sitting comfortably on the bed after your early dinner.
Neither of you had bothered with the table. The tray had been pulled onto the bed instead, plates balanced carelessly between you as you ate in slow, distracted bites, more focused on each other than the food itself. You exchanged lingering glances, shy smiles, soft kisses stolen between mouthfuls. It felt like stepping into a new kind of intimacy, something softer, quieter… and somehow deeper.
The mask rested on the bedside table, placed beside both of your phones.
Half-eaten plates had been abandoned at the foot of the bed, forgotten entirely.
Vessel sat propped comfortably against the pile of pillows at the headboard, his legs stretched out and slightly parted to make space for you. You sat sideways between them, naturally fitting into the space he had made for you. His arm was wrapped loosely around your waist, his fingers resting warm against your skin as he absent-mindedly nibbled on his chocolate.
You tried not to stare. You really did, but you couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled at you constantly, something that made you want to lean closer, stay closer, never quite have enough.
After a long minute of quiet, you let out a soft sigh and leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his shoulder.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.
He understood anyway. He always did.
He smiled at you, the expression soft and unguarded, and held the chocolate out toward your lips. You took a small bite, and before you could pull away, he leaned in and kissed you softly, sweet and brief, before finishing the last piece himself.
And you found yourself watching him chew.
The way his jaw flexed. The subtle movement of his cheeks. The quiet rhythm of something so simple, and yet you couldn’t seem to look away.
For a moment, you caught yourself wondering how this man could have ever doubted that you would love him without the mask. Maybe you would never fully understand it. But you knew, with a quiet certainty, that you could spend every day proving him wrong - if he let you stay.
God… you wanted him to let you stay forever.
“Can I ask what you’re thinking about?”
His voice came low and calm, stripped now of the nervous edge it had carried earlier.
You smiled faintly.
“I thought you could read my thoughts. Some kind of power granted by Sleep.”
That made him laugh softly.
And you realised you liked the way his face changed when he laughed - the way his brow creased slightly, how his smooth, pale skin stretched over his cheekbones, how faint crow’s feet appeared at the corners of his eyes. Small. Almost imperceptible.
Real.
“I think I’m just… contemplating how absurd all of this is,” you said after a moment, gesturing lightly between the two of you. “And I mean that in the best way. It’s just… what we have... it’s a little absurd. But I wouldn’t change anything.”
You made a small, almost childish face.
“Well… I wouldn’t complain about not having to spend days torturing myself thinking you don’t want me anymore every time you disappear.”
He hummed thoughtfully. But he didn’t respond.
You found yourself biting the inside of your cheek.
“You said you had a reason this time,” you added more quietly. “I’m a little afraid to ask what it was.”
He paused, thinking.
“I think I needed the distance to make the decision I had to make.”
You shifted slightly in his arms, your body turning a little more toward him.
“Letting you see me was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, Sugar,” he continued. “I needed time. But I know I hurt you. And I’m sorry.”
You nodded slowly, surprised by the raw honesty in his voice. Your hand lifted to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over his skin.
“It’s just that I miss you,” you admitted softly. “Deeply. It’s hard to see you on stage… in the reels people post… and know you’re so far away.”
It sounded ridiculous the moment you said it. You felt your cheeks warm. But he smiled. His fingertips traced slow, absent patterns along your arm.
“I know.”
He fell quiet again for a moment. Then he smirked slightly.
“I was thinking about you on Sunday. Twenty thousand people… and I thought about you the whole time.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. It was as if your mind simply refused to process what he had just said.
So instead, you offered something of your own.
“I met someone at work.”
His eyebrow lifted, a faint crease forming across his forehead.
“A fan,” you clarified. “She was talking about how important the band is to her. Among other things.”
His hand rose, fingers brushing gently along your cheek.
“What else did she say?”
“That it’s unfair she can’t have you.”
He hummed quietly.
“She doesn’t want me. None of them do.”
There was no bitterness in his tone, but somehow, that made it heavier.
“People see you as a reflection of themselves,” you said carefully. “They’re drawn to your lyrics. The way you speak about complicated things. It's raw, but still beautiful.”
Your gaze dropped slightly, and he noticed immediately.
“Did your friend tell you that?”
You shook your head.
“Not in those words. And she’s not my friend. I barely know her.”
“But she could be,” he pressed gently. “It might make that place more bearable. Having someone who likes the same things you do. Me.”
He smirked. He was smirking now. That made you smile. Knowing you had helped him feel comfortable without the mask. It did something to you.
Your fingers moved again, tracing his face slowly. Along his jaw. Up over his cheekbones. Mapping every detail with quiet devotion.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you admitted. “I didn't like hearing her say she wants to see you up close at a show. Imagine what I’d have to hear if we got closer.”
He chuckled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Jealous?”
Your cheeks warmed again. Did you even have the right to be jealous of him? Did tonight give you that right? You didn’t know. There were so many things you didn’t understand.
“So you said no one wants you,” you said instead. “How can you say that?”
He didn’t seem surprised by the question. Not at all.
You watched as he reached toward the bedside table and picked up the mask. He held it in the air for a moment, studying it. There was reverence in his eyes. But also something bitter. Something sad.
“I was nothing but a frightened boy before this.” he said quietly. “It turned me into a god. And that’s what they love. The god.”
You exhaled slowly, your chest tightening at his words. And you couldn’t exactly say he was wrong, but deep down you knew he wasn't right.
“I still remember how I felt when you walked into that room,” you murmured. “You were… divine.”
Your voice trembled slightly at the memory.
“I don’t feel any different today.”
You reached out your hand and he placed the mask into it. It was lighter than you expected, but you knew its weight had never been physical.
“It’s just a piece of plastic, Ves,” you said softly. “The god is in you.”
You leaned forward, placing it gently back on the bedside table before returning to him, cupping his face in your hands.
“Your music. Your beautiful poetry. Your heart. That’s what makes Vessel… Vessel. You. The man I love.”
He exhaled heavily and you saw the shine of tears in his eyes, though he closed them briefly, as if letting your words settle deep inside him.
When he opened them again, something had changed. There was certainty there now. A quiet determination that hadn’t been there before.
He kissed you. Softly at first, then deeper. Hungrier.
His lips parted against yours, and he drew your lower lip between his teeth, biting down just enough to make you gasp before soothing it with his tongue. He shifted closer, angling your face as his tongue slid against yours, slow at first, then more insistent, more consuming. He sucked gently, then harder, drawing you into the kiss until it felt almost overwhelming, your breath catching as he devoured the space between you.
“Then show me again,” he murmured.
The movement that followed was so quick you barely registered it.
Suddenly you were beneath him and his hands were everywhere - touching, exploring, teasing. His fingers found their way back inside you, and he smiled faintly at the sensation.
“Show me how much you love me.”
Your breathing quickened instantly. You cupped his cheek, and he turned his head to press a soft kiss into your palm. His fingers moved slowly inside you, deliberate and unhurried, drawing a quiet moan from your lips.
But it wasn’t enough. Not now.
“Yes,” you whispered.
A surprised breath slipped from your lips when he dragged his tongue across your palm, taking two of your fingers into his mouth, sucking them slowly.
Something inside you tightened. Your walls clenching around his fingers.
“Ves…”
He hummed softly, releasing your fingers before guiding your hand back to his face. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing briefly.
You pressed your thighs together.
“I need more, love,” you breathed. “Need you inside me. So badly.”
He nodded.
But instead of moving forward, he rolled onto his side.
He unfastened his belt quickly, pushing his trousers down and kicking them aside onto the floor before settling back against the pillows. Then he gestured toward you, his hand curling slightly in invitation.
“Come here.”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
You moved over him, straddling his hips, your hand wrapping around him. You felt him harden quickly beneath your touch. You licked your palm before stroking him faster, preparing him, your movements steady and deliberate.
A low moan slipped from his lips.
You guided him to your entrance, lowering yourself slowly, inch by inch, until he filled you completely. The sensation made both of you moan at once. And for a moment, you simply stayed there.
You found yourself watching his face—the crease forming between his brows, the way his expression tightened with pleasure, the way desire reshaped every feature.
Fuck, that man was divine.
When you began to move over him, his hands immediately found your thighs, gripping firmly as he pulled you down onto him.
He let you guide him. Soft eyes fixed on you, jaw tightening with pleasure.
You started slowly, adjusting to the stretch, to the fullness of him inside you, but it didn’t take long before your body found its rhythm, your hips rolling more confidently as you gave yourself over to the sensation.
You loved being on top of him.
He was so big, filling you so deeply that you could feel him low in your stomach, every movement dragging against something that made your breath catch. And the way he let you take control, the way he yielded to you, always surprised you. Always affected you.
But tonight… something was different.
Even though he tried, something in him refused to stay passive. It was there in the tension of his hands, in the way his grip tightened, in the way his hips began to subtly meet yours.
And it didn’t take long.
With a sudden shift, he flipped you onto the mattress again, the sheets rustling beneath you as your back met the bed. He followed immediately, settling between your legs and pushing back inside you with urgency.
Your breath hitched.
His hands found yours, pinning them gently but firmly above your head, caging you in against the pillows as he began to thrust. Slow at first. Deep. Deliberate.
Each movement controlled, sensual, but strong, rhythmic in a way that felt almost intoxicating. Every time he pulled back and drove forward again, he pressed himself fully against you, his pelvis grinding into you, brushing against your clit and sending sharp bursts of pleasure through your body. You saw stars.
And he never looked away from you. Not once.
And you couldn’t look away either, because now there was nothing between you. No mask, no barrier. You could see exactly who was undoing you.
And he was devastatingly perfect.
Your moans blended with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies moving together, filling the room alongside the steady rhythm of the headboard hitting against the wall. Your hands slipped free just enough to grasp at him, his back, his shoulders, scratching, holding, feeling, trying to memorise him exactly like this.
To brand him into your mind.
You felt him throbbing inside you now, his breathing growing heavier, more uneven. For a moment, you were certain he was about to come. But he stopped.
His body stilled, muscles tightening as he held himself back. A small, breathless chuckle left him.
He cupped your cheek.
“You feel too good, Sugar.”
You smiled faintly, your hands sliding down his waist, squeezing his ass lightly in teasing response.
His thumb brushed over your lower lip, and you opened your mouth immediately, taking his finger inside.
His breath faltered. His lips parted slightly as he watched you, eyes fixed on your mouth as your tongue traced along his finger before you began to suck.
He pulsed hard inside you. His gaze darkened.
Slowly, he began to move his finger in and out of your mouth, watching the way your lips stretched around it, the way your tongue followed.
A loud moan escaped you as a wave of slick heat gathered around him inside you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
As if that were even possible.
You both moaned.
He slipped his thumb free and replaced it with two fingers, index and middle. You opened wider, letting him push them inside your mouth, sucking slowly, deliberately.
The way he watched it was almost reverent, and something in you recognised it instantly. He didn’t need to say it, you knew this affected him.
But you needed more. You needed him.
A soft whine slipped from your throat, and he understood. Of course he did.
He pulled his fingers from your mouth and immediately resumed thrusting. He pulled out completely, then drove back into you all at once, forcing a sharp cry from your lips.
Again, and again, until the rhythm became relentless.
Hard, deep. Unforgiving.
His eyes never left your mouth, still parted, still damp from his fingers. He kept going for another minute before a strained groan escaped him. Then, suddenly, he pulled out and shifted back onto his knees.
You blinked up at him, breathless.
He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the strands back from his forehead, laughing quietly. Nervous, almost.
“Too good?” you teased softly.
He chuckled.
“You know exactly what you do to me, Y/n, don’t you?”
Your breath caught.
Your name.
The sound of it in his voice hit you like lightning.
You pushed yourself up immediately, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you pulled him into a kiss. He let you kiss him, but only for a moment before he took control again.
His hands came up to hold your face, forcing you to look at him.
“I’m not going to last, Sugar,” he said, voice low and rough. “Just want to cum so fucking hard inside you.”
Your heart twisted at his words.
You nodded quickly. You still weren’t used to hearing him speak like this - hearing him speak to you at all. And hearing him say those things...
You shifted, and he released you. Watching. Always watching.
You gave him a small, teasing smile before turning around, lowering yourself onto all fours in front of him. Your chest pressed into the mattress, your hips raised as high as you could manage.
An offering that he accepted instantly.
One hand gripped your hip tightly while the other guided himself back to your entrance—and then he pushed inside you again.
You nearly screamed. Not from pain, from the overwhelming, consuming pleasure of giving yourself to him like this.
This time, he didn’t hold back. You felt the change immediately. The way he let go completely. The way he took you with everything he had - without restraint, without hesitation. Each thrust harder, deeper than the last.
The sound of flesh against flesh, the headboard knocking against the wall, your breathing and his filling the room.
He moaned loudly.
God, he was always so vocal. You loved that.
“F-fuck… Ves…”
Your voice broke, but he didn’t slow down. Not until he got what he needed. And for the first time since the two of you had started this, he came before you.
Because he had to.
A loud groan tore from him as his body tensed, then stilled completely. You felt him spill inside you, warmth flooding you as his fingers dug a little too tightly into your hips. But it hurt so good.
Your knees gave out beneath you. His body collapsed forward over yours, but he caught himself quickly, bracing his weight on one arm.
His free hand searched for yours, fingers threading through yours. He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, and your walls clenched around him instinctively.
You still needed more. And he knew it.
He hummed softly against your ear, then nipped lightly at your earlobe. His lips trailed down to your shoulder, his tongue brushing over the skin before he bit a little harder this time.
He chuckled quietly as he pulled out, then rolled onto his back, dragging a pillow beneath his head before looking at you.
“Come here. Sit on my face.”
You bit your lower lip, hesitation flickering through you. You have nnever done this.
Your cheeks flushed immediately, heat spreading across your skin, but your body reacted anyway, your walls clenching around nothing at the thought.
He extended his hand toward you, clearly noticing.
“Come,” he murmured. “I want to pull another orgasm out of you, Sugar. With my tongue this time.”
Fuck.
That man was filthy.
You took his hand, letting him guide you. You straddled his shoulders slowly, almost uncertainly, but when he sensed your hesitation, his hands gripped your hips and pulled you firmly into place, positioning you exactly where he wanted you.
The first swipe of his tongue made your thighs tremble.
You grabbed the headboard instinctively, fingers tightening around it as you tried to steady yourself.
Then he started.
And it was relentless. Not too much, just impossible to withstand. Your entire body trembled, your knees threatening to give out as he devoured you with a hunger that left you breathless.
“Oh my fucking God…”
Your voice came out as a broken whine. Your hand grabbing his hair and he hummed against you, clearly pleased, the vibration sending another shock through your body.
Everything about him was big.
His cock. His hands. His fingers. His tongue.
And he knew exactly how to use them to ruin you.
Your thighs weakened, your weight dropping against him, but as soon as you tried to lift yourself again, his arms wrapped around them, holding you firmly in place.
He wasn’t gentle about it. It wasn't supposed to be pretty. It was messy. Wet. Loud. Perfect.
He used everything - his tongue, his nose, his chin - dragging, pressing, sucking, licking in a way that felt overwhelming and intoxicating all at once.
You felt worshipped.
In a way that was desperate. Luxurious. Devouring.
The pressure built quickly again, tightening low in your stomach. The obscene sounds filled your ears, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, and to your horror, that familiar heat began to gather again. And you knew what was going to happen. And you couldnt come like that on his face.
“Shit… shit… Ves… please, stop—”
He didn’t.
If anything, he went harder. Sucking at your clit more intensely.
“Oh my God..."
Your grip tightened on the headboard, your fingers pulling his hair hard, your breathing turning ragged, your heart pounding as the wave rose fast and unstoppable. And then it hit you.
Hard. Wet.
A cry ripped from your throat - loud, uncontrollable, just like everything else he pulled from you.
When it was over, he helped you out of his face. Looking up at you. His face was red and soaked, but he smiled openly.
He helped you down gently, pulling you back into his arms. His hand brushed over his face, wiping away what he could before he leaned in and kissed you softly.
“I love it when you do that, you know?” he murmured, his fingers tracing gently along your cheek.
You flushed deeply, heat rushing up your neck and settling across your cheeks, and he didn’t pull back.
His fingers trailed slowly down the side of your neck, light and deliberate, following the line of your throat to your collarbone. He paused there for a fraction of a second, as if appreciating the shape of you beneath his touch, before continuing lower. His thumb circled one of your nipples, teasing it gently before he dipped his head down and took it into his mouth.
He sucked slowly. Unhurried.
The warmth of his mouth and the soft pull of his lips made your breath catch, your fingers tightening instinctively against his arm. Then he released you with a quiet pop and pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, lingering there for just a moment.
You reached up and brushed your hand over his face and he stilled for a moment, then relaxed again. Your thumb grazed along his cheek, across his lips—almost as if you could clean away the mess you had made of him with that simple gesture.
But you said nothing.
You knew it wasn’t wrong, and yet, something about it always left you feeling… unsettled. In a way that made everything feel too real. Too exposed.
Your fingers moved upward, finding the short strands of hair that kept falling across his forehead. They were slightly damp now. You toyed with them absent-mindedly, twisting a strand lightly between your fingers.
He exhaled deeply in response, his arms tightening around you, pulling you closer against his chest.
“Tonight was..." His voice was soft, and you caught it - the way his mind seemed to drift somewhere else for the briefest second before returning to you. "you made me happy."
You didn’t know how to respond. You had always imagined what it would be like to hear him say he loved you.
He hadn’t. Not once.
But tonight, he kept saying things that somehow felt even more dangerous than those three words.
For so long, you had forced yourself to believe that this meant nothing to him. How were you supposed to keep believing that after tonight?
You exhaled slowly and shifted away, sitting up on the bed. The cool air brushed against your skin as you pulled the sheet up around your body, wrapping it loosely over yourself.
You didn’t look at him when you spoke.
“You say things like that… and then you disappear again.”
It wasn’t an accusation. Just a quiet acknowledgment of a pattern he knew very well.
He moved immediately.
You felt the mattress dip as he sat up and shifted closer, then gently guided you back between his legs, pulling you against his chest. Refusing the distance. His arm wrapped around your waist again, firm and grounding, while his other hand came up to cradle your head, turning your face toward him.
He kissed you.
Soft at first.
But there was intention behind it. His tongue brushed slowly along your lower lip, teasing, coaxing, before slipping inside when you parted your lips for him. The kiss deepened quickly. heated, deliberate. His mouth moving against yours with a quiet hunger. He sucked lightly on your tongue, then your lower lip, pulling a soft sound from you before soothing it again with his tongue.
You let out a small moan, and he swallowed it, tightening his hold on you as the kiss grew more intense, more consuming.
“I’m not going anywhere, Y/n,” he murmured when he finally pulled back, his lips still brushing against yours.
Your name again.
The words echoed what you had told him earlier, and your heart sped up immediately.
“Every time I went silent… it was because I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what to say, how to say it. Now I do.”
There was no empty romance in his voice. No grand promises he couldn’t keep. Just honesty.
You let your head rest against his shoulder, allowing his words to settle inside you, and you believed him.
“I can’t promise we’ll see each other more often,” he continued quietly, “because you know my tour schedule as well as I do.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“I just need a message,” you said softly. “Anything that makes the fear go away.”
He hummed.
You didn’t need to explain further. He knew exactly what fear you meant.
“That, I can promise.”
And for the first time since all of this had begun, you felt something shift inside your chest. Not the tight, restless anticipation you had grown used to, but something calmer. Softer.
Relief.
Then he moved to stand.
You caught his hand instinctively, your fingers wrapping around his before he could step away completely.
He smiled, but stood anyway.
Then he turned back to you and extended his hand.
“Come. We both need a shower.”
You smiled faintly, remembering the way he had looked at you earlier that evening while you stood beneath the water.
And then you understood.
What he had wanted then.
What he could have now.
You slipped your hand into his and let him pull you to your feet, the sheet falling away as you followed him toward the bathroom.
And you knew that it wasn’t going to be just a shower.
I’d truly appreciate it if you left a like, a comment, and most importantly, a reblog. It really encourages me to keep writing.
How about a comfort fic with Vessel/reader? Your choice on if Vessel comforts the reader or the reader comforts Vessel!
Just Like Rain
(Vessel x Gender Neutral Reader)
Synopsis: Your anxieties overtake you, and Vessel is there to guide you through them.
Warnings: Self-deprecation, thoughts of unworthiness and self-hatred, language, unintentionally cathartic for me
Word Count: 1557
A/N: Thank you so much for requesting this, anon! I'm so excited for you to read my first Vessel fic!
A little housekeeping for those who have read through my Request Guidelines, and may be confused about me writing for a real person when it says I don't. That is still the case, but Vessel is a character when it comes down to it. So, I feel comfortable writing for him, especially in the way I've written him here.
Also—and I hope this goes without saying—I will not entertain theories and rumors about any of Sleep Token's identities.
Enjoy the music for what it is, as the band intended. And I truly hope you enjoy my interpretation of Vessel.
The burn felt good. The steam made you breathe heavier, but you didn’t want this to be easy. You wanted to feel every inhale—stand under the water until you were seared from within; until it felt like you were in your body and not a whisper away from being dragged into oblivion.
You choked back a sob; still so fearful someone would hear you when you were the only one home.
There was no reason for you to cry.
So many people had it so much worse.
But here you were, on the verge of panic because you didn’t feel like yourself. You didn’t even feel human.
You wished you could put a name to it, but you couldn’t.
What was wrong with you?
Why did you have to feel like this? It came out of nowhere. Like you were struck by a fucking semi.
You just wanted it to stop. You wanted to feel normal, to not have these sudden bouts of...of what? Melancholia? Sadness? Anger? No word seemed strong enough for it.
All you wanted was to rip it out.
Your tears fell harder.
The water cooled. You turned the knob further.
And then there were arms around you.
You tensed, choking back your sobs and covering your mouth as if you could hide what he had already seen.
Slowly, carefully, as if you would break, Vessel turned you to face him.
Without a word, he cupped the back of your head and brought it into the crook of his neck.
You refused to remove your hand.
All it did was make your shoulders tremble.
His fingers traced up and down your arm, more of a breeze than a touch. His other hand slid down to the back of your neck. The pressure of it spread through your body.
Your hand dropped from your mouth and tentatively found its way to his chest. And as he inhaled, you let your hands travel to his back as you stepped closer.
He held you there, head resting atop yours.
It was only when you shivered that you realized he had turned you, blocking you from the piping hot spray.
You sniffled, finally looking at him.
He cupped your cheeks, brushing away the tear tracks, then pressed his forehead to yours.
Let us go to our room, my love.
His words passed into your mind. You nodded.
He stopped the water, helped you out of the shower, and dried you both.
He guided your limbs into your sleepwear and covered himself with loose black pants. He looked almost...human...like this.
You couldn’t help thinking that he was more human than most everyone out there.
---
Your day started out fine.
You woke from a wonderful dream—one Vessel had created. A peaceful afternoon beneath a willow tree, snuggled into his side, his fingers trailing along your forearm, down to your fingertips.
He had tilted your face toward his, kissing your forehead. You had closed your eyes, and when you opened them, you were in bed, his lips still pressed to your skin.
You got ready for work, Vessel watching as you moved through your room to the bathroom and back. He enjoyed observing you. The personal rituals you did for different occasions, different times of day. Perhaps the one he enjoyed the most was when you asked for his opinion when your ensemble was complete.
He’d stand from his perch on the foot of your bed and step toward you as if in a trance.
“You are breathtaking, my love.” He always spoke it. He wanted you to hear the power in the words—the power you held over him.
You left, and Vessel would gather with the others. You’d ask him about his day, but admittedly, you were still confused about everything they could do—everything they were charged with doing.
Maybe that was where is started.
You didn't understand. Could never understand.
And a chasm opened.
You were so fucking stupid.
You deserved to feel like this.
Insignificant.
Unneeded.
Unwanted.
Everyone was better off without you.
He’d be happier without you.
All these fucking noises.
Why was everything so goddamn loud.
Dogs barking. Cars honking. That fucking clock that wouldn’t shut the fuck up!
It all made you so angry. Why were you so angry?
You had to make it stop.
That’s how you ended up in the shower. At least there you could control the noise. You could feel it mark you. Let the heat punish you.
A hand on your back pulled you back to reality.
Let me see you, darling.
You didn’t move, wished you didn’t need to breathe.
He didn’t deserve this. He needed someone as extraordinary as him, someone who could understand. You could barely wrap your mind around how vast he was; he was everything, and you were—
“You are my heart.”
A sob escaped. You had forgotten. Too consumed in your own thoughts that you forgot to keep them from him, to stop projecting them.
He whispered your name, and all you heard was his heartbreak.
You refused to look at him, covering your mouth to keep your cries back.
“Please,” he urged. “Please believe me. You are the most precious to me. Do not think of yourself with such loathing.”
His hand rested on your side, a silent plea to face him. When you didn’t, he forced you to. He never did that—used his strength against you—but this was an exception.
“I am the one who does not deserve you. My existence is burdensome to you...but I am too selfish. I cannot lose you. I will not leave you willingly. I...I will stay by your side...until you demand otherwise.”
It pained him to imagine it. He was so bad at hiding his emotions. And yet, it was what you needed. That break in his voice parted your darkness. The thought of him ever not being here scared you.
“I don’t—” You hiccupped. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“Darling,” he breathed, sympathy and relief in that one word. “Come here.”
You wrapped your arms around his waist while his settled over your shoulders.
“My place is by your side,” he said. “Thank you for allowing me here.”
Squeezing, you nuzzled your face into his neck. The edges of his mask-like features settled you into reality. He was here and so were you, and you were together.
You sniffled; throat too thick to speak.
I love you.
His mouth pressed into your crown.
You are the one I cherish most.
At the end of your exhale, relaxation enveloped you—a heaviness only he could instill.
You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t need to. You just needed this day to be over.
Sleep, my beloved. And awake anew.
---
You didn’t dream that night, and you were grateful. It was the kind of emptiness you needed.
When you opened your eyes, you were facing Vessel. Your fingers were touching, bodies apart but connected, always.
Sometimes it was difficult to tell if he was awake. Even facing one another, the spaces where his eyes should be neither opened nor closed. His breathing was what gave him away. But not this morning. Today, it was the way his pinky finger wrapped around yours.
Dearest one.
It moved through your mind like a gentle breeze, and it sounded like “good morning.”
He seemed to move before you did, anticipating you shifting closer, so his arm wrapped around you and his hand caressed the back of your head.
You are rested?
You hummed. He always asked when you both knew he didn’t need to. His insecurities needed the reassurance that he had helped you.
Yes. Thank you.
You punctuated it by gliding your lips along his throat and placing a kiss above his Adam’s apple.
The purr that erupted pulled the corner of your mouth up. He was always responsive in the mornings, less guarded before the walls of your bubble faded.
What are you feeling?
Not “how,” but “what.”
Inhaling, you took stock of yourself. You recalled your pain from yesterday, but that already felt so long ago. Like your mind was trying to protect itself after what it put you through.
All you really felt was him.
Safe.
His head tilted downward so your foreheads touched.
That pleases me.
You rubbed your nose with his. Content to simply feel him.
The others and I have decided I shall remain with you today.
It had taken you a while to get used to the connection him and the rest shared. Honestly, you were a bit jealous. After all, how convenient it was to cancel plans just by thinking about it. He probably did it in the seconds before you woke up.
So, what should we do?
Anything that will make you happy.
That sincerity always made you pause and scrutinize him. How could anyone truly mean that?
Yet somehow, he did. Every time.
And if I said this?
You traced curves and swirls onto his back, reveling in the strength you felt within. Sometimes you swore his power was tangible.
“Then I shall continue to warm your bed.”
Your flush was instantaneous, and you knew he could feel it against his neck. But before you could stutter a reply, your stomach growled.
“Perhaps breakfast first?” he asked.
You nodded. “Definitely.”
Taglist: @steph-speaks because one of my only points of pride is introducing you to ST.
Comment or message me if you wanna be tagged in future Vessel fics!
Sorry for bringing the angst when we're all feral at the moment, but these lyrics with Vessel? 🥺
This makes me think of Bloodsport too 😖 very much a when you know, you know scenario, only Vessel realises it too late, and he loses you for good. He replays the moment over and over again, the one from before you left, before you walked away from him, before it all slipped through his fingers, and how he just stood there, doing nothing.
He knows now he should’ve done more. He should’ve loved you better, tried harder. Instead, he’s left with the knowledge that you were the one for him—the one who got away. Maybe in another life things could be different. Maybe, just maybe, he could change the ending.
Synopsis: What starts as a slow morning wrapped in warmth becomes a day of unexpected honesty, as Y/n and Vessel learn that love is found just as much in difficult conversations as it is in quiet moments
Word Count: 12,900k
Warnings: SMUT: Oral sex with female receiving, unprotected penetrative sex, creampie; emotional dependency, references to childhood abuse, emotional distress.
A/N: This chapter is a week late, but the good news is that the next one is already almost finished! I think this was, by far, the most enjoyable chapter to write and my favorite one so far. I really hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do and have a nice reading ;)
Disclaimer: As a writer, I have a great deal of respect for Vessel's privacy, as well as the anonymity of the other band members. For that reason, every time his name appears in this chapter, it has been intentionally replaced with "(his name)"
SERIES MASTERLIST
The unfamiliar brightness slipping through the gaps in your curtains stirred you awake slowly, pulling you out of sleep in soft, reluctant waves. Your eyes, still heavy, squeezed shut for a moment before opening again, adjusting to the thin strands of sunlight stretching across your room.
It wasn’t common to see a day this bright in London at this time of year.
And yet, somehow, that still felt more ordinary than the quiet, undeniable presence of a man in your bed.
You dragged your hands over your face, exhaling softly, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. Then you lifted your head just enough to glance at the clock on your nightstand.
One in the afternoon.
You slept for seven hours.
You blinked at that for a second.
Seven uninterrupted hours of sleep. The most you’d had in weeks. And for the first time in what felt like forever, your mind was quiet. No anxiety lingering at the edges, no anticipation coiled tight in your chest. Just calm. Just that warm, heavy softness that settled into your body when you slept far longer than you usually allowed yourself.
A small, almost disbelieving smile curved your lips as you turned your head.
He was still there.
Vessel lay beside you, sleeping deeply, his expression unguarded in a way you had never seen before. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing slow and steady, his features softened by rest. Your heart reacted instantly, but not with the sharp, overwhelming intensity you were used to.
This was different.
Gentler.
You reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair away from his eyes, your fingers lingering just slightly as you watched him. Sleep changed something in his face, it smoothed out the edges, softened the lines, made him look even younger somehow.
You had fallen in love with a thirty-two-year-old man.
And somehow, that still intrigued you.
Right now, lying in your bed, he didn’t look like the untouchable figure you had once watched from afar. He looked… warm. Real. Almost disarmingly soft. Like something out of a Taylor Swift song, nothing like the god you had seen on stage.
And yet, it didn’t make you love him any less.
If anything, it made everything feel deeper.
You stayed like that for a while, just watching him, memorizing the quiet details. Long enough for him to shift in his sleep, his body instinctively seeking yours. His arm moved, searching, and when it found you, it pulled you closer without him even waking.
You let yourself be gathered into him, your body fitting naturally against his as his hold tightened just slightly. Your mind drifted then, back to everything that had happened the night before.
It had been impulsive, calling him like that. Driven by something raw and unsteady inside you. But now… you couldn’t regret it. Not after everything. Not after him showing up.
Maybe some good things came messy.
Maybe they still counted.
Your fingers slid into his hair, playing with it lazily for a moment before you called his name once, softly. He didn’t stir.
You tried again.
Nothing.
That made you smile, and for a brief moment you caught yourself whispering his name - his real name - softly, almost reverently. Just to feel it on your tongue. To understand it. To make it real in a different way. It still felt a little unfamiliar, a little strange… but not wrong. Not at all. Somehow, you were already in love with it. Because it suited him just as perfectly as the name you had always known.
Your nails scratched lightly along his scalp, slow and gentle, and then you leaned in, pressing soft kisses against his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his cheeks - small, patient gestures meant to coax him awake.
Only when he shifted, a quiet sigh escaping him, did you finally press your lips to his.
He hummed softly, the sound low and warm, sending a faint shiver across your skin. His lips moved against yours slowly, still caught in that hazy space between sleep and waking.
“Hey…” he murmured, his voice rough as his eyes opened, still heavy with sleep.
“Good afternoon,” you said softly, kissing him again.
He frowned slightly, glancing around like he was trying to place himself, and then his expression softened as recognition settled in. A small smile followed, like the memories of the night before had just caught up with him.
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice still husky.
“One something. We knocked out.”
He let out a quiet breath, smiling as he shifted onto his back, dragging a hand across his face and pushing his hair away. For a second, he just stared at the ceiling, thoughtful, before his gaze returned to you.
His hand came up almost immediately, cupping your face, holding you there, like he needed to make sure of something.
“I’m okay,” you said softly, giving in before he even asked. You hadn’t wanted to worry him like that, and now you knew it would take more than words to convince him you really were better.
But you were.
Because he was there.
Because things felt… steadier.
He nodded slowly, then opened his arms for you.
You didn’t hesitate. You curled into him, resting your head against his chest, listening to the calm, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, exhaling quietly, and the two of you stayed like that in silence.
Comfortable. Unhurried.
Your phone broke through the quiet a few minutes later.
You reached for it, but the moment you saw your sister’s name on the screen, you declined the call without a second thought.
“Who is it?” he asked, his voice still low.
You shrugged lightly. “My sister.”
You set the phone aside.
“I don’t want to deal with that today.”
You settled back into him, but this time you lifted your head to look at him, your hand coming up to cup his cheek.
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
He didn’t push. He never did. He read you too well for that. Instead, he smiled softly and leaned in to kiss you.
“I am.”
“Vessel… sleeping in my bed. How am I supposed to get over that?”
He pretended to think for a second, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I think we’ll have to repeat it a few times until you get used to it.”
That pulled a genuine smile from you.
“I agree.”
He kissed you again, but this time there was more intent behind it - the pressure of his lips, the subtle shift as he deepened it just slightly. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, coaxing you to part them, and the moment you did, he leaned into it.
A quiet sound slipped from him when you caught his lower lip between your teeth, teasing, and his arms tightened around you in response.
The kiss lingered - slow, warm, and just a little more awake now.
He broke the kiss reluctantly, his arms tightening around you just a little more, as if he needed one extra second before letting the moment go. Your lips lingered close, your breath still shared, before the space between you slowly returned.
Silence settled again.
Not uncomfortable. Never that.
Just… full. Then he sighed, the sound low and thoughtful against your skin.
“I need to know what exactly happened on Wednesday, sugar. Can you tell me now?”
There was no avoiding it anymore.
You let your gaze drift for a second, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the fabric of the sheets between you, grounding yourself before speaking.
“I wasn’t feeling well the whole day…” you started, your voice quieter now. You hesitated, searching for a way to make it sound lighter than it had been, but the words didn’t cooperate this time.
So you let them come as they were.
“When you said you weren’t coming back… I didn’t handle it very well and…” You exhaled slowly, your chest rising and falling a little heavier. “The truth is… my anxiety gets a lot worse when you’re not around.”
He didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t react outwardly.
He just listened, his expression calm, like none of it surprised him.
“I know I can’t depend on you to function…” you continued, your voice softer now, more exposed. “But I don’t know how not to need you.”
His hand came up to your face, fingers brushing along your cheek in slow, steady strokes. The kind that anchored you without demanding anything back.
You leaned into it without thinking.
“And I’ve been working more than I should these past weeks,” you admitted, your gaze dropping briefly. Something shifted inside you then, like holding anything back didn’t make sense anymore. “Because I wanted to ask for a few days off to stay with you when you came back.”
You swallowed.
“But… I clearly pushed past what my body could handle. Especially since I already wasn’t okay.” A small pause. “The doctor diagnosed me with burnout.”
There it was.
That crease between his brows.
This time, he didn’t hide it.
“You should have called me.”
You nodded, but you didn’t let that be the end of it.
“How could I?” you answered quietly. “You had just explained why you couldn’t come back, and it made perfectly sense. I would’ve just worried you.”
His lips pressed into a thin line as he weighed your words.
“You almost scared me to death last night, sugar,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “What was the point of holding it in for so many days?”
You sighed.
He had a point.
But so did you.
“I didn’t want you to get scared and end up pulling away from me.”
There it was. Again.
The truth, raw and unpolished.
You shifted away from him then, turning onto your back, your eyes fixing on the ceiling like it was easier to speak to that than to him.
“I know I’m too intense,” you murmured. “People don’t let me forget that.”
A quiet snort left him, almost under his breath, but he didn’t argue or rush to contradict you. He just let the silence sit there with you.
You took a slow breath, your chest expanding, then falling. It wasn’t easy, saying those things out loud.
But there was relief in it.
Eventually, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second before pulling away. The mattress shifted as he got up, and your eyes followed him without you really meaning to.
Your gaze lingered as he moved around the room, looking for his clothes scattered from the night before. There was something quietly distracting about the ease of his movements.
He pulled on his boxers, then gestured toward the door.
“End of the hallway,” you said, your voice softer now.
You watched him leave, listening to the faint sound of the bathroom door closing.
Vessel was in your apartment.
The thought echoed again, almost surreal.
That alone should have been enough to set your chest tightening, your mind spiraling, but instead… nothing. Just calm.
Like something inside you had finally gone quiet.
When he came back a few minutes later, he smiled the moment he saw you still lying there, tangled in the sheets, sunlight now stretching further across the bed, warming the space between you.
He didn’t suggest getting up.
Didn’t question it.
He simply came back to you.
Slipping into the space you instinctively made for him, his body fitting against yours like it belonged there.
He leaned in and kissed you - slow, lazy, unhurried.
There was still that tension. That low, constant pull between you. But neither of you rushed it.
“I’m going to say something now, and I don’t want to have to repeat it, okay?” he said, his fingers gently but firmly holding your chin, guiding your gaze back to his.
You nodded, your heart picking up just slightly.
“You’re not too much for me,” he said. “And I like you exactly as you are. If that wasn’t the case, I’d be with someone else.”
Your breath caught.
“Okay,” you said, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.
“Okay?” he pressed, searching your face.
You nodded again.
He kissed you, stronger this time, more certain, then pulled back and rolled onto his side.
“So what do we do now?” he asked, a small smile forming when you immediately shifted closer, settling back into him without hesitation.
You thought for a moment, your fingers tracing absent patterns against his chest.
“What do you want to do?”
“For real?”
You nodded.
He paused, considering it, then exhaled softly.
“I just want to allow myself to be unproductive with you for the rest of the day.”
That made you laugh.
A real laugh.
Light, easy, unfamiliar in how natural it felt.
“Then let’s be unproductive together,” you teased.
He pinched your cheek, playful, his hand lingering as it trailed downward, his touch turning teasing as it settled against your breast, cupping gently, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Well… there is something else we could do…”
You bit your lip, watching him, waiting.
“But I think I need coffee first. A very large mug of coffee.”
You smiled, nodding.
“That’s fair. But we’ll have to get up and make it. Unfortunately, I don’t offer room service.”
He tilted his head slightly, considering that.
“Yeah? Just give me a kiss first, then.”
You let out a soft laugh.
“Another one?”
“As many as I want. I deserve it, don’t I?”
You gave in easily, letting him pull you closer again, your lips brushing his.
“As many as you want.”
...
Your small kitchen somehow felt even smaller with him in it, and yet he moved through the space like he belonged there, like he had always belonged there. And you liked that. You liked it far more than you wanted to admit.
You were curled up at the table, legs tucked lazily beneath you on the chair, still wrapped in your pajamas. The cold had followed you out of the bedroom, so you had dragged a blanket along with you, cocooning yourself in it like a shield against the chill. The mug in your hands was warm, grounding, the heat seeping into your fingers as you sipped slowly, letting the coffee wake you up in gentle waves.
Sleeping that late always left you feeling a little off - heavy, sluggish - but today you didn’t care.
Not with him there.
Vessel had already finished his first cup and moved back to the counter to refill it. You watched him without trying to hide it, your gaze tracing the easy familiarity in his movements. He was back in his jeans and T-shirt, but he’d traded the jacket for a black hoodie this time. His hair was still messy from sleep, and there was a softness to him still, something unguarded, lingering from the morning.
To you, he looked perfect like that.
Exactly like that.
“What’s this?” he asked, picking something up from the counter before walking back toward the table.
You glanced over.
Your grocery list.
“I was supposed to go to the store yesterday,” you admitted, suddenly remembering the near-empty state of your kitchen. “I don’t really have anything here besides frozen lasagna.”
He scanned the list briefly, then shrugged like it didn’t matter.
“I can go with you.”
That caught you completely off guard.
You and Vessel. Outside. In public.
The idea was… both tempting and terrifying.
“You said you wanted to be unproductive today,” you reminded him, raising an eyebrow slightly as you took another sip of your coffee.
He took a long drink from his mug before answering, thoughtful for a second.
“I think I can handle doing one productive thing,” he said. “Besides, it means I get to buy Snickers. And I need food, sugar.”
You smiled a little awkwardly, lowering your gaze.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to have company or I would’ve...”
He reached for your hand before you could finish, his fingers warm as they closed around yours.
“It’ll be nice,” he said simply. “I haven’t done grocery shopping in ages. I’m barely ever home, so…”
You nodded slowly, considering it. It wasn’t something you’d ever really talked about before.
“Can I ask where you live?” you said after a moment.
He smirked lightly.
“You can ask me anything.”
Then he gestured for you to come closer.
You didn’t hesitate.
You shifted from your chair into his lap, settling there naturally, like it was the most obvious place to be. It felt impossible now to stay apart from him for too long, not after having him back.
“Hampstead,” he answered, one hand already reaching for the blanket wrapped around you, tugging it loose and unraveling the cocoon you’d made. The cold air hit your skin immediately, raising goosebumps along your arms.
“Of course,” you murmured, not even surprised. It suited him. Everything about it did.
“House or apartment?” you asked, your voice softer now.
“Apartment,” he replied, but his attention had already drifted.
His fingers traced down the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, following the line of your skin to your collarbone. His touch lingered there, teasing, before moving lower, brushing over your chest through the thin fabric of your pajama top.
Your breath hitched slightly.
You bit your lower lip, waiting.
That familiar tension curled low in your stomach, tightening the air between you.
He cupped one of your breasts, squeezing gently, testing, before leaning in and catching the fabric between his fingers. A small tug, and you lifted your arms instinctively, letting him pull the top off.
Your breath quickened the moment his mouth found you.
His lips closed around your nipple, warm and deliberate, and your fingers immediately tangled in his hair, gripping without thinking.
“I thought… we were going to the store,” you managed, though your voice lacked any real conviction.
He hummed in response, the vibration sending a shiver through you.
“We will,” he murmured against your skin. “After…”
The sentence never finished.
Because he was already pulling you closer, already finding your lips in a kiss that was stronger now, hungrier, edged with that restless urgency that always took over him when he got like this.
And you could feel it.
The way he was hardening beneath you.
The way his hands held you just a little tighter.
Your hand slid down to his jeans, fingers fumbling slightly as you worked the button open and dragged the zipper down. Your lips never left his, the kiss messy, breathy, shared between small gasps and quiet sounds.
When you finally wrapped your hand around him, he let out a low, broken moan right into your mouth, his body reacting instantly as your fingers tightened just right, moving slowly, deliberately.
He let you tease him just for a moment.
Then he moved.
In one fluid motion, he stood up with you still in his arms. The blanket slipped off somewhere behind you, forgotten entirely as he set you down on the small kitchen table. The wood creaked under the sudden weight, a quiet protest that barely registered over the sound of your breathing and the way his mouth never stopped touching you.
Your lips.
Your jaw.
Your neck.
Your chest.
His hands were quick, efficient, finishing what he had started - your shorts and underwear pushed down and discarded without a second thought, landing somewhere on the floor. Cool air hit your skin for half a second before his hands were on you again, spreading you open, guiding you...
...and then his mouth was there.
“Fuck...” you let out under your breath as his tongue dragged over you, long and firm, deliberate.
He chuckled softly at your reaction, your legs tightening instinctively around his shoulders. When you looked down, his eyes were no longer soft, they were darker now, sharp with intent. He pressed a brief, almost teasing kiss to the inside of your thigh before pulling you open again and going back to eating you.
And God, he was devastating at it.
The sounds alone - wet, messy, unrestrained - the way he moved, like he didn’t care about neatness or control, only about making you feel good… you had never had anyone like that before.
“O-oh… yes… so good…” Your voice barely held together, more breath than words.
He liked that.
The more noise you made, the more he gave back - stronger pulls, faster movements of his tongue, the strength of his sucks, his rhythm building in response to you.
It didn’t take long before his fingers joined in, sliding into you, and those fingers...
They were unfair.
You couldn’t hold back anymore. The sounds spilled out of you, louder, sharper, your body reacting without restraint as he pushed deeper, faster. Your hips moved against his hand before you even realized it, chasing the feeling, your grip tightening in his hair as you pulled him closer, grinding against his mouth without a hint of hesitation.
And that was the best part.
You never felt embarrassed with him.
Not once.
He didn’t resist your sudden control, in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. You heard the muffled chuckle, the approving hum against your skin as he kept going, letting you set the pace.
Until he stopped.
You barely had time to react before he finished pushing his jeans down, grabbed a bit of saliva between his fingers, and stroked himself once, and then he thrust into you in one strong, decisive movement.
You cried out - loud, unfiltered - your hand flying to your mouth as reality snapped back for a second. Thin walls. Bad acoustics.
But he didn’t like that.
Not at all.
He immediately grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away, forcing you upright as he dragged you closer to the edge of the table. Then he thrust again, harder.
And again.
Each movement stronger than the last, the table creaking beneath you.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him down into a kiss. He kissed you back, but only for a second before leaning in close, his mouth brushing your ear.
“Let me hear you.”
His voice was low, rough.
You nodded without thinking, giving in completely, your body already being pushed closer and closer to the edge.
You could feel he was close too - in the way his rhythm started to falter, less controlled, more desperate. His breathing grew heavier, uneven, his hands gripping your waist tighter.
This wasn’t meant to last.
And neither of you need it to.
“F-fucking hell… you feel amazing,” he groaned, each word punctuated by a thrust so deep it made the table shift slightly beneath you.
Your heart was racing, your breath just as unsteady, but even then, something in you wanted more.
Wanted to push him.
“Yeah?” you murmured against his neck, your voice soft but deliberate. “Tell me you’re mine, then…”
Your lips brushed his skin, your teeth catching lightly on his earlobe.
“Let me claim you the way you claim me.”
You felt the way his body reacted instantly - his skin prickling, his breath catching, the way he throbbed inside you.
For a second, his rhythm faltered.
Then came back harder.
“Y-yours… sugar… I’m fucking yours.”
You closed your eyes, letting the words settle into you just as the tension finally snapped. The wave hit you all at once, your body tightening, your voice breaking free as you moaned his name against his skin again and again.
He followed right after.
His body tensed, a sharp breath leaving him before he stilled, and you felt him come inside you, his whole frame trembling with it.
He pulled you into a kiss immediately - rough, intense, all teeth and breath and heat, messy and consuming, like neither of you quite knew how to slow down yet. His hand gripped your jaw as he kissed you deeper, your taste still lingering in his tongue as the moment stretched.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
He let out a soft, breathless laugh.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know?”
His voice was hoarse, but it still sent a shiver down your spine.
“I love you too,” you replied softly, your hand cupping his cheek.
His smile widened at that, softer now, leaning into your touch without hesitation.
“Let’s go to the store,” he said after a moment.
You nodded, your body slowly coming down from the high, limbs still heavy and warm.
He pulled out carefully, then glanced around before grabbing some paper towels from the counter, returning to clean you up a little. The gesture made something flicker in your mind - a memory of the first night.
You had come a long way since then.
“I think I need a shower,” you admitted, your voice quieter now.
He let out a small laugh, abandoning the attempt to fully clean the mess.
“Yeah… I think that’s a good idea.”
But before he could step away, you caught his hand, holding him there.
“Come with me.”
He didn’t hesitate, leaning in to press another quick kiss to your lips.
“I will,” he said. “But you know it’s not just going to be a shower, right?”
You smiled, a soft laugh escaping you.
“You’re insatiable.”
...
Vessel groaned, surrendering completely to instinct as he pushed harder against you. One hand gripped your shoulder firmly, keeping you bent forward against the cold tile wall while the hot water streamed over both of you in uneven waves as his body finally reached its limit and he spilled inside you. Again.
A shaky breath left him as his forehead dropped briefly between your shoulder blades.
This was getting out of control.
And honestly? He didn’t want to stop it. Not when everything about this felt so perfectly intense.
He pulled out slowly, his hand immediately searching for yours beneath the spray of water. He tugged you gently back against him. Your lips met again between ragged breaths, and there it was, that same delicious desperation in the way you kissed him. The way your arms wrapped around his shoulders like you were afraid he might disappear if you loosened your grip for even a second.
It was addictive. Being loved like that.
You loved him with your whole body. And he knew, with terrifying clarity, that he could never let this go.
Let you go.
He didn’t care how problematic it might be, because he knew his side of it wasn’t exactly healthy either. Fuck healthy. Fuck normal.
The rest of life could stay normal.
But not this. Never you.
“You okay?” he asked finally, breaking the kiss just enough to wipe water from his eyes with his hand.
He knew he had been a bit rough.
Sometimes you did that to him - something that blurred every line between affection, need, obsession. Everything tangled together inside him until intensity became the only language he knew how to speak.
You smiled at him openly then. And that smile dismantled him every single time.
“Yeah,” you murmured, still breathless. “More than okay, actually.”
And the truth was, you liked it.
You liked his intensity. His desperation for you. You welcomed it, claimed it, and that alone made something deep inside him unravel completely.
Your body still trembled faintly under his hands, remnants of the second orgasm he had pulled of you that day. And he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be the last.
He would make sure of that.
But right now there were other needs demanding his attention. Like the fact that he was absolutely starving.
“I’ll let you finish your shower,” he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips before stepping out from under the spray.
Cool air hit his skin immediately.
He pointed toward the towels hanging from the hook, and you nodded before turning back beneath the water, tilting your face up into the stream and running your hands over your hair.
He wrapped the towel low around his waist and ran another one through his hair, drying it roughly as he stepped back into your bedroom.
The clothes inside his backpack were all wrinkled from the speed with which he had shoved them inside the night before. He could still remember the frantic mess of it clearly - throwing things together while trying to ignore the sound of your crying replaying in his head.
Trying to get back to you.
The truth was, everything was only starting to settle in his mind now: Your fragile emotional state the night before. The way he had responded instantly the second you asked for him. The fact that he had left II alone in the studio without hesitation to finish the work himself. The way he drove recklessly through the night to get to London.
To you.
He had resisted the words for so long, but there was nowhere left to run from them now.
To be honest to himself, he felt relieved that he finally had said them.
Christ, since the very beggining it had never been just about the sex - though, the sex was incredible.
No. What made him leave everything behind was hearing you cry for him.
That had destroyed him completely.
Thankfully, he had only been in Birmingham, but even if he’d been on the other side of the world, he knew he would have done exactly the same thing.
Eventually he settled on a pair of grey sweatpants that looked slightly less wrinkled than the rest of the clothes in the bag, along with a white tank top also in better state than all the other options. He pulled the black hoodie back on over it, dried his hair the best he could with the towel one more time, pushing it back into place with his fingers before slipping his shoes on.
You were still in the shower.
And he was becoming just a little impatient. Because hunger had always made him irritable, but instead of letting himself sink into that mood, he decided to wait in the living room.
His eyes immediately landed on the framed poster hanging directly across from your bedroom the moment he crossed the door.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
There was something strangely sweet about imagining you seeing him first thing every morning like that. But beneath the warmth, another feeling stirred too, something uncomfortable.
The fear that maybe you preferred that version of him, but he shoved the thought away the second it surfaced.
His gaze drifted down the hallway as he passed until he noticed another door sitting slightly ajar. Curious by nature - and incapable of resisting - he nudged it open a little farther.
Then paused.
A keyboard sat in a corner of the room. The sight caught him completely off guard.
The room itself was clearly more storage space than anything else. There was an old wardrobe shoved against one wall, stacks of boxes piled unevenly, and a stationary bike that looked suspiciously unused. And the keyboard sat there among the clutter like something completely forgotten.
Without really thinking about it, he stepped inside.
His fingers brushed lightly over the keys. It was a Yamaha PSR-E373. Cheap, but efficient enough. Suddenly, memories hit him hard and fast - hours spent shut away in his childhood bedroom at his parents’ house, hunched over a keyboard not all that different from this one, losing himself inside melodies because it was easier than existing anywhere else.
His brows pulled together slightly as he pressed one key softly. The feeling that settled in his chest was strange. Nostalgic. Tender.
And maybe, beneath it all, a little proud too.
He had come a very long way.
...
Your body felt much better now after the hot shower and being tucked inside a warm sweatsuit and sneakers. Normally, you would have dried your hair properly, but knowing Ves was waiting for you somewhere in the apartment made you rush through it. You only towel-dried it the best you could, worked some leave-in conditioner through the strands, then brushed it quickly until it looked decent enough. After that, you rubbed lotion into your skin, dabbed on a little cologne, shoved your wallet and phone into your bag, and finally stepped out of the bedroom.
Something restless stirred inside you at the thought of going out in public with Vessel.
Actually, that nervousness had a lot to do with the conversation from the night before too.
Everything felt more real now.
Not just because he was in your appartment, but because he had finally said it out loud. Clearly. Without hesitation.
He loved you.
There was no way to keep lying to yourself now. No more pretending maybe you were only a distraction to him. No more convincing yourself there had to be other women waiting somewhere in the background. No more hiding behind uncertainty just to soften the fall if things ended badly.
This was happening.
You and Vessel were in a relationship, and for the first time, you were about to step outside your little bubble together.
The thought alone was both exhilarating and terrifying.
You walked quickly down the hallway, searching for the grocery list you had abandoned somewhere earlier, but stopped short when you noticed the door to the tiny second bedroom standing open.
Ves was inside.
The room had always been a strange in-between space you never really knew what to do with. Half storage room, half abandoned attempt at productivity. Old cardboard boxes were stacked against one wall, a barely-used exercise bike sat in the corner collecting dust, and an ancient wardrobe leaned slightly crooked beside the window.
And in middle of the mess was your old keyboard. Something you bought in an attempt to start a new hobby your never actually started.
Ves stood beside it, distracted while pressing buttons on the control panel, so absorbed he didn’t even notice you approaching.
“Someone’s nosy,” you teased from the doorway.
He barely reacted to being caught. Not any more embarrassed than he had been the night before while shamelessly snooping through your drawers in the living room. Instead, he only shot you a mischievous glance over his shoulder before pulling the small bench out and sitting down in front of the keyboard.
He pressed one key.
A hollow, awkward sound rang loudly through the tiny room, startlingly sharp in the silence.
You winced.
“I should’ve gotten rid of that years ago,” you muttered, stepping further inside. “It’s stupid.”
He immediately shook his head in disagreement.
“No, it isn’t.”
His fingers moved over the controls again, adjusting settings with practiced ease before he played another note. This time the sound came out cleaner.
You leaned against the side of the keyboard watching him.
“Do you know how to play?” he asked suddenly, reaching for your hand and pulling you a little closer. There was genuine curiosity in his voice.
You shrugged awkwardly.
“Not really." You scratched the back of your neck, suddenly embarrassed. “I was going to find someone to teach me, but I ended up giving up on the idea.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth.
Ves scooted the bench back and tugged you gently onto his lap until your back rested against his chest. The familiar warmth of him immediately settled your nerves. He pressed a soft kiss against your shoulder before letting his fingers drift across the keys again.
The ease with which he played was almost unfair.
Beautiful too.
It wasn’t any recognizable song, just soft wandering notes filling the cramped little room, but even that sounded mesmerizing coming from him. The low hum of the keyboard wrapped around you.
“It’s a good keyboard,” he murmured. “very similar to the one I used to have at home.”
Something in your stomach tightened immediately at the softness in his tone.
Then his fingers shifted again.
And suddenly the notes became immediatelly recognizable. Just a few chords.
Rain.
Your breath caught instantly.
He kissed your shoulder again, slower this time.
“I could teach you.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks immediately. The idea was somehow both incredibly tempting and deeply embarrassing.
“Ves…”
“I’m serious.”
He kept playing, and now your entire body reacted to the melody you knew so well. Hearing it like this - stripped down, intimate, careless beneath his fingers - felt almost too personal.
“It could be fun,” he continued softly. “I used to teach piano lessons, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The words escaped before you even realized what you had said.
And instantly, everything froze.
You felt his body stiffen beneath you.
The music stopped.
Silence swallowed the room whole.
Your stomach dropped so fast it made you feel sick.
You nearly climbed off his lap immediately, but his arms tightened around your waist, keeping you there.
“You weren’t supposed to know that,” he said quietly against your ear.
His voice wasn’t angry.
But it was firm enough to make panic bloom hot beneath your ribs.
The explanations started tumbling out before you could stop them.
“I needed to know your name, I... I couldn’t help it and I just…” You stopped yourself, breathing shakily before turning enough to look at him. “I’m sorry.”
You didn’t know what you expected to find on his face.
Anger, probably.
Instead, there was something almost shy lingering at the corner of his mouth. Like embarrassment had caught up with him before anger ever could.
“How long have you known?” he asked.
His tone stayed calm, but there was the faintest tremor underneath it, and that alone told you this mattered to him more than he wanted it to.
“A few days.”
Then realization crossed your face.
“Ves, I swear, I never tried to see you before you let me.” You exhaled shakily. “I was talking about you with Nancy... I mean, I didn't tell her who you are... but for a second I panicked thinking she might ask me your name and I wouldn't know what to say...” You swallowed. “After that I couldn’t stand not knowing anymore.”
His hand rose to cup your cheek.
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, and immediately something inside you loosened again.
“I’m not mad,” he murmured. “I’m just…”
“Please don’t say disappointed,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.
A small breath of laughter escaped him.
“Exposed,” he admitted instead.
Only then did you notice the faint flush dusting his cheeks. Subtle, but definitely there.
You stayed quiet after that, suddenly unsure what to say or how to act.
Then his fingers tapped lightly against your thigh.
“Did you like it?”
You frowned slightly.
“My name.”
Now he was teasing you a little, but you could still hear the insecurity underneath it.
You nodded carefully.
“It suits you.”
He snorted immediately like he rejected the idea on instinct.
“What?”
His fingers drifted absently across the keys again, softer this time.
“I’m not really that person anymore, sugar.”
You nodded even though uncertainty still twisted inside your chest.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again. “Can we just… pretend this never happened?”
A quiet chuckle rumbled from him.
“I don't think so. But I'm not angry with you, Y/n.” He nudged your nose lightly with his. “Honestly, I admire the fact you didn’t search before.”
“I never would’ve.”
“I know.”
That softened something in his expression completely.
“That’s why I’m not mad.”
The tension finally eased from your shoulders.
He kissed the side of your head before nudging the keyboard gently with one hand.
“So,” he murmured, “do you want the lessons or not?”
A smile finally tugged at your lips again.
“Yes.” You relaxed properly against him this time. “Any excuse to hear you play for me.”
That made a grin spread slowly across his face.
“Yeah?” he teased. “And how exactly are you planning to pay for those lessons? You do realize I’m a very busy man, right? I charge by the hour.”
You pretended to think about it seriously.
“Can I pay in kisses?”
His laugh came low and warm right beside your ear.
“You’re going to owe me a lot of kisses, darling.”
...
Vessel could feel your uneasiness from the passenger seat beside him.
He just couldn’t tell whether it came from him finding out you had searched for him online or from the simple fact that the two of you were outside together for the first time.
And not knowing was slowly driving him insane.
The black SUV moved through the wet London streets with its dark tinted windows shielding the inside from curious eyes. Being seen had never truly bothered him anyway. That was the beauty of the band’s anonymity - most people simply didn’t know who he was. To them he was just another tall man driving through South London on a gray afternoon.
But maybe you didn’t feel as safe inside that anonymity. Or maybe you were only anxious because he had been quiet for nearly five minutes straight, and knowing you the way he did, he was almost certain you were overthinking every second of it.
The strange sunlight from earlier had finally disappeared, giving way to the cold drizzle London was actually supposed to have. Rain dotted the windshield in uneven patterns while the wipers moved steadily back and forth with a soft mechanical rhythm. Traffic crawled painfully slow through Greenwich, red brake lights stretching endlessly ahead of you.
Apparently there had been some issue with the electrical grid a few streets ahead because two intersections were partially blocked, turning what should have been a quick drive to Sainsbury’s into an unnecessarily long one.
A double-decker bus rolled past you slowly, spraying water from the pavement. Cyclists squeezed recklessly between lanes. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed faintly in the distance before disappearing again beneath the constant hum of engines and rain.
Inside the car, though, it was warm.
The heater hummed softly near his legs, carrying the faint scent of your shampoo around. Your grocery list rested folded on the dashboard beside his phone while some random radio station played what felt like the twentieth pop song in a row.
He reached toward the controls to change it.
“No, I love this song!”
Your voice came fast enough to stop his hand midair.
Vessel blinked, glancing toward you before actually listening to what was playing.
“Taylor Swift,” he said incredulously, eyes flicking between the road and you for a brief second.
You sat turned slightly toward him in the passenger seat, wrapped in that soft sweatsuit that somehow made you look unbearably adorable in the most ordinary way possible. Your damp hair had been brushed over one shoulder, still slightly messy from the shower, and there was a natural flush lingering across your cheeks and lips that made him want to kiss you.
“What?” you asked defensively. “She’s good.”
Something about the way you defended it so seriously made his mouth twitch.
She was good. A brilliant lyricist, actually.
He just didn’t fully understand how every single song somehow circled back to relationships.
But whatever.
“Okay,” he relented, dropping his hand away from the radio controls. Instead, he reached for yours and you intertwined your fingers with his immediately, like it was instinct now.
“Any other questionable music taste I should know about?” he teased while turning the wheel carefully around the corner toward the Sainsbury’s parking lot.
The tires hissed softly against the wet pavement.
You narrowed your eyes at him dramatically.
“I happen to have a weakness for a masked band that makes somewhat decent music,” you shot back. “It’s my guilty pleasure.”
A loud laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
The sound surprised even himself.
And just like that, something inside him loosened slightly as the tension between you started to ease.
He was still affected by the earlier conversation. The idea that you had stepped into a part of his life he hadn’t personally handed to you yet left him feeling strangely exposed. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to feel.
Maybe even a little betrayed.
But at the same time, he was trying - genuinely trying - to understand your side too.
You had respected his anonymity far longer than most people would have. You never pushed. Never demanded answers. Never tried to force pieces of him out before he was ready.
That mattered.
“I heard they’re very talented,” he replied teasenly,
Then released your hand briefly to park the SUV in one of the emptier spots near the far end of the lot, rain tapping steadily against the roof overhead.
Before either of you got out, though, he reached for your hand again.
“You okay?”
You frowned slightly, looking confused by the question. A tiny crease formed between your eyebrows.
“You were quiet most of the drive,” he clarified.
You only nodded.
“Sugar...”
You sighed before he could finish, turning your attention toward the rain-speckled window instead. Outside, an older woman slowly loaded reusable bags into the trunk of her car with almost painful patience while the drizzle soaked through her coat.
“You’re upset with me.”
There it was. He knew something still felt wrong beneath your calm.
“What?” His brows pulled together immediately. “Because of the name thing?”
You nodded again.
“You’re not going to trust me anymore.”
Christ.
The quiet vulnerability in your voice hit him harder than he expected.
Yes, he had been unsettled.
Yes, he would’ve preferred you waited until he was ready to tell you himself.
But angry? No.
Honestly, he doubted you were even capable of making him truly angry.
“Hey.” His voice softened instantly. Even the thought of you feeling that way was unbearable to him.
He reached over and gently held your face, thumb brushing against your cheek until you finally looked back at him.
“I’m not angry at you, alright?” he said carefully. “It’s just a name, darling. And honestly, I should’ve told you sooner.” He shrugged lightly. “Now you know. End of story. It’s not a big deal.”
It was kind of a big deal. But... whatever.
You bit your lower lip.
“I didn’t think it would be that easy to find.”
That pulled a quiet chuckle from him. Because he was painfully aware of all the content about him online. And to think you had watched those videos...
“Yeah. Thankfully most people think like you and don’t bother searching.”
That finally earned the smallest smile from you.
He couldn’t resist after that.
He leaned across the center console and kissed you quickly - just a soft press of lips.
Nothing more. Because he already knew if he let himself linger, he’d immediately want more of you than a grocery store parking lot could reasonably allow.
“Come on,” he murmured against your mouth before pulling back with a grin. “Let’s go buy food before I start becoming unbearable.”
Your hand tightened around his with every step the two of you took toward the entrance of the Sainsbury’s, and Vessel could feel the tension in your fingers each time someone so much as glanced in your direction.
The automatic doors slid open and warm air rushed out to meet you both, carrying the unmistakable scent of fresh bread, roasted chicken from the hot food section, and something sugary from the bakery near the entrance. Trolleys rattled over the tiled floor while people drifted in and out beneath the harsh white supermarket lights, bundled in damp coats from the cold drizzle outside.
A display of discounted wine bottles stood beside buckets of flowers wrapped in brown paper, and somewhere deeper in the store a child was crying loudly enough to echo through the aisles.
“And what if someone recognizes you?” you asked quietly, almost conspiratorially, like the question itself wasn’t supposed to exist outside your own head.
Vessel squeezed your hand back immediately, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“They won’t,” he said calmly. “Trust me, sugar. Besides…” A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got a very ordinary face.”
You snorted softly at that.
He stopped beside the row of shopping trolleys and reluctantly let go of your hand to pull one free. The metal clanged sharply against the others before he guided it toward the entrance, passing displays of meal deals, cheap chocolates and gift baskets.
Truthfully, Vessel couldn’t remember the last time he’d been inside an actual supermarket.
He barely spent enough time at home to justify grocery shopping. His cupboards and fridge were usually restocked by Mrs. Whitmore, the middle-aged woman he paid to keep his flat from descending into total chaos while he was away touring or trapped in the studio for days at a time.
Most of his meals came from takeaway bags, convenience shops near venues, or whatever was open past midnight after rehearsals.
This, though? This felt strangely domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
“So,” he said, leaning against the trolley handle as you pulled the folded shopping list from your pocket, “where are we starting?”
“The produce section.” You gestured toward the brightly lit fruit and vegetable aisles ahead.
He followed obediently.
The produce section was crowded with stacked crates of oranges, potatoes, leeks, and apples polished to impossible perfection beneath overhead misting sprays that hissed softly every few seconds. Elderly couples debated avocados beside towers of strawberries while an employee restocked cucumbers with the enthusiasm of someone spiritually detached from their job.
Vessel pushed the trolley behind you while you inspected tomatoes with alarming seriousness.
“These are too soft,” you muttered mostly to yourself, setting one back before choosing another.
He watched you pick out vegetables like your life depended on it. Different kinds of tomatoes, onions, herbs, butternut squash for mash, several fruits, leafy greens he couldn’t identify if his life depended on it.
And every single time you dropped something into the trolley, your fingers absentmindedly reached for his hand where it rested near the handle.
A tiny squeeze.
Like checking he was still there.
He doubted you even realized you were doing it.
It was ridiculously adorable.
“Alright,” he finally said after you added what looked like the third bundle of leaves in a row, “when exactly are we going to start buying real food?”
That earned him a quiet laugh.
“This is real food. The best kind, actually.”
He shook his head dramatically. “Sugar, I need carbohydrates to survive.”
You glanced down at the list one last time before folding it again. “Okay then. What do you want to eat?”
He considered it as the two of you escaped the produce section at last. The trolley wheels rattled softly over the floor while people drifted around you with baskets tucked against their hips. Somewhere overhead, a generic pop song played quietly through the speakers.
Everything about this felt painfully normal.
And somehow that made it feel too intimate.
“Would you kill me if I said cereal?” he asked.
You looked horrified immediately.
“Not under my watch.”
He laughed under his breath, steering the trolley toward the bakery section.
“Then why don’t you surprise me and make me an incredible brunch? I’m fairly certain anything you cook will be better than whatever we kept ordering from Wetherby.”
That earned him one of those small, pleased smiles he was quickly becoming addicted to.
“Okay…” You thought for a moment. “Sourdough with eggs and bacon and maybe… pancakes?”
His stomach practically growled on cue.
“With strawberries and maple syrup,” he added immediately.
You pointed at him accusingly. “See? You do know real food.”
“Barely.”
The expedition through the supermarket settled into an easy rhythm after that.
You walked slightly ahead, tossing things into the trolley while he followed behind, occasionally reaching above your head to grab something from a higher shelf or reorganizing the increasingly chaotic pile of groceries you kept abandoning at random angles.
At one point you spent nearly three full minutes comparing two brands of pasta while he stared at you with open amusement.
“What?”
“You’re taking this very seriously.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“I already adore you. You don’t have to impress me with your pasta choices.”
That made you blush instantly.
God, he loved that.
Every so often you’d glance back at him. Quick little looks you clearly thought were subtle.
They weren’t.
He could read every single one of them.
You kept checking that he was still there. Still real. Still doing something as absurdly ordinary as grocery shopping with you.
And every single time your eyes met his, something warm twisted painfully in his chest.
Eventually you stopped in the snack aisle - objectively the best aisle in the entire shop - which was surprisingly empty compared to the rest of the store.
Without really thinking about it, Vessel stepped behind you and wrapped an arm around your waist.
Your entire body softened against his immediately.
He pressed a quick kiss beneath your ear just to feel your reaction, and right on schedule your cheeks flushed pink while your head tipped back against his chest for a brief second.
Christ.
He could get addicted to this frighteningly fast.
His free hand reached toward the shelves, grabbing several Snickers bars.
“Popcorn or Cheetos?” he asked while scanning the shelves. “We’re going to need provisions for tonight.”
You pretended to consider it seriously.
“Why not both?”
He chuckled and tossed both into the already overflowing trolley.
“Anything else?”
You checked the list again before shaking your head.
“No. I think we got everything.”
He nodded and started steering the trolley toward the tills.
Checkout was easily the worst part. An endless queue that moved with all the urgency of a funeral procession. But Vessel found he didn’t particularly mind this time. Mostly because it gave him an excuse to keep you tucked against him while you waited.
Your back rested against his chest while his arms loosely circled your waist, chin occasionally brushing the top of your head whenever he leaned down to mumble something in your ear.
He’d never realized just how touch-starved he actually was until you. Until someone who reached for him just as instinctively as he reached for them.
Now every second spent apart from you felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain. And every second spent close only seemed to make it worse.
Or better.
Possibly both.
Dangerously both.
...
“Your organizational system in this cupboard makes absolutely no sense,” Ves grumbled as he shoved the last few grocery itens into the cabinet with visible skepticism.
You snorted softly from the stove without looking at him. “It makes sense to me.”
“It’s chaos.”
That earned you a real laugh.
The tiny kitchen felt warmer now, fogged slightly from the heat of the stove and the steady drizzle tapping softly against the window over the sink. The yellow under-cabinet light cast everything in a cozy glow that softened the cluttered counters and mismatched mugs drying beside the dish rack.
The smell of fresh coffee drifted through the apartment, rich and dark, mixing with butter, maple syrup, bacon grease, and the sweet scent of strawberries you had sliced only minutes earlier. Pancakes sizzled gently in the pan while sourdough bread waited beside fried eggs and crispy bacon on plates that were slowly taking over every available inch of counter space.
Ves had offered to help put everything away while you cooked, though “help” mostly consisted of him stealing ingredients every thirty seconds.
Another strip of bacon disappeared from the plate.
You turned just in time to catch him mid-crime.
“Seriously?”
He chewed with absolutely no shame whatsoever.
“You’re impossible.”
“And starving.”
He tossed the empty packaging into the bin and moved toward the fridge again, broad shoulders flexing beneath the white tank top stretched over his frame. At some point he’d abandoned the hoodie entirely, leaving his arms completely exposed, and you were discovering in real time that watching Vessel casually exist inside your kitchen was becoming a legitimate problem for your ability to function.
The silver chain around his neck caught the warm kitchen light every time he moved. His hair had dried naturally by now, it was a bit messy and he kept absentmindedly dragging his fingers through it making it worse. Or better. Definitely better.
You couldn’t stop looking at him.
It wasn’t even fair anymore.
There was something deeply fascinating about the way he existed in the world so effortlessly. The way he moved through spaces without second-guessing himself. The casual confidence in every gesture, every word, every glance.
You had to think about everything.
Every expression. Every movement. Every reaction.
But him?
He simply existed.
And somehow he was here now. In your apartment. In your kitchen. In your life. You genuinely didn’t think your brain would ever normalize that.
The sharp buzz of your phone suddenly cut through the warm domestic haze and startled you out of your thoughts. You frowned, immediately looking around for where you’d abandoned it.
“Table,” Ves said absently while crouched in front of the fridge. “Under the bags.”
You crossed the kitchen and pulled the phone free from beneath a pile of reusable shopping bags, and the second you saw your sister’s number on the screen your stomach dropped.
For a moment, you considered declining it.
You really did. But eventually you forced yourself to answer, gesturing for Ves to take over the pancakes before they burned.
He slid into your place at the stove without hesitation, grabbing the spatula while watching you carefully from the corner of his eye.
You barely had time to say hello before Francis launched straight into her usual routine.
“Where were you? I’ve been trying to call you all morning. I sent you loads of messages.”
You hadn’t seen any messages.
Truthfully, until that exact moment, you’d completely forgotten the outside world even existed beyond the strange little bubble you and Ves had created around yourselves.
“I was… busy,” you said quietly, stepping farther into the living room. “Did something happen?”
A pointless question.
If she was calling, something had happened.
“Dad got much worse this week,” she said immediately, voice already strained. “We bought the new medication and he started taking it Monday, but it’s not doing anything.”
What a surprise. An absurdly expensive experimental treatment with barely any scientific backing wasn’t magically fixing him.
“Y/n…” Her voice cracked suddenly. “He can’t swallow properly anymore. He barely eats…”
You froze. Discomfort crawled instantly beneath your skin at the sound of her beginning to cry.
“The doctors said he’ll need a feeding tube and I just…” She inhaled shakily. “I don’t know if we can handle seeing him like that.”
You stared blankly at the wall, trying to think of something - anything - to say.
Nothing.
Behind you, in the kitchen, you heard the oven door open and close. Then the refrigerator.
Normal little sounds. Domestic little sounds.
And somehow just knowing Ves was there made your chest loosen slightly, like his presence alone could shield you from the conversation threatening to swallow you whole.
“You’re not even going to say anything?”
There it was.
You could practically hear the shift happening inside Francis in real time. Vulnerability hardening into anger. Because blaming you had always been easier than facing the truth.
“You haven’t visited in weeks...”
Months, actually. But you didn’t correct her.
“He’s still your father!”
Something sharp finally sparked inside you then. Hot indignation bubbling beneath your ribs.
“Yeah, I know,” you said, your voice suddenly colder. “But being someone’s father doesn’t automatically make them safe, right?”
Silence.
For one brief second there was only static breathing on the other end. Then Francis started crying again, and your entire body reacted instinctively with revulsion.
You heard footsteps approaching and glanced over your shoulder.
Ves stood quietly in the kitchen doorway now, watching you. His posture had changed completely. Arms crossed loosely now, expression serious and attentive in a way that made it painfully obvious he was reading you. Reading the situation. Preparing himself for whatever version of you would emerge after this conversation ended.
You looked away first.
“Francis…” You rubbed your forehead tiredly. “I can’t do this right now, okay?”
“You never can!” she snapped immediately. “You never have time!”
And something inside you finally broke.
Cleanly. Completely.
“I already did more than I should have,” you shot back before you could stop yourself. “Far more than he ever deserved and you know that.”
Your voice trembled violently now.
“I’m tired. I’m tired of the accusations, tired of the drama, tired of pretending any of this makes me a bad person.” Your breathing became uneven. “I don’t care anymore, Francis.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
For one awful second you thought she’d hung up, but then you heard her breathing again.
Heavy. Shaky.
Your eyes drifted toward Ves instinctively.
'I don’t know who broke you like this.'
His words echoed through your head so clearly it almost hurt. The answer had a name.
You turned your back to him because you knew you wouldn’t be able to say the next part while looking at him.
“Some people don’t deserve forgiveness just because they’re dying,” you whispered harshly. “And you should know that.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“You and Mom should’ve protected me. You should’ve been on my side.” Your breathing hitched sharply. “Instead you turned me into the villain because it was easier than admitting what he did.”
You were crying now.
Actually crying.
"Y/n..."
“I don’t want updates anymore, okay?” you said quickly before you lost your nerve. “You can call me whenever you want to tell me anything that is not related to him. I don’t need to hear about him ever again. No more messages, no more calls.” You swallowed hard. “No more money, Francis. I'm done."
And before she could answer, you hung up.
The silence afterward felt deafening.
Then suddenly your body folded in on itself and the tears came hard and uncontrollable, though strangely not painful. Relieving. Like something poisonous had finally been dragged out of your lungs.
You barely realized Ves had crossed the room until his hands were on you.
And the second they were, you collapsed into him instinctively. Your face buried against his chest while his arms wrapped tightly around you, solid and grounding and warm.
He didn’t ask questions. He never did. He just held you. His chin rested lightly against the top of your head while his thumbs moved slowly over your arms in soft repetitive strokes that felt almost rhythmic.
Steady. Patient. Safe.
You cried against him for what felt like several long minutes until eventually the sobs weakened into shaky breaths and sniffles.
Then, completely out of nowhere, his stomach growled loudly enough to make you let out a small laugh through tears.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled against his chest. “You’re starving.”
He hummed softly, one hand smoothing over your hair.
You inhaled deeply without thinking, letting the familiar scent of his cologne settle your nervous system and pull you back into yourself. Back into the apartment. Back into him.
Eventually he eased you back just enough to look at your face, fingers gently lifting your chin.
“Okay?”
You nodded weakly.
“Yeah.” You wiped at your eyes with your sleeve. “It’s just… leave it alone.”
You could see immediately in his expression that he didn’t want to leave it alone.
And something told you he probably wouldn’t.
But for now, he simply offered you a small smile and brushed his thumb beneath your eye.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s eat.”
...
The afternoon bled into evening so slowly you barely noticed time passing at all.
After Francis’ call, you had turned your phone to Do Not Disturb and abandoned it face down on the coffee table without another thought. The outside world gradually faded into something distant and muffled while rain thickened against the windows, streaking the glass in uneven rivers beneath the glow of London streetlights.
From time to time you could hear cars rushing through the wet streets below, tires hissing against soaked pavement. A horn blared somewhere in the distance. Upstairs, someone dropped something heavy enough to make the ceiling creak, followed by muffled laughter and footsteps crossing their flat.
But inside your apartment, everything felt warm, soft and safe.
The lamps in the living room were the only lights on now, casting the room in a golden haze that made the small space feel even cozier. The buttery smell of freshly made popcorn was taking over the place and you and Ves were sprawled across the tiny two-seater sofa, though realistically there wasn’t enough room for both of you comfortably. Not with his size.
Not that either of you seemed bothered.
A Premier League match between Chelsea and Liverpool had completely derailed the original movie plan the second he noticed it was on. You didn’t even know your streaming service had sports channels, but apparently Ves did.
And honestly? You didn’t mind.
Because even this, something as stupidly ordinary as him getting emotionally invested in football, felt like learning another hidden piece of him.
You already knew he was into video games and nerdy shit from the countless videos you’d accidentally-on-purpose watched online. Football somehow fit into the picture surprisingly well.
Even though the two of you had demolished a ridiculously generous brunch only a few hours earlier, Ves had insisted on making popcorn anyway. And he insisted on making it himself.
“At least let me contribute something useful,” he’d said while dramatically pushing you out of your own kitchen.
He’d returned several minutes later balancing an oversized bowl of popcorn beneath one arm, a beer bottle hooked between two fingers, a can of soda for you tucked against his chest, and several Snickers bars clenched triumphantly in his hand like trophies.
You were tucked comfortably between his legs now, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your waist beneath the blanket covering both of you.
Every so often you stole popcorn from the bowl.
Every so often he stole kisses. Small absentminded ones. The kind that happened naturally now.
His fingers kept wandering through your hair while his attention shifted between you and the match. Occasionally he’d tense beneath you during a close play, muttering under his breath or bouncing one knee hard enough to jostle you slightly.
You pretended to care about the game. You really tried. But mostly you just watched him exist.
Watched the way his face changed when he focused. The way his brows pulled together during tense moments. The way his accent thickened every time he got invested enough to yell at the television like the players could somehow hear him through the screen.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, your body was calm. Actually calm.
Your thoughts had finally quieted.
Francis’ phone call had been shoved somewhere distant inside your mind, dulled around the edges by warmth and exhaustion and the steady grounding weight of Vessel’s body around yours.
Little by little, the reality of this stopped feeling temporary.
You and Ves.
Not some fragile fantasy. Not a moment waiting to collapse. Real. And strangely, once the fear settled, peace came with it. A kind of peace that felt unfamiliar and wonderful all at once.
“Fucking hell, these guys are ridiculous!” Ves suddenly shouted at the television after one of the Chelsea forwards completely missed an open chance.
You buried your face against his chest immediately, laughing so hard your shoulders shook.
His hand instinctively slid into your hair, fingers scratching lightly against your scalp in a way that made your entire body melt.
“What?” he asked, sounding amused.
“You.”
One of his eyebrows lifted.
“I make you laugh?”
You nodded against him. “When you get irrationally angry about football, yes.”
That made the corner of his mouth curl upward.
“You should see me playing video games.”
You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”
He hummed distractedly, attention already drifting back toward the match just as the commentators suddenly became louder with excitement.
Then without warning he jolted beneath you.
“YES!”
You startled hard enough to nearly spill the popcorn while he celebrated Chelsea scoring, both arms tightening around you instinctively as the stadium crowd exploded through the television speakers.
That only made you laugh harder.
Still grinning, he reached toward the coffee table for one of the Snickers bars, ripping the wrapper open with his teeth before taking an aggressively large bite.
Then he held it toward you.
You leaned up enough to take a bite yourself, chewing slowly before tilting your face toward his.
The kiss started soft. Lazy. Sweet with chocolate and caramel. But Ves deepened it almost immediately, his hand sliding down your back while his mouth moved against yours with growing intention. His fingers spread over your waist possessively as his hips shifted subtly upward beneath you.
Not subtle enough.
A quiet sound escaped you against his lips before you could stop it.
He seemed very pleased with that.
The kiss turned hotter quickly, all slow mouths and warm hands and the familiar dangerous pull the two of you always seemed to fall into whenever you were close like this for long enough.
But before it could become anything more the sharp buzz of the doorbell suddenly rang through the apartment.
Both of you froze instantly.
The shrill sound cut straight through the comfortable haze that had settled over the apartment, and immediately you remembered.
Nancy.
You shot upright so fast you nearly tangled yourself in the blanket pooled around your legs.
Ves blinked up at you from the couch, one hand still lazily holding the remote. His hair was a mess from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and the sight of him sitting there so casually in your living room while your real life came crashing back made panic spark hot through your chest.
"Are you expecting someone?” he asked, pushing himself upright and dragging a hand through his hair.
“Nancy,” you blurted just as the bell rang again.
Then her voice came muffled through the door.
“Y/n? Where are you? Please tell me you’re alive.”
That pulled a low laugh from him.
You turned to him in horror. “I completely forgot I invited her for dinner. What do I do?”
Outside, Nancy rang the bell three more times in rapid succession.
“Y/n, I swear to God, I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Ves got up and shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, shrugging like none of this was remotely catastrophic.
“Let her in,” he said simply. “She knows about me, doesn’t she?”
“No.” You stared at him. “She knows I am with someone. She doesn’t know you’re you. She’ll recognize you.”
A grin tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.
“Y/n.” He stepped closer, cupping your cheek gently. “Trust me. She won’t recognize me. No one does.”
The warmth of his palm grounded you just enough to move.
“Open the door, sugar.”
You swallowed and nodded before hurrying across the apartment.
The hallway outside smelled faintly of rain and someone’s overcooked dinner from another floor. Nancy stood there in an oversized coat with damp curls frizzing around her face, tote bag hanging from one shoulder. The second you opened the door, she exhaled dramatically and pushed inside.
“Oh thank God,” she said, already talking before the door had fully shut behind her. “You ignored every single message I sent today and didn’t answer any of my calls. I was genuinely worried you’d died in there..."
Then she saw him.
Her entire sentence stopped midair.
Ves, completely unfazed, offered her an easy smile from where he stood near the couch.
“I’m probably responsible for that,” he said smoothly. “I kept her a little distracted.”
You froze.
Nancy looked at him. Then at you. Then back at him again. A polite smile spread across her face, but you caught the tiny furrow between her brows immediately. The gears in her brain were turning at frightening speed.
“Okay…” she said slowly. “So you are…?”
She gestured vaguely because apparently you had never actually told her his name.
Ves stepped forward and offered his hand naturally.
“(His name)” he said.
The sound of his real name in his own voice - shorted, casual, effortless, real - did something violent to your heartbeat.
Nancy shook his hand.
“Well,” she said carefully, “nice to finally meet the mysterious man.”
You closed the door behind her still feeling faintly detached from reality as the two of them moved toward the living room like this situation wasn’t surreal in every possible way.
“Apparently my dinner plans were completely forgotten,” Nancy said as she dropped into the armchair beside the couch.
Ves laughed softly.
“Yeah. I got here really late last night and then we accidentally had a very late brunch.” He gestured toward the coffee table littered with snacks. “But we do have popcorn, Cheetos and…” he picked up a candy bar, “Snickers.”
Nancy snorted and immediately grabbed one from the table.
“Perfect.”
The apartment felt warm and lived-in now in a way it rarely did. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. The commentary from the football match still played in the background, Chelsea fans roaring through the television speakers every few minutes while the lamp beside the couch cast everything in soft amber light.
“Nancy, I’m sorry,” you said finally, hovering awkwardly beside the couch. “I kind of… spiraled last night and called... (His name)"
Saying the name like that made something twist in your chest, but you go on.
"and then he got here and I just forgot literally everything else existed.”
“It’s fine,” she said immediately, waving it off. Then her eyes softened as she really looked at you. “Honestly? You look way better.”
Her gaze flicked toward Ves.
“She scared the hell out of me Wednesday, by the way. Did she tell you?” Nancy leaned back in the chair with a sigh. “Working herself into burnout like an absolute maniac.”
Ves nodded once.
“She told me after I pushed a little.”
He reached for your hand the second you came close enough, tugging you down beside him on the couch. His thumb immediately began pressing slow rhythmic circles into your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you for even a second.
“But she’s going to be alright now,” he added calmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Nancy hummed, unconvinced.
“While you’re here, maybe.” She pointed her Snickers at him. “The problem is every day you aren't.”
Heat immediately rushed into your face.
“Nancy.”
But before she could defend herself, Ves squeezed your hand more firmly.
“She’s right, sugar.”
Nancy nodded smugly.
“Exactly. I’m slightly insane, but I’m usually right about these things.” Then she pointed directly at you. “And this one needs to learn how to survive separation.”
You wanted to disappear into the couch.
But Ves only leaned back, arm sliding behind you while his fingers continued absentmindedly tracing over your knuckles.
“I’m staying for a few days,” he said, voice firmer now. “And after that we’ll figure out how to make the distance easier for both of us.”
Something twisted softly inside your chest at the certainty in his tone.
“It hasn’t exactly been easy for me either,” he admitted after a moment, glancing down at your intertwined hands. “I’ve just been better at hiding it.”
Nancy smiled politely, but you knew that look on her face. Those huge blue eyes were analyzing everything now - every glance, every touch, every shift in tone. For the first time, what existed between you and Ves was being observed from outside your little isolated bubble, and it made everything seamed strangely vulnerable.
“So,” Nancy said eventually, turning toward him again. “Y/n told me you’re a musician. You have a band?”
Ves nodded easily.
“Nothing too important. We play here and there. Small gigs. Events.”
A little knowing smirk played on your lips. He was so natural in this that he could convince even you.
Nancy smiled sympathetically.
“Well, that already sounds significantly more interesting than teaching bored teenagers all day.”
You nodded immediately.
“Definitely” you muttered.
That earned a quiet laugh from Ves, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were already on you.
Soft. Warm. Dangerously fond.
“Okay,” Nancy said shifting in the armchair and stretching across the coffee table to grab a large handful of popcorn from the bucket. “So...the Anna situation.”
The moment she said it, her entire posture changed into that unmistakable look of someone absolutely starving for gossip.
Ves huffed out a quiet laugh beside you, clearly entertained already, and the tiny amused smile he gave her made something warm bloom in your chest. He liked her. You could tell.
Nancy settled back dramatically in the armchair.
“She’s pregnant.”
Your jaw dropped instantly.
“No!”
Nancy pointed at you with a piece of popcorn like she’d been waiting for that exact reaction.
“Yep.”
“Oh my God.”
You turned fully toward her now “No way. Anna?” you repeated, still incredulous. “As in ‘I never want children because they ruin your life’ Anna?”
“The very same,” Nancy confirmed smugly before tossing more popcorn into her mouth.
Beside you, Ves chuckled softly under his breath, fingers squeezing your hand once before he carefully untangled himself from the couch.
“I’m going to grab another beer,” he said, already heading toward the kitchen. “Do either of you want one?”
Nancy immediately perked up.
“Absolutely.”
I’d truly appreciate it if you left a like, a comment, and most importantly, a reblog. It really encourages me to keep writing.
Synopsis: Somewhere between panic attacks, late-night texts, and an unexpected friendship, you're forced to ask yourself a dangerous question: what happens when love becomes the only thing keeping you standing?
Word Count: 8,2k
Warnings: Descriptions of a panic attack, mental health struggles, emotional dependency, mentions of disordered eating, mild sexual texting
Disclaimer: This fanfiction respects the anonymity of Vessel and the other members of the band. Therefore, whenever his real name appears, it will simply be written as (His Name)
A/N: This chapter is emotionally heavy and was quite difficult to write, but I truly believe it lays the groundwork for what's coming in a beautiful way. Trust me, you haven't seen anything yet.
“Fifteen days.”
The words came out sharper than you intended, edged with frustration.
“Fifteen fucking days.”
You slammed the locker door a little harder than necessary, the metallic clang echoing down the hallway as you struggled to balance a stack of books against your hip. The edges dug into your arm, slightly uneven, threatening to slip if you didn’t adjust your grip.
“Gosh, someone’s in a mood.”
Nancy’s voice came from way too close.
You turned your head to find her already standing beside you, watching with that curious, slightly amused expression she seemed to default to.
“Welcome back to hell!” she added brightly. “I heard about your dad. My condolences.”
You tried, you really did, but a laugh escaped you anyway. Short, disbelieving.
“Okay…?” Nancy blinked, clearly thrown off, and you felt a flicker of guilt.
“He’s not dead,” you clarified, shifting the books onto the desk so you could actually breathe for a second. “Not yet.”
You turned back to your locker, spinning the dial with practiced movements.
“I just took a few days off to be with him. He’s in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s.”
Nancy’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry. Everyone’s been saying he passed away.”
You paused for half a second. Would’ve been easier, you thought. But you didn’t say it.
“People here are just as stupid as they are nosy,” you muttered instead, a little too quickly.
Nancy didn’t look offended. If anything, the corner of her mouth lifted like she agreed. Like she didnt see herself as part of the group.
“So… what’s fifteen days?” she asked, grabbing her own things as you did the same.
You both stepped out into the hallway together, walking slowly side by side.
It was Wednesday, and your brain still felt slightly out of place, like it hadn’t fully returned yet. The last two days with Ves lingered in your body, in your thoughts, in the way reality still felt just a little too dull in comparison.
It always took time to readjust.
“Well…” You hesitated. How were you even supposed to explain that?
Nancy glanced at you, then lifted a shoulder casually.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I have a terrible habit of being nosy too. Probably the ADHD.”
That made you smile, just a little.
“It’s okay. It’s just… hard to explain...”
She nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
“We could talk after work,” she suggested. “What do you think? I finish at three. Maybe we can go somewhere... grab a coffee?”
You paused for a second. Vessel’s voice echoed faintly in your head. 'She could be something good for you in that hellish place'. Something like that.
You exhaled. “Sure.”
You stopped at your classroom door, already half-open, a few students trickling in with sleepy faces and quiet greetings as they made their way to their seats.
“Perfect! I’ll meet you at the exit at three,” Nancy said, already sounding pleased with herself before heading down the corridor.
You watched her go for a moment, then turned back to your classroom, wondering just how honest you could actually be with her.
…
“She has absolutely no sense of self-respect.”
Nancy didn’t even lower her voice as she spoke.
You both sat at a small round table outside a cozy London café. Willow & Bean. The kind with mismatched chairs, potted plants lining the windows, and tiny tables spilling out onto the pavement. The sky above was a flat, soft gray, thick with clouds, but miraculously dry. No rain. Unusual for that time of year.
A faint breeze carried the smell of coffee and baked goods through the air, along with distant city noise - cars passing, quiet chatter, the clink of cups.
“The last time she updated me, she was seeing some French guy, I think,” you replied, leaning back slightly in your chair and smiling politely at the waitress approaching your table.
Nancy rolled her eyes dramatically.
“On Monday she told me about someone she met over the weekend. Today? Apparently she’s dating her personal trainer.”
She made a face, exaggerated and theatrical.
“I mean, how does someone even manage that many men? Or maybe I’m the problem…”
“Hi there! Ready to order?” the waitress asked with an easy smile. She held a small tablet in one hand, her thumb already hovering over the screen, ready to tap in your order. The device reflected the gray sky faintly, her nails clicking softly against it as she adjusted her grip.
“A cappuccino for me and…” you glanced at the menu.
You weren’t hungry. But the familiar itch of anxiety was already creeping in under your skin, the kind that made your thoughts louder and your body restless. And when that happened, it never asked for salad.
“...a croissant.”
“Perfect,” she said, tapping quickly. “And for you?”
Nancy studied the menu for a second, then looked up.
“What’s the cake of the day?”
The waitress smiled. “Chocolate lava cake. And trust me, it’s obscene.”
That got your attention immediately.
Nancy rubbed her hands together in mock excitement. “Well, that sounds exactly like what I need. I’ll have that, and a black coffee, please.”
“I’ll take a slice too,” you added before you could overthink it. It was the least you deserved today.
“Of course.”
You both watched as she walked away, weaving between tables with practiced ease.
Nancy picked right back up where she left off, and you silently thanked her for not commenting on your order. Truth was, people didn’t pay nearly as much attention as your brain insisted they did.
“I haven’t dated anyone since I moved out of my parents’ house,” she continued. “Which is ironic, I know.”
You rested your cheek against your hand, elbow propped on the table. “You never told me where you’re from, actually.”
Nancy smiled, a little wider this time. “Ireland. Seriously, you didn’t notice?”
You had noticed the accent. Strong, melodic. And the way she dressed - always a hint of plaid, layered textures - it just read differently in your head.
“I thought you were Scottish.”
“On my dad’s side,” she said with a small shrug.
The wind shifted slightly, brushing a strand of hair across your face as the café door opened behind you, letting out a burst of warmth and the rich smell of fresh coffee.
For a moment, things felt… almost normal and you weren’t sure if that comforted you or made everything else feel even worse.
She shook her head lightly, as if brushing the topic aside.
“Anyway, are you going to tell me what the whole fifteen days thing is about?”
Your chest tightened instantly.
The noise of the street seemed to dull for a second, the low hum of passing cars, distant voices, the soft clatter of cups from inside the café fading into the background as your mind caught on the question.
“I met someone a few months ago,” you began, your fingers tracing absently along the small charm in your chest. “He’s… a musician.”
And for a split second, barely noticeable from the outside, your entire body tensed. A quiet, sharp fear crept up your spine at the thought of her asking the obvious next question. What’s his name?
You didn’t know it. Not really. Not the one that mattered. And the name you did know… you couldn’t say it. Not here. Not out loud, not in a place like this, not for Nancy.
The lie you’d just started building suddenly felt fragile, like it could collapse with a single, simple question.
Nancy’s eyebrows lifted, interest lighting up her face.
“Wow. That’s actually amazing. Do I know him?” she asked, then immediately laughed, waving it off. “I’m kidding. Go on.”
You exhaled quietly, eyes flicking down to the table.
“It’s a small band. Complicated name,” you added, the lie slipping out smoothly. “But he’s doing a few shows and, well…”
Nancy tilted her head, studying you for half a second.
“Let me guess... you won’t see each other for fifteen days.”
“Basically.”
The word felt heavier than it should have.
Something in your expression must have given you away, because her mouth pressed into a thin line, like she was about to say something, but before she could, a waiter approched.
He set your cappuccino down first, the foam perfectly smooth with a faint swirl on top, then your croissant on a small plate beside it. The buttery smell hit you immediately, warm and comforting. He placed Nancy’s coffee and the two slice of chocolate lava cake last.
“Enjoy,” he said with a polite smile before stepping away.
Nancy picked up her fork.
“Girl,” she said, cutting into the cake, “you look like you’re in trouble.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes drifted to the dessert in front of her - the glossy chocolate spilling over the plate, rich and excessive. Your stomach tightened and growled quietly in response. Sharp and sudden. Not hunger, exactly.
Something else. Something restless.
“It started as something casual…” you said finally.
At least on his end.
You reached for your croissant, tearing off a piece, the flaky layers breaking apart between your fingers.
“But now I’m… more involved than I thought I’d be.” You hesitated, chewing quickly before continuing. “And I told him that.”
Nancy listened without interrupting, lifting her coffee and taking a slow sip, her eyes still on you.
“The thing is… I don’t know how involved he is,” you admitted. “I mean...he seems involved…”
“Did you tell him you love him?”
The question came out direct, unfiltered. It should’ve startled you, but somehow, it didn’t. That was just how Nancy worked - straight to the point, no hesitation.
“Yes.”
You took a bite of your croissant, then immediately followed it with a sip of your cappuccino, the warmth spreading through your chest.
“And did he say it back?”
Simple question. Simple answer. And yet...
“He said he can’t imagine a life without me,” you replied, a hint of defensiveness slipping into your voice before you could stop it.
Nancy let out a low, almost theatrical whistle.
“Okay… that’s intense.” She tilted her head slightly. “But he didn’t say he loves you?”
Your gaze dropped to your cup.
You shook your head.
Nancy watched you for a moment, something in her expression softening as she seemed to pick up on the shift in your mood. When she spoke again, her tone was lighter.
“Maybe he just struggles to say what he feels.”
You shook your head again, a little more firmly this time, taking another bite, faster now.
“He doesn’t,” you said after swallowing. “He talks about feelings all the time. He just… hasn’t said those words.”
Nancy took another bite of her cake, chewing slowly, thinking. “Do you feel like he loves you?”
You nodded immediately. No hesitation.
Your body answered before your mind had time to interfere, but still, there it was, that quiet voice in the back of your head reminding you that feelings weren’t proof.
Not without the words.
“Well,” she said with a small shrug, lifting her coffee again, “that’s what matters, isn’t it? And honestly, men are terrible at saying those three words anyway.” She took a sip. “Saying he can’t imagine life without you? That might actually be stronger.”
She exhaled, leaning back slightly in her chair.
“God… I wish someone would say that to me.” She let out a quiet laugh. “But this city is full of idiots. Every guy I’ve met since I got here is either drunk, obnoxious, or both.”
That made you laugh mid-sip, forcing you to lower your cup quickly before you spilled it. You wiped your lips with a napkin, shaking your head.
“I can’t say I disagree.”
You finished the last bite of your croissant, barely tasting it at this point, and without thinking, pulled the plate with the chocolate cake closer to you.
It felt almost automatic. Like reaching for something to fill a space.
“How are men in Ireland?” you asked, picking up your fork.
Nancy made a face. “Idiots,” she said flatly. Then she sighed. “But honestly, I think I’m just unlucky. Or maybe I expect too much.”
She took another bite, slower this time, then, unexpectedly, pushed the plate forward, leaving nearly half of it behind.
Your eyes lingered on it for a second. You couldn’t help the comparison that crept in.
Why couldn’t you do that?
“I grew up reading romance novels and listening to rock bands,” she continued, absentmindedly stirring her coffee now. “That sets you up for failure. I mean, where am I supposed to find a man who says something like...” she paused dramatically, then quoted, “‘I sweat and I ache for your eyes and the way you breathe’?”
Your heart skipped.
Immediate. Sharp.
Recognition hit before you could stop it - the lyrics from Calcutta. Heat rising to your face as you looked down quickly, focusing on your plate. You scooped up a forkful of cake, the thick chocolate spilling over the edge, rich and decadent. The waitress hadn’t been exaggerating. It was obscene.
“Maybe we’re the ones doing it wrong,” you said after a second, keeping your tone casual. “Maybe Anna’s the one who’s got it figured out.”
Nancy snorted immediately.
“I’d rather die alone than sleep with a bunch of men who treat me like a piece of meat.”
You smiled faintly. That had always been your mindset too and that's why you always thought you would end up alone.
Until Vessel.
...
You were on the Underground on your way home when your phone started ringing insistently in your bag. The train rattled along the tracks, the fluorescent lights flickering faintly above you, casting everything in that dull, washed-out tone that made the end of the day feel heavier than it already was.
Nancy’s voice still echoed in your head.
What’s his name?
You pulled your phone out, your thumb hovering for a second before you saw Francis’ name flashing on the screen. You stared at it, your jaw tightening slightly.
Whatever she wanted, it could wait. You let it ring out.
By the time you got home, the city already felt quieter. Your apartment greeted you with that familiar stillness, no noise, no distractions, just the soft hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the building settling.
You tried to shake it off. You really did.
You took a shower, letting the hot water run over you longer than necessary, hoping it would wash the feeling away. You made dinner, moving through the motions without really tasting anything. You even put on a new show on Netflix, something light, something easy, just background noise to fill the silence.
But none of it worked. The thought stayed.
Persistent. Annoying. Like an itch you couldn’t reach.
You didn’t know his name.
After everything - everything - you still didn’t know his name. The realization sat wrong in your chest, growing heavier the more you tried to ignore it.
By the time it was close to ten, it had rooted itself so deeply into your mind that there was no space left for anything else. You knew you shouldn’t. You knew exactly how wrong it felt.
And yet... You found yourself sitting at your small desk, the glow of your laptop lighting up the dim room. The cursor blinked at you from the empty search bar, patient, waiting.
Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard. You felt guilty even thinking about it. But they moved anyway.
WHO IS THE LEAD SINGER OF SLEEP TOKEN
You hit enter.
And then... Everything in you stilled.
You had always assumed it would be difficult. That it would take digging, searching, crossing lines you weren’t willing to cross.
But it was right there. Immediate. An AI-generated answer at the top of the page. Photos. Links. Videos.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, fast and uneven. Your breath shortened, your hands suddenly damp against the keyboard.
You felt awful. Genuinely awful. Like you had just broken something fragile. Like you had crossed a line you weren’t supposed to cross.
A betrayal.
And yet... you couldn’t look away.
Your eyes locked onto the name on the screen.
So simple. So ordinary. It hit you in a strange way. It was the kind of name you heard every day. The kind you called out in class without thinking. Familiar in the most mundane sense.
And yet now... it belonged to him.
You whispered it under your breath, testing it, letting it settle on your tongue.
It felt strange. But also… right.
Not the mask.
Not Vessel.
Him.
It was soft and gentle.
You clicked on one of the videos. The image that appeared was almost jarring.
Younger. Noticeably younger. A little awkward, a little shy, standing on a small room with cheap lighting and a grainy camera struggling to capture him properly.
But it was him. Unmistakably. Just… different. More human. More exposed.
For a second, something inside you shifted in a way you couldn’t quite name. Your chest tightened. Your stomach flipped.
One video turned into another and then another. Time slipped without you noticing, the dim glow of your room fading further into the background as you fell into it. Early recordings, songs you had never heard before because they existed before him as you knew him.
Before the mask. Before Vessel.
Now you were watching a low-quality video, clearly recorded on an old phone, the audio uneven, the image shaky, but there he was again, standing on a small stage, singing like it mattered.
He looked exactly like he could be one of your students. Maybe just a little older.
Your heart beat harder. Emotion built quietly in your chest, spilling over before you could stop it - warmth, affection, something deeper - forming into soft tears and small, involuntary smiles.
And then... Your phone rang.
You ignored it at first, assuming it was your sister again. But when you glanced at the screen your entire body went rigid.
His name.
Well... not exactly.
A sharp, immediate reaction shot through you, like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.
Because you had. Hadn’t you?
You swallowed, your hand trembling slightly as you answered.
“Hey.” Your voice came out softer than intended. Unsteady.
“Hi, sugar.” His voice wrapped around you instantly - warm, familiar, grounding.
“Did I wake you? I know it’s late.”
There was a faint hesitation in his tone.
“No,” you said quickly. “I… I was working.”
The lie came too easily.
He hummed softly. Disapproving.
“Are you okay? How was your flight?” you asked, shifting in your chair, your eyes flicking back to the paused video on your screen.
“Fine. Slept a bit on the plane. Crashed at the hotel after.”
He sounded rested. That was good.
“Good. Big show tomorrow. Are you nervous?”
He let out a quiet chuckle.
“Always. How was your day?”
You paused. What could you say that wasn’t I missed you the entire fucking day?
“Slow, but productive,” you said instead. “I grabbed coffee with Nancy after work. It was… nice.”
A small hum of approval came from the other end.
“The sleepyhead? I told you she might be good for you.”
Your eyes drifted again to the frozen image on your laptop screen. You weren’t so sure anymore.
“Yeah. She is. She’s… very different from me, but I think that’s a good thing.”
There was a brief silence.
“Are you really okay?” he asked suddenly. “You sound… anxious.”
Of course he noticed. He always did.
“I’m just… I don’t know. I’m always anxious.”
At least that part was true.
He exhaled softly.
“I won’t keep you. It’s late and you should be asleep.” A pause. “I just wanted to let you know tomorrow’s going to be hectic with the show, but Friday night I should be free and… maybe we could...videocall?"
“Yes.”
You didn’t even let him finish.
A quiet laugh came through the line, low and soft, sending a shiver across your skin.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll text you. Keep you updated… on me.”
You smiled without realizing. Since he promised not to disappear on you, he’d been messaging every day.
That had to mean something. Didn’t it?
“I’ll be glued to my phone,” you said.
“I know you will.” A faint smile in his voice. “Good night, sugar.”
“Good night, Ves.”
The words sat on your tongue - the ones you didn’t say.
I love you.
You swallowed them back. Pointless, really. He already knew. You’d told him first. More than once.
The call ended, leaving your room quiet again. You stared at your laptop for a long moment.
Then, slowly... You pressed play. Sleep wasn’t happening tonight. Not when there was still so much of him left to see.
...
The days dragged in a way that felt almost physical - heavy, slow, each one blending into the next until you could barely tell them apart. The exhaustion didn’t come all at once; it crept in quietly, settling into your bones, tightening around your shoulders, making everything feel just a little harder than it should have.
Taking time off to be with Ves had come at a cost.
You felt it now.
When your principal had asked you - gently, almost apologetically - to take over Anna’s afternoon shifts, you hadn’t had a choice. Not really. Not after the understanding he’d shown when you told him about your father.
Working double shifts was… complicated.
Good, in a way. It kept your mind busy, gave you something to focus on that wasn’t him - or more precisely, the absence of him. But it was also draining you in ways you hadn’t expected. By the end of the days, your body ached, your thoughts slowed, your patience wore thin.
You didn’t know how Anna did it so often.
For you, it felt like torture.
Every afternoon, when the clock hit three and the realization settled in that you weren’t going home, a quiet dread curled in your stomach.
No one had told you exactly what was wrong with Anna. Just that she was unwell and had been signed off for a few days.
Indefinitely. And not knowing how long this would last made it worse.
Thursday dragged on longer than most.
By five in the afternoon, the light outside had already begun to fade into that muted gray that seeped through the classroom windows. You were hunched over your desk, red pen in hand, surrounded by a growing pile of papers that seemed endless.
Your head throbbed faintly.
The classroom was quiet, just the soft murmur of students finishing their work, the occasional scrape of a chair, the rustle of paper. A few whispered exchanges, someone asking for an eraser, another getting up to empty pencil shavings into the bin.
Controlled chaos. Manageable.
Your phone buzzed against the desk.
You ignored it.
You didn’t want to break your focus. not when you were finally getting through something.
But it buzzed again.
You sighed softly, setting your pen down, and reached for it. Your sister’s name lit up the screen. Of course. You unlocked it.
We need to talk. It’s urgent.
You almost rolled your eyes. Everything was urgent to her, except when it was something you needed.
Working.
You typed it quickly, your thumb hovering as the typing indicator appeared almost instantly.
You waited. And waited. Longer than it should have taken.
Dad needs a very expensive medication. We can’t afford it on our own.
Your jaw tightened. Heat rose fast and sharp in your chest, your heart picking up pace as irritation flooded through you. You had promised yourself last time you wouldn’t give them money again. And yet... You already knew how this would end.
How much?
The reply came immediately this time.
One thousand euros.
A quiet, incredulous laugh escaped you before you could stop it, earning you a curious glance from a student near the front. You cleared your throat, pretending nothing happened.
What kind of medication costs that much?
A new one the doctor recommended. It’s experimental.
You exhaled slowly, staring at the screen. There were so many things you wanted to say. That it was absurd to spend that kind of money on something with no guarantee. That your father didn’t deserve the effort. That you weren’t obligated - legally or morally - to give them anything. But the words stayed trapped behind your teeth.
I don’t have that right now.
You said you’re working double shifts. You’ll get paid for that, won’t you?
Of course. You were killing yourself working just to hand it all over.
I can manage half.
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
It’ll have to do.
That was it. No thank you. No hesitation.
You dropped your phone back onto the desk a little harder than necessary, a sharp breath leaving you as frustration surged through your chest. For a moment, all you wanted to do was scream.
How were you still trapped in this? What did they ever give you in return besides the guilt?
The realization hit harder than you expected. Your throat tightened, and your eyes burned.
Family wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
…
Sunday afternoon was quiet, gray light filtering through your apartment windows, the air still and heavy. Your sister sat across from you, a cup of tea untouched in her hands. The biscuits you’d placed on the table remained exactly where you left them.
She hadn’t come for tea.
She had stayed for twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of complaints - about how “morbid” everything had become. About how unbearable it was to watch a once strong, active man slowly disappear into illness.
Her voice carried that familiar edge of self-pity. And then, inevitably, it turned toward you.
You didn’t care enough. You weren’t present enough. You weren’t doing enough. The words came like clockwork.
You sat there, fingers wrapped tightly around your own cup, the warmth long gone, listening without reacting, your expression carefully neutral.
When you finally handed her the check, she took it with a faint look of disapproval - like it wasn’t quite enough, like you had somehow fallen short again.
As if you always did.
She stood shortly after, already halfway to the door as she made one last comment - something about you being capable of more.
When she finally left, it felt like those twenty minutes had stretched into hours. The silence that followed was heavy, almost oppressive, settling over your apartment like a thick fog. You stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, your shoulders tense, your chest tight.
That pressure, the one you had been feeling all week, was back.
At first, you had blamed it on exhaustion. The long days, the double shifts, the emotional drain. But now it felt deeper than that. Heavier. And it only got worse after she left.
It had been twelve days since he’d gone.
Twelve days - and not a single one without a message from him. He texted constantly. Called some nights. Once, you had spent nearly five hours on a video call, talking about nothing and everything, watching each other exist through a screen.
But it wasn’t enough.
It was never enough.
The absence was changing shape inside you, turning into something sharper, more demanding. It felt physical now - a restless ache under your skin. Your mood was unstable, your patience thin. You dropped things constantly, made careless mistakes at work, forgot simple tasks. And your eating… you couldn’t control it. The anxiety fed into it, and the more anxious you felt, the more you reached for something, anything, to quiet it.
But nothing worked.
By Wednesday, your body started reacting.
A dull nausea lingered, your head felt foggy, your chest tight in a way you tried to ignore. Anna still hadn’t come back, and you were still covering her classes on top of your own.
By lunchtime, you sat in the cafeteria, hunched slightly over your phone, scrolling for any distraction. The room buzzed around you - trays clattering, chairs scraping, overlapping conversations - but it all felt distant.
“Girl, are you okay?”
Nancy’s voice cut through the noise as she approached, her tray in hand. She set it down across from you, studying your face with open concern.
You nodded automatically, barely looking up.
At that exact moment, your phone lit up again.
Your heart jumped. You opened the message immediately.
I’m so sorry, sugar. But I really need to go straight to Birmingham.
Your chest tightened instantly.
We got this chance to work with an incredible producer. His schedule only opened up this week. But I promise I’ll be back in a week, and I’ll make it up to you. I promise.
Your vision blurred slightly as you stared at the words.
A week. Another week.
You looked up without really meaning to, and your eyes met Nancy’s. She didn’t hesitate. She pulled the chair closer and sat beside you.
“Hey… what happened?” she asked softly.
You inhaled slowly, forcing your fingers to move.
It’s okay. I understand.
Nothing was okay.
You didn’t understand.
Or maybe you did and you just didn’t want to accept that it was that easy for him. That he could stay away, extend it, adjust plans… while you felt like you were unraveling.
Can I call you tonight? We can talk for as long as you want. No show today. We wrapped Berlin yesterday.
You knew. You had celebrated that. Quietly. Stupidly. You thought it meant he was coming back to you.
I miss you so much, darling.
Your throat tightened painfully. You shook your head slightly, as if that could push the feeling away.
If he really missed you, wouldn’t he come back?
You knew that wasn’t fair. You knew his work mattered. That what he was saying made sense. But you weren’t thinking rationally. You were just… hurting.
Nancy stayed quiet beside you, her presence steady, not pushing.
Me too.
That was all you managed.
I have to go now. We’ll talk tonight, okay?
Okay. Love you.
You hit send before you could stop yourself.
It felt pathetic. And still... you waited. Just a second. Maybe this time... But nothing came. Like always.
You placed your phone face down on the table and pressed your hands to your face, your elbows resting against the surface as you tried to steady your breathing.
“Y/n, talk to me,” Nancy said gently, her usual brightness softened into something more careful.
You swallowed hard.
In the past two weeks, you had grown closer to her than you expected. For the first time in a long time, it felt like you could actually talk to someone.
Not everything.
But… most things.
“I’m so tired,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “I was really looking forward to this weekend, but now…”
“He’s not coming back,” she finished quietly.
You nodded.
“He said they got this opportunity with a producer and… it doesn’t matter. He’s staying another week and I...” your voice broke slightly before you could stop it, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive another week.”
The words slipped out before you could catch them.
Nancy’s expression shifted immediately. She tried to hide it, but you saw it. Of course you did.
Even you knew how that sounded.
“I know it feels like the end of the world,” she said carefully, “but a week goes by fast.”
You shook your head. Not for you.
Your chest tightened again, sharper this time, your hands suddenly cold. You ignored it, pressing your fingers together under the table. You had taken clonazepam on Sunday after your sister left, you didn’t want to rely on that again.
But your body was telling you something wasn’t right.
“Please,” you said quietly, forcing a small breath. “Distract me. Talk about anything.”
Nancy pressed her lips together for a moment.
“You should go home,” she said instead. “You’re clearly not okay, and you’re working too much. Someone else can cover Anna’s classes.”
You shook your head immediately.
“I can’t. And when he comes back, I’ll need time with him. So I can negotiate then...”
“That’s not right.” Her tone was firm now.
You blinked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“You see what just happened?” she said, leaning slightly closer. “He postponed coming back because he can’t leave work for you… and you’re overworking yourself so you can ask for time off to be with him later.”
You didn’t respond. Because you didn’t know how to.
“Y/n… I know it’s not my place,” she continued more gently, “and I know I don’t know everything about this relationship. You haven’t even told me his name…”
Your breath hitched.
“…but it’s not healthy. No matter how amazing he is. It’s not healthy for your whole life to revolve around him.”
Your chest tightened again. Because the truth was... There wasn’t much else.
Your job, your family, your almost nonexistent social life… none of it felt like anything compared to him. Nothing had color without him.
“Nancy, please… can we change the subject?” you asked quietly.
She sighed, defeated.
“Anna called me last night.”
That caught your attention immediately.
Nancy glanced around - the place was getting louder now, more people coming in - before lowering her voice.
“She didn’t tell me exactly what’s going on, but… you know me. I read between the lines.”
“Tell me.”
She sighed dramatically.
“My guess? She’s pregnant.”
Your hand flew to your mouth. That didn’t fit. Not Anna.
You inhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself.
“Why would you think that?”
“She was feeling sick before she left. And she mentioned a very specific night.” Nancy shrugged. “I just put two and two together.”
Still... It didn’t make sense.
“Why would she take time off for that?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy admitted.
The bell rang loudly, cutting through the noise, signaling the end of lunch.
You quickly gathered your things, slipping your phone into your bag.
“Anyway, I have to go.”
Nancy stayed seated, watching you as you stood.
“You should go home,” she repeated.
You didn’t answer. You knew she was right. At least about that. But you couldn’t admit it. So you just nodded faintly and walked away.
...
It was a little past three that same afternoon.
The first-shift students had already left, their voices fading down the corridors, replaced gradually by the slower, heavier rhythm of the afternoon group arriving. The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and old paper, sunlight slipping through the tall windows in muted streaks that barely warmed the space.
You stood by the door, forcing yourself upright, offering small nods as students trickled in.
Their eyes searched past you. Always past you. Looking for Anna, and the disappointment when they realized it was you instead, it wasn’t subtle.
“Man… what’s it been? Two weeks?” one of them muttered to his friend as they walked in.
The other just nodded, dropping his backpack onto the desk with a dull thud.
You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the doorframe before you let go.
Your body still felt… wrong.
That same weight sat in your chest, dense and unmoving, like something lodged there that refused to leave.
You were about to turn and start the lesson when you spotted Nancy in the hallway, weaving through the students toward you.
“Hey,” she said, slightly out of breath, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “I’m heading home. Call me when you get a chance, okay? We should go out, grab a drink or something. You need a distraction.”
You smiled - small, tired, but real.
It was obvious she was worried about you. And somehow… that still felt unfamiliar. Almost undeserved.
“Promise?” she pressed, tilting her head slightly.
“Promise,” you said softly.
She studied your face for a second, as if weighing whether to believe you, then nodded.
“Good.”
She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back, and before you could react, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.
You froze. For a heartbeat.
Then your body softened, your arms coming up around her almost instinctively, holding her a little tighter than you meant to.
It was the first human touch you’d had since… him. Your chest tightened again, but differently this time.
“Okay,” she murmured as she pulled back, her hands lingering briefly on your arms. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
You nodded.
You watched her walk away - her asymmetrical plaid skirt swaying with each step, her boots making soft, muted sounds against the polished wooden floor.
Then you turned back to your classroom and slipped into autopilot.
You answered the same questions about Anna- no, you didn’t know why she was gone. No, you didn’t know when she’d be back. Then you instructed them to open their exercise books, writing the page numbers on the board in neat, mechanical strokes.
A chorus of bored sighs followed.
Of course they preferred Anna. She was loud, energetic, entertaining. You used to hear the laughter from her classroom through the walls.
You had always been quieter. And now… You were barely holding yourself together.
Time blurred.
The next class came. And went. Then another.
The same explanations. The same instructions. The same hollow repetition.
By the time it was past five, the light outside had softened into a dull gray, the classroom dimmer, the air heavier. You sat at your desk, red pen in hand, correcting assignments.
But your mind had already drifted. Back to him.
It didn’t take much. Just a thought, and suddenly the absence hit again, sharp and deep, settling into your chest like something physical.
The weight increased, pressing harder. Your breathing shifted. Too fast. Too shallow.
You stilled.
No. Not here. Not now.
You pressed your feet firmly against the floor, feeling the resistance through your shoes. Your palms flattened against the cool surface of the desk.
Grounding.
You knew this. You had done this before. Inhale through your nose.
One. Two. Three. Hold.
One. Two. Three. Exhale through your mouth.
Again.
You forced your eyes to move, scanning the room.
Desks. Fan. Curtains. Backpacks. Pen.
Name them. Stay here. Stay present.
But it didn’t work.
The air felt thinner with every breath. Your chest tightened further, your heart racing violently now, your skin breaking into a cold sweat.
And then you knew. This wasn’t just anxiety.
This was a full panic attack. A bad one.
Christ... I can't do this without him.
Your fingers trembled as you grabbed your phone.
Nancy.
You didn’t even think.
I’m not okay. I think I’m having a panic attack.
You hit send.
Your vision blurred at the edges. You turned to the nearest student, your voice barely steady.
“Can you… go get someone? I’m not feeling well.”
They stared at you for a second, wide-eyed, before nodding quickly and rushing out.
After that everything became noise. A high-pitched ringing filled your ears. The room tilted. Your vision darkened. And then... Nothing.
…
When you became aware again, it was slow. Heavy.
Your body felt distant, like it didn’t quite belong to you. You were lying down. The faint smell of antiseptic. A narrow bed beneath you.
The school infirmary.
Your phone was ringing somewhere, distant, insistent, but you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift your hand to find it.
Voices floated around you. Muffled. Disconnected. Someone answered it. You caught fragments of words. None of them made sense. And then...
Darkness again.
The second time you woke, the room was quieter. Softer. A fading light filtered through the window. An older woman stood beside you, kind eyes, lined face, crisp uniform. Mrs. Bennett
“Easy now,” she said gently, placing a hand near your shoulder as you tried to sit up. “Better to stay down a little longer, Y/l/n.”
You sank back against the pillow, your head spinning slightly as you glanced toward the window.
“How long was I out?” you asked, your voice rough.
“Just a few minutes at a time,” she replied. “But you fainted more than once. Dr. Collins came by. He gave you something to help. You even spoke to him, though I suppose you don’t remember.”
You shook your head weakly.
Nothing.
“Seems you had quite a severe panic attack,” Mrs. Bennett continued, her tone gentle but firm. “And he also diagnosed you with burnout.”
Burnout. The word fell heavy in your chest.
You dragged your hands over your face slowly, pressing your palms against your eyes.
Nancy’s words echoed in your mind.
You should go home.
“You’re signed off for two weeks,” Mrs. Bennett added.
You shifted.
"What? No, I can't..."
“Doctor’s orders. You need rest. Whatever pushed you to this point… you need to reconsider it, Y/l/m. You’re far too young to be in this state.”
You didn’t answer. Your thoughts had already drifted.
Back to him. They always did.
God, you wished he was here.
Tears filled your eyes before you could stop them. Mrs. Bennett stayed quiet, but you could feel her watching you.
A few seconds passed. Then a knock at the door.
“I told her to go home…” Nancy’s voice.
Relief hit before you even saw her.
She stepped inside, her red curls catching the fading light, her expression softening immediately when she saw you awake.
“Hey,” she said gently, coming closer. “Think you can get up? There’s a taxi waiting outside. Let’s get you home.”
You nodded slowly, pushing yourself up with care. Your body still felt weak, your head heavy.
Vessel wasn’t there, but his voice echoed faintly in your mind, telling you she could be a good thing. That she might make this place easier.
He was right. He always was.
“Let’s go home,” you murmured, your voice hoarse as you steadied yourself beside her.
...
By the time the taxi dropped you off in front of your building, the city had already begun to dim under the slow descent of evening. The ride had been long - traffic thick, impatient, headlights stretching endlessly in both directions as everyone rushed home at the same time. The motion, the noise, the lingering dizziness from the medication, it all blended into something hazy and distant.
When you stepped out onto the sidewalk, the air felt cooler, heavier.
The sky was darkening, casting your street, and your living room, once you stepped inside, into a soft, melancholic half-light.
You paused just inside the door, keys still in your hand, taking a slow breath. A small, quiet part of your mind felt relieved.
You had cleaned on Sunday. Not perfectly, but enough. The apartment looked lived-in, not chaotic. Though, if it hadn’t… you realized Nancy wouldn’t have cared. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who judged that.
She had never been here before.
You had been meaning to invite her for dinner, rehearsing it in your head for days. But somehow, her first visit ended up like this, unexpected, unplanned, and far from ideal.
Still… She stayed.
You half expected an “I told you so.” A comment about how stubborn you’d been for not going home earlier.
But she didn’t say any of that.
She just… stayed. Grounded. Present.
While you disappeared briefly into the bathroom, letting hot water run over your shoulders, trying to wash away the lingering tremor in your body, she made herself useful in the quietest way possible.
By the time you came out - hair damp, wrapped in something more comfortable - the faint smell of toasted bread and something slightly overdone filled the apartment.
She stood in your small kitchen, sleeves pushed up, inspecting what she had managed to put together.
“Gourmet,” she announced dryly, holding up a plate.
Tuna, mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato.
Simple. A little messy. Perfect.
You ended up on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, the two of you eating side by side.
Her presence anchored you. Kept you tethered to something real, something that wasn’t overwhelming or suffocating.
Time passed quietly.
By eight, the room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. Outside, the noise of traffic had thinned, the occasional car passing below less frequent now.
You talked about everything. Except him.
She told you about her parents - how she lost them in a car accident. The way her voice shifted, just slightly, when she mentioned it. Then about a three-year abusive relationship, her tone sharper, more detached. And finally, about her aunt - the one who left her enough money to leave her grandparents’ house and start over in London.
You listened. Really listened. Noting that while her story wasn’t the same as yours, she carried her own weight. Her own dark shit.
“You know…” she said eventually, leaning back into the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, her head resting in her hand. “I read something once - on Instagram, I think. That people find Sleep Token when they need them most. When they’re at their worst.”
She glanced at you.
“And honestly? I think that’s true. I found them about a year after my parents died. I was at rock bottom.”
At the mention of the band, something tightened in your chest again. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up - missing him, reaching for him, fingers searching for the golden charm - but the edge of it was softer now, dulled slightly by the medication.
You took a second before answering. You had known them for just over a year. But you had lied about that.
And now… telling the truth would feel ridiculous.
“I was going through something pretty bad too when I found them,” you said instead.
She nodded, like that confirmed everything.
“Yeah. The theory holds.”
Then she sighed dramatically, letting her head fall back.
“God, I love that band. Did I tell you I got tickets for Paris?”
You smiled...genuinely this time.
“That’s amazing.”
“You should come with me,” she said immediately, turning toward you, eyes lighting up. “We’ll be on break anyway. A girls’ trip to see our favorite men in the world. What do you think?”
It sounded perfect. Too perfect.
And dangerously close to worlds colliding.
“I’ll think about it,” you said carefully.
“No, come on! Tickets are going to sell out.”
How could you explain that tickets weren’t your problem?
“I’ll think about it and let you know soon,” you repeated.
“Promise?”
You nodded.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table.
You reached for it without hesitation.
Nancy’s gaze lingered on you for a second as you unlocked it.
Going insane at the thought of you moaning I love you over and over as you’re about to finish. I miss you so much, sugar
Heat rushed to your face instantly. But beneath that your chest tightened. Because you had fallen apart. And he didn’t know. He couldn’t know... unless you told him. And you couldn’t.
Not when it would so easily connect - your panic attack, the timing, his message about not coming back. It would sound… wrong. Too much.
“Honestly, I don’t even know who’s hotter, Vessel or II,” Nancy rambled beside you, completely unaware that you had stopped hearing her halfway through.
Your vision blurred. Tears welling up.
But before you could even decide what to reply, Nancy reached over and gently took your phone from your hand, placing it back on the table.
Not harsh. Not intrusive. Just… certain.
“Okay,” she said softly, her hand closing around your arm. “I don’t know if that’s him or not. I don’t want to know. And you don’t either right now.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“Breathe with me,” she continued, steady and calm. “Say it with me... ‘I’m okay. I’m being taken care of by my slightly insane Irish friend, and I don’t have to deal with my boyfriend tonight.’”
That made you chuckle. A small, fragile sound, but real.
Two things echoed in your mind: She called herself your friend. And called him your boyfriend. You had never called him that. You had never named what you were.
You wiped your tears with the back of your hand and nodded.
She was right. Talking to him now would only make it worse.
“Okay,” you said quietly. “Girls’ night.”
“There we go,” she smiled, satisfied. “What do you say we watch something?”
You nodded immediately. You needed distraction.
She got up, grabbing the remote, scrolling through your streaming apps.
“What are we watching?”
“Anything but romance,” you said, pulling the blanket tighter around you.
She made a face.
“Yeah, definitely not in the mood to watch attractive men kissing.”
She opened another app.
“What about horror?”
“Yes,” you said without hesitation.
“Perfect. You pick. I’ll handle snacks. You do have popcorn, right?”
You nodded.
“And ice cream in the freezer,” you added, a small flicker of guilt rising, but you pushed it aside.
You deserved it.
“Even better,” she grinned, already heading to the kitchen.
You glanced at your phone again. Just for a second. You wanted to answer him. You wanted to lean into the pull, into the warmth, into him. But you couldn’t handle it tonight.
So instead, you looked back at the screen and scrolled through the horror section.
Your finger hovered then clicked.
Malignant. Your comfort horror movie.
If such a thing even existed.
I’d truly appreciate it if you left a like, a comment, and most importantly, a reblog. It really encourages me to keep writing.
Synopsis: The line between Vessel's private life and the stage begins to blur as his feelings grow harder to ignore. While he keeps finding his way back to her, she begins to wonder why he just can't say the three words she longs to hear
Word Count: 7,9k
Warnings: Slight deprecative thoughts, SMUT: oral sex with female receiving
A/N: I had to divide this chapter in two parts because it was going to be too long. Anyway, the next part is 🔥Hope you enjoy the reading ;)
SERIES MASTERLIST
“Fifteen minutes.”
Vessel heard the call from the corridor just as Anna, his PA, pushed the dressing room door open, a small envelope in her hands.
He was finishing getting dressed, adjusting the layers of green fabric over his body. The mask sat on the vanity in front of him, silent. Expectant.
“The flight leaves at 2 a.m. local time,” Anna said as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her with her foot. “You should land in London around 3. A car will be waiting at the airport to take you home.”
Her voice was calm, professional, but there was a thread of concern in it she couldn’t quite hide.
Anna was in her early forties. She had been recommended by his producer to help manage his personal logistics, and since then, she had made his life infinitely easier.
Still, this decision, no one in management had liked it.
Not even her.
But Vessel couldn’t go through six shows in Germany without seeing you first. And that truth had become more undeniable with each passing day.
He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. Not about how involved he was. Not when people around him had started noticing - the way he would glance down at his phone and smile without realising it, the way his entire mood shifted whenever your name lit up the screen.
And you texted constantly.
That had been the easiest promise he had ever made.
Since the last time he had seen you, everything had felt… clearer. Lighter. There was no longer any need to hide. No reason to disappear into silence.
But messages weren’t enough.
“I'm putting the ticket in your bag,” Anna said, already moving toward the chair near the vanity where his backpack rested.
She slipped the envelope inside with efficient movements.
“Marc isn’t happy about this.”
Vessel let out a quiet snort. He could have said that his tour manager was never paid to be happy, but he kept that to himself. No need to drag Anna into that.
She looked at him then.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, hesitation flickering in her eyes. For a second, it seemed like she might hold back, but she didn’t.
“Just promise me you won’t drink too much,” she said. “Or overdo anything else. You have six shows ahead before the next break and it won't be a break because you'll be recording.”
He smirked faintly as he reached for the mask, lifting it from the vanity and securing it into place. The familiar weight settled over his face as he adjusted the hood of his cloak over his head.
“A few glasses of wine won’t hurt.”
“Ves…”
Something in the way she said his name made his heart skip. For a brief, disorienting second, her voice echoed yours.
God, he missed you.
“Anna, I’ll take care of myself. I always do. Don’t worry.”
She pressed her lips together again, clearly holding back more words, before letting out a quiet breath.
“Ten minutes,” she said instead. “The others are ready.”
She paused at the door.
“Your return flight leaves at 7 a.m. from London on Wednesday. You’ll be in Berlin by 10.”
He nodded.
Two days. He had stolen two days just to be with you.
“Thank you, Anna.”
“Have a good show.”
He watched her leave, the door clicking shut behind her, and for a moment the room felt quieter. Still.
He reached for his bag and pulled out his phone.
Three messages. None from you.
The last thing you had sent was a heart-eyes emoji after he told you earlier that he was already sorting everything out to come back to you.
His thumb hovered for only a second before he tapped your name and started typing. The black paint on his fingers smudged faintly against the screen.
I’ll be there at 3 a.m. Wait for me wearing that black lingerie you told me you bought.
He didn’t even realise he was smiling until your reply came almost instantly.
Anything my god commands.
A smirk pulled at his lips.
And what if it’s the man who needs you tonight?
Even as he sent it, he felt faintly ridiculous. But it was true. He had spent the entire week behind the mask. He couldn’t wait to take it off. To be in your arms as himself.
Your reply took a minute, but when it came, it made something warm bloom in his chest.
Then he’ll have all of me. Tonight and every night after.
A quiet, helpless smile spread across his face.
“Come on, Ves. Let’s go.”
II’s voice broke through, pulling him out of the small, fragile bubble he had built around himself.
Need to go. See you later.
He typed the message quickly, then shoved the phone back into his bag.
The corridor outside was already alive with movement - crew members passing by, the low hum of the crowd from the anticipation before the show.
“Heading home tonight?
II asked as they walked side by side toward the stage entrance. III, IV and the girls coming right behind.
Behind them, Jim hurried to catch up, carrying the in-ear monitors and wireless packs. He stepped in close to Vessel, hands practiced and precise as he clipped the small transmitter pack securely at the back of his waistband, threading the cable carefully beneath the layers of fabric. He adjusted the wire along Vessel’s back, guiding it up and over his shoulder before placing the in-ear pieces into his ears, making sure they sat properly.
A quick tap. A nod. All set.
“Yeah,” Vessel replied simply.
II let out a quiet laugh, one that said he understood.
Even if he didn’t entirely agree.
“You’re helpless, my friend.”
Vessel didn’t answer because there was no point denying it. That was exactly how he felt. And more importantly, he didn’t want it to change.
Not anymore.
...
You had taken a ridiculous amount of time getting ready for him.
The night was particularly cold, so you chose practicality first - boots, a heavy coat, a thick scarf wrapped snugly around your neck. But beneath that careful armour, hidden from the world, was a soft pink dress and the black lingerie you had bought with him in mind.
You caught your reflection one last time before leaving, fingers briefly smoothing the fabric at your waist, a quiet anticipation settling somewhere deep in your chest.
You took a taxi to the hotel around 10 p.m., fully aware he wouldn’t arrive until the early hours of the morning. Still, waiting there felt better than waiting at home.
And this, too, was a first.
You never arrived before him, but now that the mask was no longer a barrier, there was no reason for him to always be the one waiting first.
The drive from your flat to the hotel was quiet, the city unusually subdued. Most people had already retreated indoors, surrendering to the slow heaviness of Sunday night, the familiar weight of the week ahead pressing gently against them.
But not you.
Irresponsible or not, you had asked your headmaster for two days off. Family matters, you had said. You told the story of your father’s Alzheimer’s - carefully, convincingly, every tragic detail placed exactly where it needed to be. You hadn’t even felt guilty. Not when Mr Johanson’s expression softened, not when he nodded without hesitation, unable to deny you time with a man who, according to your words, was forgetting you more with each passing day.
The truth was…
You hadn’t seen your father since that last disastrous visit to your mother’s house months a go. Every time she asked you to come back, you found an excuse.And your sister hadn’t called or messaged since that afternoon at the neurologist’s office.
You told yourself this was a break. A holiday from problems you weren’t ready to face. A well-deserved one.
When you arrived at the hotel, the reception area was quiet. Soft music played in the background, low and unobtrusive, blending with the muted hum of distant conversation somewhere deeper in the building.
There was no receptionist at the desk, instead, the concierge stepped forward to greet you, already recognising you. He always did.
He knew exactly which room you would be staying in.
Always the same one.
You had no idea how Ves managed that.
“I’m afraid the gentleman hasn’t arrived yet,” he said politely, though there was a faint curiosity behind his words - an awareness of the broken pattern.
“He’ll arrive later,” you replied simply.
The concierge smiled, nodding as he typed something quickly into the computer.
“Any special requests for room service?” he asked, his tone attentive, almost warm.
You bit your lip thoughtfully.
“Do you deliver room service late at night? I mean... very late. He won’t arrive before three, and he’ll be starving.”
The concierge paused for a moment, considering.
“I’m certain I can arrange something with the kitchen,” he said. “If I may recommend, the filet with mushroom sauce is exceptional tonight.”
You smiled, touched by the care he put into even the smallest details, even knowing Ves likely paid a small fortune for that level of attention.
“I’ll take it. Dinner for two and a bottle of your best wine.”
He nodded with a satisfied smile.
“I’ll select it personally.”
He handed you the room key.
“Dessert?”
The corner of your lips lifted slightly as you thought of what Ves would say.
“An extra-large bar of Snickers… and something with chocolate for me. I’ll trust your recommendation.”
That earned you a pleased expression.
“Chocolate mousse with red berry coulis, then.”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll have everything arranged. Shall I schedule room service for…”
“He lands at three… so three-thirty?” you said, a little unsure.
“Very well,” he replied smoothly. “As always, welcome to the Wetherby. I hope your stay is a pleasant one.”
It will be, you thought. But you only smiled politely and thanked him before heading upstairs.
The room welcomed you with the familiar scent of clean linen and something warmer beneath it. Subtle, comforting. You switched on the amber lights, and the space immediately softened, wrapping around you in a quiet, intimate glow.
You placed your bag on the armchair beside the bed, draping your coat and scarf over it. Your boots came off with a quiet thud, and then you let yourself fall back onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you.
10:40 p.m.
At least five hours until Ves arrived.
You reached for your phone almost without thinking.
Instagram. Within seconds, your feed flooded with videos from tonight’s show in Zurich.
God, he looked beautiful. As always.
There was something undeniably divine about him on stage. Something he carried so effortlessly, as if it were simply part of him.
And yet… He was also so young. So soft.
Not in a negative way. Not at all, but you were still trying to understand how you felt seeing him without the mask.
It wasn’t about beauty. Ves was just as beautiful as you had imagined. Just… different. And somehow, that difference suited him perfectly.
You couldn’t quite explain it.
Maybe it was the age.
Your heart didn’t care about that, not really. But your mind kept circling it, trying to make sense of the way it broke a pattern you had always followed. You had only ever been with older men.
And Ves... He was younger than you. And he looked younger. And that unsettled you in ways you were still trying to name.
But as you kept scrolling, watching video after video of him on that stage, all of that faded into the background, because what you felt was something else entirely. Something stronger.
A deep, overwhelming affection.
And a quiet, almost disbelieving sense of pride that out of thousands, you were the one he had chosen to reveal himself to. Completely.
...
Vessel landed in London at 3 a.m.
The night air hit him the moment he stepped off the plane. Cold, damp, familiar. He reached into his carry-on and pulled out the black hoodie crumpled inside, tugging it over his head without much thought. The fabric settled around him, and he pulled the hood up out of habit, more instinct than necessity.
His backpack went over his shoulders as he joined the slow-moving line of passengers, the shuffle toward the exit feeling far too sluggish for his liking.
He waited for his luggage with visible impatience, eyes flicking between the conveyor belt and his phone, jaw tightening slightly each time another unfamiliar suitcase passed by.
Finally his suitcase, his bag. The guitar case followed shortly after, heavier, familiar in his grip. He didn’t waste time.
Outside, the cold bit a little sharper, the air thick with that unmistakable London humidity. The car Anna had arranged was already waiting. He approached it, nodding briefly to the driver, who stepped out to help load the luggage into the boot with practiced efficiency.
“Hampstead, right?” the driver asked once they were both inside.
“Wetherby,” Vessel replied, not offering further explanation as he leaned back into the seat, already looking down at his phone again.
No new messages. The last thing you had sent was a simple one, wishing him a good show.
“The hotel?” the driver clarified.
He gave a distracted hum of confirmation, eyes never leaving the screen.
The show had been good. As good as it could be.
The crowd had carried it, like they always did. When the exhaustion of touring started creeping in, when the repetition threatened to dull everything, he focused on them.
He knew what it felt like to stand in a crowd like that. To look up at a stage and feel something shift inside you. That was why he pushed through the fatigue. Through the monotony. Through the pressure.
They deserved it. Their devotion - It was everything he had ever wanted. And now that he had it, he had to be worthy of it.
But sometimes... It was heavy.
The schedule. The travel. Marc’s constant demands. Anna’s quiet concern. The label pushing, always pushing, asking what came next.
He had just given them a whole fucking album. Barely a year ago. And they were already reaching out again, asking what he had in mind, what direction he was taking next.
Fuck them. That wasn’t how his mind worked. Even if he had to admit that he hadn’t stopped writing. For months now. But most of it didn’t fit. Not within the lore. Not within anything structured.
He spent hours at the piano, just… unloading. Fragments. Feelings. Lines that barely made sense, even to him.
It reminded him of when he was younger. Before any of this. Before it meant anything.
The drive to the hotel was quick and quiet. London never truly slept, but at that hour, early Monday morning, the streets were subdued. Dim streetlights reflected off wet pavement, the city wrapped in a cold, restless stillness.
He rested his head against the window and closed his eyes for a moment. He had slept on the plane. But it wasn’t enough. The exhaustion clung to him the second the adrenaline from the show began to fade.
By the time the car pulled up in front of the hotel, he felt it settling deep into his bones.
The driver stepped out, retrieving the luggage, and a porter approached with a trolley - a polished metal cart that rattled softly as it rolled closer. The man greeted him quietly and began loading the suitcases with efficient care, lifting the guitar case last and securing it carefully along the side.
“Shall I pick you up from Hampstead on Wednesday?” the driver asked.
Vessel nodded. “Yes.”
He turned to the porter.
“Could you take these up to 312 for me, please? I’m heading up now. If you don’t mind waiting at reception.”
The porter nodded immediately.
“Of course, sir.”
Vessel reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and handing over a few notes. The man accepted them with a grateful nod.
Check-in was quick. Routine. He moved through it almost absent-mindedly, already focused on something else entirely. On you.
The lift ride felt longer than it should have.
When he reached the door, he opened it as quietly as he could, careful not to let it click too loudly. The porter followed his lead, wheeling the trolley inside and placing the luggage just past the entrance before offering a polite farewell and slipping out just as quietly.
The room welcomed him instantly. Linen. Polished wood. And you. Your scent lingered in the air - sweet soft, warm, unmistakably yours.
His heart stuttered.
The lights were mostly off, save for the soft glow of a bedside lamp on your side of the bed, casting a dim amber light across the room.
He set his backpack down slowly.
And then he saw you. Asleep.
He lingered there, unmoving. He did that often, more than he liked to admit. Watching you sleep. But tonight... You weren’t dressed like someone who had simply fallen asleep.
You were dressed for him.
A soft pink dress he had never seen before clung gently to your body, the fabric slightly displaced from where you had shifted in your sleep. It had ridden up just enough to reveal a glimpse of the black lace beneath - the lingerie you had bought with him in mind. Your hair was spread across the pillow, curls still perfectly shaped, betraying the time and care you had put into them.
He found himself smiling. Just standing there. Looking at you. And suddenly it made perfect sense. Why he had come. Why he had ignored every objection. Why he couldn’t stay away.
He needed to see you. To be with you. It felt almost physical.
The same pull he had felt that night he brought you backstage. No logic. Just need. As if something inside him was tethered to you, something invisible, constant. As if his body knew yours. As if it needed yours.
He exhaled quietly, running a hand through his hair pushing the hood down.
He decided he wouldn’t wake you. Not yet. He would shower first, but then the sharp, sudden ring of the room service bell cut through the silence, far too loud in the stillness of the room.
He flinched slightly at the sound. But you, you barely stirred. You shifted onto your back, pulling a pillow into your arms, hugging it tightly as a soft, heavy sigh left you, still deep in sleep.
A quiet laugh slipped from him.
He moved to the door and opened it, not expecting anything, and was immediately met by the concierge himself, pushing a trolley inside.
“Good evening,” the man greeted politely. “Or rather, good morning. The young lady requested that dinner be served upon the gentleman’s arrival. I personally selected the wine, as she asked. I do hope everything is to your satisfaction.”
Vessel glanced at the trolley, momentarily caught off guard. Then he saw it. The oversized Snickers bar. Sitting neatly beside a smaller covered dish.
A smile tugged at his lips.
Of course.
He reached for his wallet out of instinct, but the concierge stopped him with a polite gesture.
“There’s no need. Please, enjoy your meal, and your stay.”
Vessel gave a small nod, watching the man leave before gently pushing the trolley further into the room.
He lifted the cloche out of curiosity. The aroma hit him instantly - filet with mushroom sauce, rice, vegetables, mashed potatoes.
His stomach growled. And at the same time, something softer settled in his chest.
You had thought of everything. You knew he hadn’t eaten properly all day. You made sure the food would arrive at the right time. You remembered the bloody Snickers. You always remembered.
He dragged a hand down his face, suddenly overwhelmed in a way he hadn’t expected. Then he turned toward the bathroom. Quick steps.
He needed a shower. He still smelled like the stage, sweat, smoke, paint still clinging faintly to his skin. He needed to wash it all off and then he could finally have you in his arms again.
...
You woke to the sound of the word you loved most in the world.
“Sugar.”
It came softly, barely above a whisper, paired with the gentle brush of fingers against your cheek.
Your eyes felt heavy, sleep still clinging stubbornly to you as you slowly surfaced. The low light of the room greeted you first, warm and familiar, before your gaze finally settled on the person leaning over you.
For a split second, your mind faltered.
No mask.
Just his face.
Still something you were getting used to.
You stared, brows faintly knitting together, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and recognition. Until he spoke again.
“Hey, it’s me.”
His thumb pressed a little more firmly against your cheek, grounding. And it clicked. His voice. His presence. Him.
Vessel.
“Hey…” Your voice came out low, rough with sleep, but you were fully awake now.
He was sitting at the edge of the bed, dressed in grey sweatpants and a white long-sleeved T-shirt. It still felt strange seeing him like that. So normal. You had only seen him like this once before, and your mind was still adjusting to the absence of the cloak… and especially the mask.
He smiled at you, a little shy, as if he somehow knew exactly what you were thinking. Then he tilted his head slightly, gesturing behind him toward the table.
“I was surprised by the concierge himself bringing our dinner in the middle of the night. Did you do that?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks immediately as you pushed yourself up into a sitting position. He let you move, but he didn’t shift away, not even an inch.
“I figured you’d be hungry,” you said, nodding lightly. Your voice was still soft, but sleep no longer clung to it. A shy smile played on your lips. “You never eat properly on show days, so I thought…”
You trailed off, suddenly unsure if you had overdone it, but he smiled again, like he always did when he seemed to read your thoughts before you could voice them.
“I’m starving, actually. You know me so well, darling.”
He leaned in, and you instinctively expected a kiss, but instead, he rested his forehead against yours.
And stayed there.
Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Steady. As if he was absorbing you. You breathed him in in return.
That same scent, neroli. Fresh, soft, unmistakably his. You had never asked what cologne he used, and somehow it felt like you never would. It didn’t feel like something that belonged to the world.
It belonged to him.
He inhaled deeply before finally finding your lips.
The kiss was soft. Gentle. Just a brush of lips, barely there, but enough to make you want more.
But he pulled away.
His fingers slid from your cheek to the golden charm resting against your collarbone. His touch lingered there, and you watched his expression shift - lost in his own thoughts for a moment. Then he looked back at you, smiled and pulled you into him again.
This kiss was different. Deeper. Hungrier.
His lips pressed into yours with quiet urgency, and you melted into it instantly, arms lifting to wrap around his shoulders as you pulled him closer. A soft sound slipped from your throat, swallowed by his mouth as his hands moved along your arms, warm and firm, grounding you in him.
His fingers trailed down, brushing over your sides before one hand stilled briefly against your breast, then squeezed. Just enough pressure to make your breath catch.
Then he stopped.
He pulled back with a small, almost bashful smile and sat properly beside you again.
“Our food’s going to get cold,” he said, a hint of reluctance in his voice.
You nodded, still catching your breath as you watched him stand and extend his hand toward you. You took it. And just like that, the moment softened.
You both devoured the food. Neither of you had eaten properly - he from the show, you from waiting for him. The meal was as perfect as everything else in that hotel always seemed to be.
“I know I’ll be exhausted on Wednesday,” he admitted at some point, “but I couldn’t go to Berlin without seeing you.”
Your chest tightened. He kept saying things like that.
Since he had abandoned the silence between you, he had been honest about missing you. And yet… That was all. He never said the three words your anxious mind longed for.
And you... You said them way too much. All the time. Because for you, they were real. You just wished they were real for him too.
“I hate the idea of you being so far away,” you said quietly. “Doing those shows for all those people… I…”
You couldn’t finish.
“What?” he teased lightly. “Get jealous?”
That small, knowing smile tugged at his lips, and heat rushed to your face again.
“It’s just… I’m not stupid. I know how your world works. The shows, the travelling… I’ve been following the tour from the outside until now. I just never knew what it felt like to be this close.”
You gestured faintly between the two of you, then set your fork and knife down and reached for your wine, taking a long sip.
He took his last bite, chewing slowly, as if buying himself time to think. Then he wiped his lips with the napkin and took a sip of wine.
“The next fifteen days are tight. Two weeks in Germany. Six shows. Berlin, Frankfurt, Stuttgart, then Munich".
You nodded. You already knew.
Silence settled again and he noticed.
“After that, we go home. Or almost. A few days in Birmingham to try and work on something new.”
That caught your attention immediately. but he cut it off just as quickly.
“You know I can’t reveal anything, Sugar. Not even to you.”
You sighed, frustrated, and he pretended not to notice.
“From there, Lyon, then Lille, and finally two shows in Paris.”
He smiled faintly, already looking tired just thinking about it.
“Then a well deserved vacation. Finally.”
You tried to smile back, but the thought of so many days without him settled heavy in your chest.
Your fingers instinctively found the golden charm at your neck, fidgeting with it - trying to ground yourself in something real.
“And where do I exist in that?” you asked quietly.
Not accusing. Just honest.
Then immediately “I’m sorry. What right do I have to ask that?”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched. Then he reached across the table, hand open. You took it. His fingers closed around yours, squeezing gently.
“Look at me.”
You hesitated, but obeyed.
“You have every right to ask,” he said. “I gave you that right when I made you mine.”
Your heart jumped at the choice of words.
“And the honest, practical answer is... between shows. Between cities. In the moments that don’t belong to the band… that’s where you fit.”
You nodded slowly. It made sense. But your heart still wavered.
“They didn’t want me here. But I came anyway, didn’t I?”
You smiled faintly.
“You didn’t ask me to do it. I just did.”
“I’m going to miss you,” you said softly. Your fingers released the charm. You let go of his hand and stood, gathering the plates, needing something to do, something to ease the weight in your chest.
He watched you quietly. He knew exactly what you were doing.
You placed everything back on the trolley, then picked up both desserts and returned to the table. The anxiety still lingered, pushing you to take the first bite of your chocolate mousse almost too quickly.
A soft hum escaped you immediately.
Ves let out a quiet laugh, unwrapping his Snickers and taking a bite.
“We’ve gone longer than fifteen days before,” he pointed out.
“But that was before…” you said, trailing off.
He nodded, thoughtful, taking another bite.
“I’ll be in London after the Munich show. I’ll have two days off before meeting the guys in Birmingham.”
Your brows pulled together instantly.
“Ves… that’s a lot of travelling. You’ll barely rest.”
“I know.” He shrugged lightly. “I’ll regret it the next day.”
That made you laugh softly, your fingers instinctively reaching for his across the table.
You took another bite of your mousse, then nudged the plate toward him.
“You need to try this.”
He chuckled, giving in, and you watched as he took a bite.
An exaggerated hum followed.
“Delicious. But not as good as this,” he said, placing the half-eaten Snickers in your hand.
You smiled and took a small bite.
“You’re going to be exhausted,” you said, handing it back and reclaiming your dessert.
“Probably,” he agreed, absent-mindedly nibbling again. “But I want that night with you.”
You swallowed, your heart doing that familiar, aching leap.
“Well… we could alternate. I could come to you sometimes instead. It’s about time we switched hotels,” you said lightly. But you meant it.
He smiled, genuinely.
“You’d do that? What about school?”
He paused, thinking.
“Sugar… don’t you work tomorrow?”
You shrugged.
“I can negotiate. Pick up some afternoon shifts in exchange for a couple of days off each month. It’s doable.” You smirked slightly. “I’m not working tomorrow. Or Tuesday. How could I?”
“Sugar…” There was a hint of reprimand in his tone, but no real resistance.
“It’s fine. I got two days off from my headmaster. I couldn't go to work and leave you here.”
He nodded, smiling in a way that said far more than any version of those three words you were waiting for.
Then he sighed softly.
“I think we’re both helpless, Sugar.”
You nodded.
“I know I am. Always have been. That voice of yours is to blame. Caught me like a spider’s web.”
He let out a low chuckle, and the sound sent a soft shiver through your skin.
Every night with him, you discovered something new you loved. Small things. Normal things. The sound of his laugh. The way his eyes softened when he looked at you like he was doing now.
“Only my voice?” he teased. “Nothing to do with the way I leave you spent after loving you?”
His voice dropped, laced with quiet mischief.
You smiled.
“Yeah… maybe that too. But I’m pretty sure the voice is what got me into that awful backstage room in the first place.”
He shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him.
“I don’t know what came over me.”
A pause.
“But I’m glad I did.”
“Me too,” you said softly.
The silence that stretched between you as you finished your dessert wasn’t comfortable at all. Quite the opposite, it was heavy, saturated with meaning, with everything you wanted to say but chose to swallow instead.
You were afraid.
Afraid that the distance would make him rethink whatever this was between you. Afraid he would meet someone else on tour. Afraid that time apart would dull whatever pull he felt toward you - break the fragile, intoxicating spell you both seemed caught in.
But how could you possibly say any of that out loud?
You couldn’t. Not without sounding insecure. Needy. Fragile in ways you refused to show him.
So you stayed quiet, choosing the sweetness of your dessert over the bitterness of your own thoughts. And all the while, he watched you.
He always did.
Before, the mask had shielded him, offering that calm, almost impassive expression no matter what storm brewed underneath. But now… now there was nothing between you.
No barrier. No distance. You could see everything.
The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, attentive and searching. The slight crease that formed between his brows when something caught his attention. The way his gaze softened, like it was now, or darkened with something deeper, heavier.
It was unbearably intimate. The way Vessel looked at you.
Eventually, you finished your dessert and stood, gathering the plate and the empty wine glasses. You could feel his gaze following your every movement, and when you turned slightly, you saw him gesture for you to come closer.
“Come here.”
His voice was soft, low, but threaded with that quiet authority you had learned to crave.
You set the dishes down on the cart and obeyed without hesitation, letting him pull you in. He shifted in the chair, turning sideways as he guided you onto his lap, settling you facing him.
Your eyes locked instantly.
“I know the idea of us being apart for so many days doesn’t please you…”
His fingers closed gently around your chin just as you tried to look away, guiding your gaze back to his.
“But I promise we’ll talk every day. I kept my promise this time, didn’t I?”
You exhaled softly, nodding. He had. Every single day, sometimes for hours. Texts that filled the gaps just enough to make the distance bearable.
“I’ll have a few free days between shows in Germany. Not enough to come home. Or my team will kill me. But we can video call. What do you think?”
You nodded again, a little more eagerly this time. It helped. The effort he was making, it mattered more than you wanted to admit.
And somehow… that made everything harder.
Because he was invested. You could feel it. See it.
So why wouldn’t he just say it? Why wouldn’t he say what you were so desperate to hear?
Your hand rose to his face, cupping his cheek while the other slid into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands. You scratched lightly at his scalp, slow and deliberate.
His eyes fluttered shut.
A quiet inhale left him, followed by a slow exhale, his body melting into your touch for a brief, unguarded second.
That’s when you noticed it. The exhaustion. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The subtle heaviness in the way he held himself. The accumulation of sleepless nights, travel, pressure, it was all there, hidden just beneath the surface.
Your chest tightened.
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then to his eyelids, slow and gentle. Your finger traced the line of his neck, feather-light, and a low hum slipped from his throat - unfiltered, instinctive.
Something inside you stirred. Warm. Hungry.
He let you care for him like that for a long moment… then his eyes opened again.
Different now.
His hand tightened around your thigh, fingers pressing into the flesh as his other hand slid up your waist and settled around your throat, not harsh, just firm. Present. Intense.
Your breath caught.
And then he pulled you into him.
The kiss hit deeper this time, urgent, consuming. His lips moved against yours with a quiet hunger, parting them, claiming space. You melted into it instantly, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer as if that alone could close the distance you feared so much.
His hand on your thigh tightened, dragging you down against him, and your body reacted before your mind could catch up - your hips shifting, pressing.
You felt him.
Hard. Solid. Right against your core.
A soft, broken whimper escaped you, swallowed immediately by his mouth as he deepened the kiss again and again, stealing every sound, every breath, until your lungs burned and your thoughts scattered completely.
“I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, his voice rough with want. His grip at your throat tightened just slightly, punctuating every word.
“All those people tonight… and all I could do was yearn for your embrace. For your kisses.”
A quiet moan slipped from you as your hips moved again, slower this time, deliberate.
He moaned and your fingers tangled deeper into his hair, tugging just enough to earn a sharp inhale from him.
“I’m helpless, Y/n,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “I can’t think of a life where you’re not a part of it. Every line of every song I sing now has a different meaning… and it’s all for you.”
Your heart stuttered violently in your chest. And he noticed. Of course he did. He always did.
His hand slid from your throat down to your chest, fingers brushing over the small golden charm resting against your skin. He covered it with his palm, pressing it lightly against you, as if grounding himself there.
His eyes closed again. Feeling.
Then he smiled. Soft, certain.
“Tell me it’s because of me your heart is beating like this, Sugar,” he whispered. “Tell me how I make you feel. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me.”
Your breath hitched sharply, your entire body trembling under the weight of him - of his voice, his touch, the way he needed to hear it.
And you gave in. You always did.
"Of course it's because of you. I love you, Ves,” you whispered, the words spilling out like something sacred. “I’ve loved you since day one… and I’m irrevocably yours.”
He stilled. Completely. Then he claimed it.
Eyes closing again as if he was absorbing every syllable, every ounce of devotion you offered him, letting it sink deep into something that had been starving for it.
...
Vessel had no control over the way you made him feel. He had lost that control a long time ago, and now he wasn’t even sure he wanted it back.
Hearing you say how much you loved him was always overwhelming, because it touched the most fragile part of him. The part that had always feared rejection. The part that had always felt like it wasn’t enough.
And now you were saying those things to him.
Not to the mask.
He couldn’t fully process it yet, not consciously, but his body responded the way it always did when emotion outweighed reason: with intensity.
He didn’t think, he just moved.
In one swift motion, he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. A surprised sound from you spilled into his mouth as your arms wrapped around his shoulders and your legs locked around his waist. He barely noticed the distance between the table and the bed as he crossed it in a few quick steps.
Your lips never parted.
He laid you down gently against the mattress and pulled away just long enough to grab the hem of his shirt and tug it over his head. He tossed it somewhere onto the floor without looking, already climbing back over you.
His body covered yours easily. And God, he loved that. The way you looked so small beneath him. The way you reached for him instantly.
Your hands found his arms, pulling him closer, your head lifting from the mattress as you chased his mouth again with that same delicious urgency.
He let you kiss him for a moment. Then he caught your wrists and pinned them firmly beside your head, his lips leaving yours to trail down your neck instead. Soft kisses brushed over your skin, slow and deliberate, before he nipped lightly at your earlobe.
You gasped.
He smiled against you, dragging his tongue along the hollow of your ear, savoring the way your skin prickled under him.
He inhaled deeply. Your scent flooding his senses. Grounding and intoxicating all at once. His cock throbbed painfully against the fabric of his pants.
“Ves…”
Your voice reached him like a caress - soft, breathless. Just his name.
But he knew. He always knew.
He kissed you again, briefly, before letting his hands wander - down your arms, over your sides, up to your breast. The soft fabric of your dress did nothing to hide the way your nipples hardened under his touch.
A quiet, satisfied smile tugged at his lips.
His hand slipped beneath the fabric, tugging it down just enough to free one breast. His thumb rolled over the sensitive bud, watching your body react, watching you shiver beneath him.
He didn’t hold back.
He lowered his mouth, taking you in, sucking slowly at first, then deeper, stronger. Your hand immediately tangled into his hair, gripping, and his entire body reacted to it.
He couldn’t explain it. He just knew he was addicted to you in his mouth. It was a need. But when you whimpered his name, writhing beneath him, he forced himself to pull away, reluctantly.
“What is it, darling?” he murmured, lifting your chin so you had to look at him. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” you answered immediately. “Inside me.”
Another pulse of heat shot through him.
Fuck. You were dangerous.
Addictive. Like sugar.
A soft chuckle left him, but he shook his head.
“Not before I make you come on my mouth first.”
Your breath caught, and his smile deepened, pleased.
He loved this - watching your body betray you, the way your thighs pressed together whenever he said anything even remotely filthy.
He wasn’t oblivious to the effect his voice had on you.
It hadn’t been intentional, but months of silence, broken now, had built something almost sacred between you and the sound of him. And now he used it. Freely. Watching you unravel for him, just from his words, from the way they sounded coming out of his mouth. That was power right there. And he couldn’t resist it.
His hands slid down your hips, catching the hem of your dress and pushing it upward slowly, peeling it from your body with care until it slipped over your head. The black lace you bought for him waiting.
Beautiful. But not overtly revealing. Not crude. It was intimate. Soft. Almost romantic. Perfect.
He leaned down and bit lightly at your breast through the lace before his fingers found the clasp at your back, undoing it with practiced ease. He slipped the straps from your shoulders and tossed the bra aside somewhere on the bed, already moving again, kissing down your neck, your shoulder, your chest… Every inch of you worshipped by his mouth.
His tongue traced your stomach, dipping into your navel briefly before his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear.
He pulled them down slowly, and you lifted your hips instantly. Eager. Desperate.
His heart pounded hard against his ribs, his breath just as uneven as yours. He had barely touched you and already you were both undone by the sheer force of it.
Whatever had pulled him to you that first night… it hadn’t weakened. It had grown stronger. Deeper. Impossible to ignore.
He slid the lace down your legs, over your feet, and couldn’t stop himself from bringing the fabric to his face. He inhaled deeply, your scent hitting him all at once, and his body reacted immediately, a sharp pulse of need.
God.
He wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you down toward him, spreading you open exactly how he wanted you.
One quick glance up at you... then he dove in.
You fell back against the sheets, your breath already uneven, your body responding before he even did anything.
His tongue moved first - slow, deliberate. A long, deep lick, just tasting you.
It was enough. Your fingers tangled into his hair immediately, pulling a low, approving hum from his throat.
He did it again. Then he brought two fingers to his mouth, wetting them before glancing at you briefly, just to see your reaction, before sliding them inside you.
Fuck… You were so wet. Always so ready for him.
His fingers curled just right, deep and precise, finding that sensitive spot inside you that made you break. Your sounds grew louder when his mouth joined his fingers again.
He would never understand men who didn’t enjoy this. For him, there was nothing better than having you like this - your taste on his tongue, your body reacting beneath him, your thighs tightening around his head as he sucked harder at your clit.
The way you moaned. The way you pulled his hair.
“S-shit…”
Your voice was barely a whisper, your whole body trembling under his hands and mouth. But he didn’t rush. He never rushed.
He built you up, then eased back, dragging it out, stretching every second, playing with you.
He liked hearing you whine.
He liked watching your body shake, needing him.
It was intoxicating, the way you always obeyed, like your world revolved around him.
He wasn’t easy to please. But he was dangerously close to coming just from this if he let himself.
Your back arched when he sucked harder on your clit, keeping it between his lips, nursing it like he needed it to breathe. Your hips lifted instinctively, searching, pressing.
Heat pooled low in your body, spilling over his fingers.
Impossible not to drink you in.
God, he was addicted.
He drove his fingers into you again, curling them just right, hitting that spot that made you cry out - and when you did, he praised you.
“Such a perfect girl for me,” he murmured. “Come on, sugar… show me how good I’m making you feel.”
His tongue worked slowly, deliberately. Long strokes before flicking over your clit again, alternating with soft, teasing sucks.
He took his time. He always did.
But the way your thighs trembled around him, the way your breath broke, the way your whole body tightened... he could see it. You were close.
“S-shit, Ves… gonna make me come, love. Please. I am so close.”
Already. He had barely started and you were begging.
He loved that. More than he should.
He hummed in approval and didn’t slow down. If anything, he intensified it. His mouth tightened around you, his fingers moving faster, perfectly, relentlessly.
Your grip on his hair tightened, hard enough to hurt, but it hurt so fucking good.
He groaned at the sensation, the sound vibrating against you and your body responded instantly.
“Oh my God... o-oh, Ves… yes…”
Your hips lifted off the bed, chasing what was already yours. Chasing him.
Your breath shattered. Your spine arched.
And then... You broke. Pleasure crashed through you, overwhelming and raw, your body soaking his fingers, your entire form trembling beneath him.
He knew. He felt it. He had undone you.
And he liked it.
When the wave faded, you collapsed back into the sheets, chest rising fast, fingers still tangled in his hair like you couldn’t let go.
He pulled back reluctantly, careful not to overstimulate you, then climbed up your body slowly, crawling over you without dropping his full weight.
He couldn’t help smiling at your expression.
Love. Satisfaction.
Worship.
“Hello you,” you teased, your voice still soft, rough. He loved that. The way you spoke to him as if he was your favorite person in the world.
And he was starting to believe it.
“Hmm… don’t tell me I ruined you already,” he teased, brushing his lips against yours in a soft kiss.
Something about what he said, and the way you reached up to wipe the mess from his face, made you smile proudly.
“Mine,” you whispered.
His heart stumbled.
You kissed him again, soft, lazy, lingering.
Your fingers slid back into his hair, tugging lightly - as if to prove it. To claim him.
And how could he deny it? He had felt like that for months already.
“Yours,” he answered with a low groan, giving in completely as he surrendered to your kisses.
I’d truly appreciate it if you left a like, a comment, and most importantly, a reblog. It really encourages me to keep writing.
Synopsis: The distance was supposed to be temporary. The waiting was supposed to get easier. Instead, every day apart seems to pull Y/N deeper into feelings she no longer knows how to control, until one emotional phone call threatens to unravel everything.
A/N: This was definitely the hardest chapter to write so far, and it ended up being huge. I just can’t seem to write short chapters, but I hope you like it because we’re finally moving the story forward. Let me know what you think about it ;)
SERIES MASTERLIST
You had never cared much about dates. Not really.
You never remembered anyone’s birthday except your own, and only because yours was the worst day of the year. Followed closely by New Year’s Eve. Both had a way of forcing you to stare too long into the void of your own existence, to see yourself at the bottom of it.
Always alone. Always lost.
So you learned, over time, not to pay attention to the calendar beyond its practical use.
But when you woke up that Sunday morning, the first thing that came to mind wasn’t work, or food, or even the dull ache in your body that hadn’t quite left since Wednesday. It was him.
A thin ribbon of sunlight slipped through the small gaps in your curtains - soft, hesitant, almost shy. In London, that kind of light felt like a quiet miracle, faint but brighter than the usual gray that coated everything.
You squinted slightly, turning your face away from it as it brushed over your eyes. And then it hit you.
Eleven months.
It had been eleven months since that show. Since you had first seen Sleep Token live. Since you had met him. The realization came gently at first, like that strange, disorienting feeling when you notice time has passed without your permission. Like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing.
And then it turned bitter.
Eleven months. Almost a year of your life.
A year you could count, almost embarrassingly, by the handful of times you had actually been with him. And everything else in between had been repetition, routine, waiting, anticipation amd fear.
That constant, gnawing ache of wanting to be with him and not being able to.
It wasn’t a healthy way to live. You knew that. But knowing didn’t change anything.
You sighed, kicking the sheets away as you rolled onto your back, staring up at the plain, unremarkable ceiling of your apartment. A faint crack ran near the corner, something you had noticed a hundred times before. Your mind didn’t stay there long.
It drifted, uninvited, to the ornate plaster ceiling at the Wetherby. The intricate molding. The chandelier casting warm, golden light across the room.
God, you missed that room. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t the room you missed.
You lay there for a long moment, unmoving, letting the weight of another monotonous day settle over you.
You hadn’t worked since Thursday.
Since the panic attack.
Nancy had stayed the night. You had spoken on the phone Friday. Gone out for drinks on Saturday - something you knew wasn’t exactly wise given your state, but still… it had been better than being alone.
Now the thought of spending the entire day in your apartment again pressed heavily against your chest.
Because being alone meant thinking about him.
Missing him.
You had talked to him on Thursday. All day, through messages. Then for hours on the phone that night.
You had finally replied to the message he sent Wednesday - the one Nancy had stopped you from answering - early Thursday morning, after she left. You lied. Said you hadn’t seen it because your internet had been down.
Even as you typed it, something in you knew he didn’t fully believe it. But you stuck to it. Because the alternative was telling the truth and that was impossible. What would you even say?
I had a panic attack because you told me you weren’t coming back.
It sounded ridiculous. Pathetic.
And yet... Strip away logic, and the truth remained: whatever you had with him had crossed the line of healthy a long time ago.
Not because of him. You were certain of that. If anything, you were convinced that man was incapable of anything but love.
No, if there was something wrong in all of this, it was you. Your inability to exist around anyone who wasn’t him. You simply couldn’t talk to people the way you talked to Vessel.
With others, conversations felt shallow, distant. When you tried, you often found yourself stuck in endless monologues where the other person spoke about their life, their stories, their trivialities - requiring nothing more than a few “hmm” or “really?” from you to keep going indefinitely.
And when you tried to speak? To share something that mattered to you? You were cut off. Or laughed at.
“You’re hilarious, Y/n.” “You’re so weird.”
Always said like a joke. Always landing like something sharper. And every time, you shrank a little more, wondering if maybe they were right.
-Okay, Nancy was proving to be a wonderful exception. But even then… It wasn’t the same.
Maybe you really were different.
Too intense.
Too much.
Like your sister always said.
And even though Nancy tried to understand, tried not to judge, you still caught those looks. The ones she didn’t quite hide when you talked about him.
Even to her, you were a little too much. A little too far removed from reality.
But not to him. Never to him.
Vessel had never made you feel like you were too much. He understood you in ways no one ever had. He listened. Truly listened. Paid attention to the things you said, the things you didn’t say.
In less than a year, he knew you more deeply than people who had been in your life forever.
He made you feel seen. Chosen. And that... That was the perfect ground for the kind of emotional dependence you had built around him.
But how could it have been any different? He was the only one who had ever given you that. The only one who made you feel like you mattered. Like you were worth something.
And he was… Perfect.
Vessel felt like someone born to be loved.
And yet the scars on his arms told a different story. You never spoke about them. Neither did he. But they were there. Always there. Visible to anyone who looked closely enough. Discussed in threads online where strangers speculated endlessly without even knowing who he really was.
But you knew. Not because you had searched for his name. But because he had shown himself to you. Out of everyone, he chose you to see him without the mask. To exist beyond it.
And there was nothing beneath it that you loved any less. Nothing. If anything, you loved him more for it. But you also knew he carried his own weight. His own fears. That quiet, lingering doubt that he might not be enough without the persona he had built.
And sometimes you wondered if that fear had anything to do with the scars. Something in you always said yes.
You understood him - or at least, you liked to believe you did - because you felt the same. You had never felt like you were enough either. The world had made sure of that. And that was what had broken you.
Once, you heard a line in a movie you never forgot: the broken are the more evolved. Was that it? Were you both just… broken in compatible ways? Two fractured things clinging to each other...
like branches in a flood?
There was no better way to describe what you had if not in his own lyrics. And still, despite everything those scars might have meant, despite whatever pain had shaped him, Vessel was sweet.
There was no other word for it.
He was intelligent, beautiful, sensitive, attentive, funny… and he knew exactly how to pull reactions from your body that no one else ever had.
He was... godlike.
So what, exactly, could exist in him that wasn’t worthy of being loved?
The moment your thoughts started dragging you under - slow, heavy, familiar - you knew you were in trouble again.
It wasn’t a panic attack this time. The medication wrapped around your mind like a soft barrier, keeping the worst of it at bay. Your breathing stayed steady, your vision clear. But that didn’t mean you were safe.
Because you recognized this too. The pull. The ache. The hollow, gnawing descent into need.
Your chest tightened without warning, a dull, persistent pressure settling right beneath your ribs, and you exhaled sharply, pushing the blankets off as if they were suddenly too heavy.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.
You forced yourself out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor, grounding yourself in something, anything, real.
Be practical.
That was the plan.
You took a long shower, letting the hot water beat against your shoulders until your skin turned pink, hoping it would wash something out of you. It didn’t. When you stepped out, the air felt too cool, too empty. You brushed your teeth slowly, methodically, staring at your own reflection like you were trying to recognize the person looking back.
You tidied the apartment next - folded a blanket, aligned books that didn’t need aligning, wiped down a spotless counter. Small, controlled movements. Order where you could create it.
Then you made a grocery list. You stared at it for all of five seconds before abandoning the idea entirely, the thought of stepping outside, of facing the world like this, immediately exhausting.
No. Not today.
You tried painting your nails. The faint chemical smell filled the room as you carefully brushed color over each fingertip, only to smudge one and swear under your breath. You left it like that anyway.
You turned on the TV. Another horror movie. Something mindless. Loud enough to fill the silence. It became background noise within minutes.
At lunchtime - her lunchtime - you called Nancy.
You curled up on the couch, knees tucked under you, phone pressed to your ear as she talked, her voice bright and animated, filling the spaces your mind kept trying to slip into. You hummed, laughed at the right moments, let her carry most of the conversation. You told yourself it helped.
It did... a little.
You’d even agreed tomorrow she’d come over for dinner. “To update you on the Anna situation,” she had said, like it was some kind of dramatic investigation. That thought lingered just enough to lift something inside you.
A small, fragile thread of anticipation.
But the day kept stretching. Long. Quiet. Suffocating. And your mind, well, your mind was a terrible place to be alone in for this long.
You drifted back to the bedroom sometime in the afternoon, then to the living room again, then back. Restless. Unsettled. Your phone never far from your hand.
Again and again, your thumb hovered over his name. Call. The green icon glowed like a dare.
You sighed, letting your head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
You wanted to hear his voice. God, you wanted it so badly it almost hurt. But you didn’t press it. Not once. And that realization hit you in a strange, quiet way.
You had never called him. Not even once. It had taken you months to feel comfortable even texting him first. Calling felt… different. Bigger. Too direct. Too intrusive.
But shouldn’t it not be, after eleven months? The thought settled somewhere deep and didn’t leave.
As evening crept in, the light outside dimming into that familiar London gray-blue, the idea began to shift. Grow. By the time the streetlights flickered on outside your window, casting soft amber lines across your walls, you were no longer just thinking about calling him to hear his voice.
You were thinking about asking him to come back. Your chest tightened again, sharper this time.
You paced the apartment, phone in hand, unlocking it, locking it, unlocking it again. Your reflection passed you in the darkened TV screen - restless, wired, eyes too bright.
You hovered over his contact. Stopped. Locked the screen. Walked away. Came back. Hovered again.
Your heart was racing now, a steady, insistent drum against your ribs.
What if it was too much? What if you were crossing some invisible line you didn’t even know existed? Would he think you were too much if you did? Would he get annoyed? Angry?
The thought stopped you cold. You frowned slightly, realizing something that felt almost surreal. You had never seen him angry.
Not once. Not even close.
You two never fought. Never disagreed. Everything between you flowed so easily it almost didn’t feel real sometimes.
Was that good… or was that something else entirely?
By ten, you were in bed.
Not because you were tired, your body felt wired, restless, but because it felt like containment. Like if you stayed there, under the covers, in the dark, you might stop yourself from doing something impulsive.
Your phone rested on your chest, rising and falling with each breath. You stared at the ceiling, barely visible in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
The idea didn’t go away. It rooted itself deeper.
You turned onto your side. Then onto your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Kicked it off. Your fingers tapped lightly against the back of your phone, restless energy with nowhere to go.
Just call him.
Not to ask him to come back.
Just to talk.
That’s all.
You repeated it enough times that it started to sound reasonable. Safe. Your throat felt dry. Your hands were cold. Your heart wouldn’t slow down.
Before you could overthink it again, you unlocked the screen. Your thumb pressed the call button. And immediately, your breath hitched.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then...His voice hit you like a shockwave. Warm. Familiar in a way that went straight through your chest and unraveled something tight inside you all at once.
Your entire body reacted - skin prickling, breath catching, heart stumbling over itself - as if just hearing him was enough to pull you back from wherever you’d been slipping.
“Hey, sugar"
The moment his voice reached you, something inside your chest twisted so sharply it almost hurt. The ache of missing him wasn’t abstract anymore, it was physical, pressing against your ribs, stealing your breath.
“Hey…” Your voice came out unsteady, thinner than you wanted. “Are you busy?”
There were voices in the background, muffled, overlapping, but as you listened, they grew distant, like he was moving away from them, carving out a space just for you.
“I’m at the studio,” he said, his tone shifting, focusing entirely on you. “Recording… a few things. Is everything okay?”
There was a hint of tension there now, subtle but unmistakable. “You sound...”
“I… I don’t want to bother you,” you cut in quickly, panic rising without warning. “I shouldn’t have called…”
Your grip tightened around the phone, your fingers slick with sweat. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.
“Sugar,” he said, firmer now, grounding. “You’re not bothering me. Tell me...are you okay?”
You hummed in response, a weak, meaningless sound, because you knew if you tried to form actual words your voice would betray you completely.
This had been a mistake.
A terrible, impulsive mistake.
“Yeah?” he pressed, softer but sharper at the edges. “Then why aren’t you talking to me?” A pause. “Sugar, don’t lie to me. Why did you call?”
And just like that, everything broke.
A sob tore out of you before you could stop it, then another, and suddenly you couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but cry - messy, uncontrollable, humiliating.
“Y/n… sugar...hey, hey..." His voice shifted instantly, concern flooding every syllable. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
You dragged in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, pressing your free hand hard against your mouth as if you could physically hold the sobs back.
This wasn’t what you had planned.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“I’m sorry, Ves…” you managed between breaths, your voice breaking anyway. “Nothing happened. Just… my life.”
You inhaled deeply, forcing the words out before you could lose the nerve.
“I miss you.” Your voice dropped, fragile, honest in a way that made your chest ache even more. “I wish you were here.”
There it was.
Bare. Unfiltered. True.
Silence. Not long - just a second, maybe two - but long enough for you to feel it stretch, heavy with thought. Like he wasn’t just deciding what to say… but what to do.
“I’ve almost finished recording,” he said finally, slower now, deliberate. “There are a few things left, but I think I can wrap up by midnight.”
A pause. You could almost hear him thinking.
“There should be a night train… or I can drive.”
Your breath caught.
“You’d do that?” you asked, your voice small despite everything.
“Yeah.” No hesitation. “Sugar, I was going to text you tomorrow anyway. I was already planning to leave. I had tomorrow night in mind.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks as you shifted on the bed, pulling a pillow into your lap and wrapping your arms around it like it could hold you together.
“I should wait then,” you said, even as every part of you resisted the idea. “I don’t want you driving all night.”
You should wait.
You didn’t want to.
He shushed you softly, that familiar, gentle sound he always made when you cried, and it did something immediate to your chest - tight and warm all at once.
“It’s decided,” he said, with quiet finality. “I’m coming, and...”
He stopped abruptly.
A distant voice cut through the line.
“Bro, come on, what are you doing?”
You heard movement, fabric shifting, his voice pulling away slightly.
“Just give me a minute, for fuck’s sake.”
Then he was back, closer again, a faint edge of irritation in his tone.
“Sorry about that.”
“Who was that?” you asked, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.
“II,” he replied. “We’re finishing… something.”
You exhaled shakily, your chest still tight.
“Ves, we can just meet tomorrow,” you tried again, even though the words felt wrong the moment you said them. “I can wait.”
You couldn’t.
“I’m completely capable of waiting.”
You weren’t.
He didn’t believe you. Not even a little.
“If you could wait, you wouldn’t be crying,” he said simply, firmly. “I’m going to hang up, finish what I need to do, and then I’ll head out. Keep your phone close. I’ll update you so you can be a little bit calmer, yeah?"
You nodded automatically before realizing he couldn’t see you.
“Yeah… okay. Talk to you later, Ves.”
“Sooner than you think, sugar.”
The line went dead. And somehow, the emptiness inside you only deepened. Hearing him had made it worse - sharper, louder, more unbearable. Like your body had remembered exactly what it was missing and refused to settle for anything less.
You sat there for a moment, staring at your phone, your reflection faintly visible on the dark screen.
You weren’t going to sleep. Not like this.
You checked your phone again. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.
After the fifth time, you exhaled and pushed yourself off the bed, your body feeling strangely heavy, sluggish, like you were moving through water.
A shower. Another one. Maybe that would help.
The bathroom light was too bright at first, making you squint as you turned the water on. Steam began to fill the space, softening the edges of everything as you stepped under the heat, letting it cascade over your shoulders, your scalp, down your spine.
You stayed there longer than you needed to, letting the warmth soak into you, hoping it might quiet your thoughts.
It didn’t.
What the hell had that been?
You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, closing your eyes.
How long did you think he was going to put up with this? With you?
So needy. So unstable. So… much.
But he loves me.
The thought slipped in before you could stop it.
Did he?
Your chest tightened again, but differently this time, quieter, more uncertain.
His actions made it harder and harder to believe anything else. He was driving over a hundred miles in the middle of the night just to see you. Still… Even if he did feel the same - and that was still a dangerous “if”- you needed to get a handle on this.
Because this… this was starting to scare you.
When you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped loosely around your body, the first thing you did was reach for your phone.
Your lips curved instantly.
Already at the hotel.
Packing my stuff.
Warmth spread through your chest as you typed back a simple heart emoji before setting the phone down.
You moved slowly after that, your energy low, your mind tired. You picked out a soft grey set - nothing special, just cotton, comfortable, familiar. Matching underwear. A little lotion rubbed into your skin, the scent faint and clean. You brushed your hair, left it damp. Toothpaste, quick rinse.
A hint of perfume.
That was all you could manage.
You drifted into the living room, the apartment dim except for the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. You sank into the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs, the TV flickering with something you barely registered.
Time blurred.
At some point, your playlist filled the room - his voice weaving through the quiet, wrapping around you, easing something deep in your chest just enough to make it bearable.
You didn’t realize how long had passed until your phone buzzed again.
2:03 AM.
On the road.
Just stopped for gas and a case of Red Bull.
A small, tired smile tugged at your lips.
Then...
We have a problem, sugar.
Wetherby’s fully booked.
Every decent hotel in the city is gone.
Some massive tech conference at ExCeL.
London’s a nightmare tonight.
I’m not taking you anywhere that isn’t at least decent.
You let out a soft huff of laughter despite everything, picturing him - tense, annoyed, probably running a hand through his hair as he typed.
An idea surfaced before you could overthink it. You sat up slightly, fingers hovering over the screen. Then you typed.
You can stay at my place.
A pause. Your heart started beating faster.
If you don’t mind it being nothing like our room at the Wetherby.
You bit your lower lip as the typing bubble appeared. Stayed. Disappeared. Came back again.
Felt like forever.
Oh, sugar.
You’re inviting me into your place?
Didn’t see that coming.
But I definitely like the idea.
Your smile spread slowly, uncontrollably. You exhaled, something warm settling in your chest as you typed again, this time without hesitation.
Then it’s settled.
You added the address, fingers steady now.
Flat 12
Riverside Court
Greenwich High Road
London SE10 8JL
A pause.
Waiting for you.
You answered with far more confidence than you actually felt.
He was coming.
Vessel was coming to your apartment.
The realization settled slowly, then all at once. You weren’t just going to see him outside of a hotel room for the first time, you were bringing him into your space. Your home. Your bed.
The thought made something twist low in your stomach, sharp and warm, the overwhelming ache of missing him shifting into something else entirely. Familiar. Electric.
You moved around the apartment in a quiet rush, suddenly hyper-aware of the late hour and how little time you might actually have before he arrived. The place that had always felt safe and comfortably yours now seemed too small, too exposed, like every detail of it would be seen, measured.
You grabbed an empty mug from the coffee table, your fingers tightening slightly around the ceramic before you carried it to the sink. A stack of school papers disappeared into a drawer with a soft thud. You straightened the cushions on the couch, pressing them into place with unnecessary precision, smoothing the fabric like it mattered more than it did.
The flat was simple, you knew that. Modest furniture, a tiny kitchen barely separated from the living room, books scattered in corners and stacked in uneven piles. But it was clean. Cozy. Unmistakably yours.
Still, as you wiped an imaginary speck of dust from the counter with the edge of a dish towel, a flicker of insecurity crept in, quiet but persistent.
What if he thought it was too humble? Too ordinary?
The image of him stepping through your door made your heart stutter again, your chest tightening as you forced yourself to take a slow breath.
This place - this small, carefully kept space - said more about you than any luxury hotel ever could. You knew that. You just hoped he would see it that way too.
You spent nearly half an hour moving from one corner of the apartment to another, folding blankets that didn’t need folding, adjusting objects that were already in place, wiping down the kitchen counter again just to have something to do with your hands. The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the silence of the late hours.
When there was nothing left to fix, nowhere left to tidy, you finally slowed.
You stood in the middle of the living room, arms hanging loosely at your sides, your gaze drifting toward your phone resting on the coffee table.
Okay.
Think.
You tried to do the math in your head, your fingers curling slightly as if counting would somehow make the time feel more predictable. He had left Birmingham after midnight. The drive, what, two hours? Maybe more with traffic. But there would be no traffict now. Well, he had stopped for gas.
You lifted your hand, counting quietly under your breath.
“One… two… three…”
Maybe four in the morning.
The uncertainty twisted tighter in your stomach.
Waiting felt unbearable.
Sitting still felt worse.
That was when you noticed it, an emptiness that wasn’t just emotional. Your stomach tightened again, this time with actual hunger. Real, physical, grounding. Somehow in the middle of everything you handnt even stopped to eat properly the whole day.
And suddenly, the thought of him arriving - tired, drained, having driven through the night - and finding nothing here felt wrong.
You moved before you could overthink it.
The kitchen light flicked on with a soft click, casting a warm, slightly yellow glow over the small space. You tied your hair back loosely, fingers fumbling for a second before securing it, and opened the fridge, scanning its contents.
Something simple. Something warm.
You settled on pasta with tomato sauce.
It felt safe. Familiar. Manageable.
You filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove, the metal ringing softly as it touched the burner. The quiet hiss of gas and the low flame grounding you in the moment. You reached for garlic, crushing a clove under the flat of a knife, the sharp scent immediately blooming into the air.
Minutes passed.
They moved differently now - still slow, but not suffocating. Just enough to keep your hands busy, your thoughts from spiraling too far.
As the tomatoes began to simmer, the kitchen filled with warmth, with smell, with something alive. The soft bubbling of the sauce, the rhythmic clink of utensils against the pan, the faint steam curling upward toward the ceiling.
You moved barefoot across the small space, the floor cool beneath your feet, your steps quiet. Every movement was deliberate, focused. Something to hold onto.
You were trying to look busy. Trying to feel normal. Trying not to think about the fact that at any moment, he would be there.
Eventually, the water started boiling and you added the pasta, stirring it absently while the sauce bubbled gently on the stove. Steam curled up toward the small kitchen light, softening everything in a warm haze. You reached for the herbs almost without thinking and added some basil leaves to the sauce, remembering clear as if it had just happened the way he had casually mentioned once that he liked basil. Just like that, your usual recipe had changed because of him.
You kept stirring even when the sauce didn’t need it, your hand moving in slow, repetitive circles just to keep your fingers busy, to give your restless energy somewhere to go. Every few seconds, your gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall, doing useless calculations in your head.
At some point your mind started telling you this was ridiculous, that cooking at nearly four in the morning for a man who wasn’t even technically yours was insane, and yet your heart kept racing like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When the doorbell finally rang, the sound shot through you like electricity.
For a split second, you thought about turning off the stove, fixing your hair, checking your reflection, but instead, you dropped the wooden spoon into the sink with a clatter and rushed to the door, pulling it open with barely contained urgency.
And there he was.
In jeans and a t-shirt, a dark jacket thrown over it - not denim, not leather, something heavier - and a black knit beanie pulled low over his head. A backpack hung from one shoulder, clearly heavy, and he held his guitar case tightly in his hand. There was a faint, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Hello,” he said.
And before you could even process the moment, you were already moving, already throwing yourself into his arms.
You heard the soft thud of the guitar case hitting the floor as he dropped it to catch you properly, his arms wrapping around you instantly. His hand came up to your chin, tilting your face just enough for him to kiss you - firm, immediate, but brief - breaking just as quickly so he could look at you.
“Let me see you, sugar. You had me so worried,” he said, his voice almost too serious, but never sharp, never accusatory.
“I’m fine,” you answered, your cheeks warming under his gaze. It hadn’t been true before he arrived, but now it would be. “I just… missed you. A lot.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, exhaling softly.
“I know. I’m here now.”
His fingers brushed lightly along your cheek, grounding, steady.
“Now… are you going to let me in?"
A soft, nervous laugh slipped out of you despite the tears still clinging to your lashes. You stepped back, reluctant but smiling, opening the door wider.
“I’m sorry. Come in. Let me take that.”
He handed you the backpack, closing the door behind him as you moved to set it on the armchair. He followed, leaving the guitar case beside it, and for a brief second there was silence - thick, charged - as you became painfully aware of yourself. Your clothes. Your hair. The fact that you hadn’t changed.
But he didn’t give your thoughts time to spiral.
His hands found you again, warm and certain, pulling you flush against his chest like he had been holding himself back for hours. His eyes searched your face for a single heartbeat.
“Let me kiss you properly,” he murmured.
And then he did.
This time, there was nothing hesitant about it. The kiss was deep, consuming, like all the distance and longing between you had snapped at once. Your fingers clutched at his jacket while his hand settled at the small of your back, holding you steady, anchoring you. His lips were still cool from the night air, and there was the faintest tremor in them that made your chest tighten.
For a few endless seconds, nothing else existed. Not the past week. Not the anxiety. Not the exhaustion. Just him.
The weight that had been pressing against your chest for days dissolved completely, leaving behind only a faint, lingering nervousness, something quieter, sharper, like your body still didn’t quite trust the calm.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours again.
“Is that basil?” he asked simply.
“Oh my God...” you blinked, pulling away abruptly. “I completely forgot.”
You left him standing there and rushed back into the kitchen, turning off the sauce without even checking it. It was pure luck it hadn’t burned. The pasta, on the other hand…
“Shit,” you muttered, staring at it. “Oh God… what am I going to do?”
Your voice spiraled as your hand pressed against your forehead, thoughts racing too fast to catch.
“You’re actually cooking for me? At…” he glanced at his watch, “…almost four in the morning?”
You hadn’t noticed he had followed you. He stood in the doorway now, leaning slightly against the frame, a faintly amused smile playing on his lips. And it made your cheeks heat all over again.
“I was trying to. But the pasta is clearly overcooked and I don’t know how to...” your voice wavered dangerously, like you were teetering on the edge of tears again.
Why were you like this?
He was here. Everything was fine. And still, your chest felt tight all over again.
“Let me try it,” he said gently, stepping closer, his tone immediately shifting as if he could read everything unraveling in you.
He found a fork in the drying rack, picked up a strand of spaghetti, blew on it lightly, and tasted it. Simple. Casual. And yet, to you, it felt absurdly intimate. Unreal. Your brain struggled to process the fact that he was standing in your kitchen, eating your food.
“You forgot the salt. But it’s pretty good to me.”
He handed the fork to you.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just add a pinch of salt before draining. It’ll work.”
The way he said it, so certain, so easy, made something settle inside you.
“Okay… um… please, sit,” you gestured toward the chair. “I’ll finish this so we can eat. Are you… are you even hungry? I didn’t ask. I...I don’t know what I’m doing here, Ves.”
Instead of sitting, he took your hand, squeezing it gently.
“You’re cooking pasta. For us,” he said softly. “And yes, I am hungry. I stayed at the studio all day, barely ate anything. I’m basically starving, and your sauce smells so...”
You cut him off with a quick, clumsy kiss. Just a brush of lips. A quiet thank you you couldn’t say out loud.
“Okay,” you breathed.
“Okay?” he checked.
You nodded, inhaling deeply.
“Okay. I’ll go wait, then,” he said, his tone deliberately calm, slower than usual. “Take your time. No rush. Everything is okay.”
His thumb pressed lightly against your hand before letting go, and you understood exactly what he was doing.
When he stepped away, your mind felt clearer.
You followed his suggestion, adding salt to the pasta water, stirring once before draining it. The movements felt more controlled now, less frantic. You even remembered to grab a small tablecloth, laying it over the tiny kitchen table before plating the food—spaghetti, sauce, a bit of grated parmesan on top.
No wine, of course. You almost never drank - except when you did, and those moments were never about taste. In the end, you grabbed two cans of Coca-Cola from the fridge and set them on the table.
And there it was.
Your late-night “romantic” dinner.
Overcooked pasta, slightly questionable sauce, and soda.
When you went to call him, you caught him slowly wandering through the small living room. He moved with that quiet, almost careful curiosity of someone stepping into a new world. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly hunched as if he didn’t want to disturb anything, taking his time as his gaze traveled over every detail.
The soft yellow light from the standing lamp cast long shadows across the room, turning familiar objects into something softer, almost unfamiliar under his attention.
You watched him pause in front of your record player, his fingers hovering just above the turntable, hesitating like he was resisting the urge to touch it. He leaned down a little, flipping gently through the stack of vinyl beside it, his head tilting with quiet interest as he read the covers one by one.
From there, he drifted toward the bookcase.
A few framed photos were scattered between worn novels and old notebooks, and he picked one up, though from where you stood, you couldn’t quite see which one. He studied it longer than you expected, his thumb brushing lightly against the edge of the frame, like he was trying to piece together a version of you that existed outside of him.
It felt… intimate.
Seeing him discover parts of your life you had never thought to explain.
Then, of course, he got nosy.
You noticed too late that the bottom drawer of the cabinet was still slightly open from your earlier frantic attempt at tidying up. He crouched down without hesitation, curiosity getting the better of him, and pulled it the rest of the way open.
You stayed where you were, leaning lightly against the kitchen doorway, watching him sift through the mess of school papers you had carelessly shoved in there. Sheets of corrections, lesson plans, scribbled notes - your life, disorganized and exposed.
And then he found it.
Your degree certificate.
Neatly framed, but hidden beneath everything else.
He lifted it carefully, bringing it closer to read, and you felt your face heat almost instantly as he turned his head slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder. Completely caught. Completely unapologetic.
He smiled at you.
Those small, sharp fangs showing just enough to make something flutter low in your stomach.
“4 a.m. dinner is ready,” you said, your voice softer than you intended.
He nodded, placing the certificate back exactly where he had found it, sliding it under the papers again before closing the drawer with a gentle push.
You were painfully aware of how simple everything was as he followed you into the kitchen.
Just pasta. Two cans of Coke. Mismatched cutlery.
Nothing glamorous. Nothing impressive.
And yet he sat down across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world, rolling the spaghetti onto his fork with an ease that felt natural. The faint hum of the fridge filled the quiet between you, along with the distant, muffled sound of a car passing outside.
He took the first bite.
Paused.
Then nodded.
“This is really good.”
Simple. Honest.
And the relief that washed over you was so strong it almost made you laugh at yourself.
He reached automatically for a drink, grabbing the can and opening it with a soft hiss. He lifted it straight to his lips without hesitation, taking a sip like it didn’t even occur to him that something might be missing.
Only then did it hit you - you hadn’t brought glasses.
You opened your mouth to apologize, already feeling that familiar flicker of self-consciousness creeping in, but he was already taking another sip, completely unbothered. Like drinking Coke straight from the can at four in the morning in your tiny kitchen was exactly where he wanted to be.
He didn’t ask for anything more.
He never did.
At first, you mostly watched him. The way he leaned back slightly in the chair between bites, the way his fingers rested loosely around the fork, the way his attention shifted fully to you whenever you spoke. There was something unhurried about him now, something that hadn’t been there when he first arrived.
You could feel it happening inside you, slowly.
The tight knot in your chest loosening. The constant, anxious buzzing fading into something quieter.
His presence worked on you without effort, like a steady hand resting over a storm. The urge to cry slipped away without warning. The heaviness in your stomach eased. At some point, you realized you were smiling, and it wasn’t forced.
Conversation came in small, easy pieces.
He told you about the day at the studio, careful with his words, never spoiling anything, never saying too much, but always just enough. And you asked questions you knew he couldn’t fully answer, pushing just a little, and still, he always gave you something. A detail. A hint. Something small that felt like it had been chosen just for you.
You didn’t talk about your day. Or about your work.
And he didn’t ask.
Not because he didn’t care, but because he seemed to know those were edges better left untouched tonight. And he wasn’t going to risk pulling you back into something that had already nearly broken you earlier.
Minutes blurred together in that quiet, unremarkable way that only happens when you feel safe.
The food disappeared slowly. The cans sat half-forgotten on the table. The light stayed soft, the world outside distant and irrelevant.
And at some point, without realizing when it happened, you noticed something simple.
You weren’t trembling anymore.
You were calm.
...
You were standing at the sink, rinsing plates under the low, steady stream of water, the faint clink of porcelain and cutlery filling the quiet apartment. The air still carried the remnants of dinner - something warm, savory - now fading into the early morning stillness. Empty cans sat scattered across the small table behind you, and you reached back absentmindedly to gather them, trying to keep your hands busy.
“I’m afraid to ask if you’re going to work tomorrow.”
His voice came from behind you, low and careful, like he was testing the weight of the question before letting it fully land.
A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. You set the last plate aside and turned, drying your hands on a towel as you faced him.
“Why?” you asked lightly. “Do you not want me to go?”
He didn’t answer right away, just nodded once, almost to himself, then reached out his hand. You took it without hesitation, letting him pull you closer, fitting you between his thighs.
His other arm slid around your waist, grounding, warm. His fingers laced with yours, steady and familiar.
“That,” he murmured, glancing at you, “and the fact that it’s already five in the morning… and, as far as I know, you’re supposed to be waking up in an hour.”
You stilled.
For a moment, everything in you hesitated. Lying wasn’t an option, not like this, not with him looking at you the way he did. There was something in his gaze, sharp and attentive, like he could read every shift in your expression if you gave him enough time.
But telling the truth felt... too much.
“I’ve been home since Thursday,” you said finally, with a small shrug, pretending it was no big deal.
Your fingers traced absent patterns against his sleeve as you spoke.
“I kind of… had a breakdown at work on Wednesday.” You paused, your voice thinning just slightly as the memory brushed up against you. “I passed out at school. The doctor signed me off for a few weeks.”
A beat.
“But it’s nothing serious,” you added quickly, softening the edges of it.
For a fraction of a second, something in his expression shifted, his brows pulling together, a flicker of concern breaking through before he exhaled and smoothed it away.
“That’s why you didn’t answer me Wednesday night,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“You should have told me.”
His tone wasn’t angry. It was worse than that - firm, controlled, threaded with a concern he was clearly trying not to show too much of.
And somehow, that made your chest tighten.
You didn’t want to be something he had to worry about. Didn’t want to become a weight, a complication. Something that might eventually make him pull away.
So you did what you always did. Minimized.
“It’s nothing,” you said, softer now, your fingers drifting up to his face, brushing through the short strands of hair that fell over his forehead. “I’ve just been tired. Working too much.”
Your thumb lingered there for a second, a gentle, distracting touch.
“You must be exhausted too,” you added, your voice dipping into something sweeter, intentionally lighter.
For a moment, it almost worked.
His eyes closed briefly, leaning just slightly into your touch, like he was allowing himself that small comfort.
But when he opened them again, the focus was still there. Still on you.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said quietly. “But we need to talk about this.”
“What?” you deflected, a faint edge slipping into your voice. “I told you, it’s nothing. I just need some time off, and I’ll be fine.”
Maybe it could have sounded convincing. If he hadn’t seen you break down just an hour ago.
You didn’t give him time to push further, though. Your hands came up to cup his face, and you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.
Soft at first. Careful. Then deeper. More insistent.
Your fingers curled slightly against his jaw as you kissed him again, slower this time, your mouth parting, inviting. You felt the moment he hesitated, just a breath, before he gave in, his lips parting under yours.
A quiet sound slipped from him, barely audible, as his hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
You took that as permission.
What had started as distraction unraveled quickly into something else, something heavier, hungrier. Weeks of absence, of distance, of tension you hadn’t fully let yourself feel until now, suddenly rising to the surface all at once.
Your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up. Before, everything had been dulled by anxiety, blurred and distant. But now... now you felt him. Fully. The warmth of him, the weight of his hands, the way he held you like he didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.
You broke the kiss eventually, breath unsteady, your forehead brushing lightly against his for a second.
Then you reached for his hand again, fingers slipping into his, and gave a gentle pull.
“Come,” you murmured.
He followed you without a word, his hand still wrapped around yours, fingers laced together like neither of you wanted to risk losing contact.
You led him down the narrow hallway, your bare feet soft against the floor, your pulse just a little too fast for how quiet everything else felt.
But just before you reached your bedroom, he stopped. His grip on your hand tightened, and he gently drew you back toward him.
You turned, following his gaze.
The framed poster hung directly across from your bedroom door, impossible to miss. The Even in Arcadia Tour artwork sat inside a heavy, ornate gold frame - far nicer than anything else you owned, a small indulgence you had never quite justified even to yourself. In the soft hallway light the colors looked deeper, richer: the towering figure beneath the moon, the cathedral spires, the sweep of dark wings. It dominated the wall the way it had dominated your thoughts when you bought it.
And now he was staring at it.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
His eyes moved slowly across the image, tracing details you had memorized months ago, like he was seeing it for the first time - and at the same time, like he was trying to understand something about it.
About himself.
A strange heat crept up your neck.
You shifted your weight slightly, suddenly aware of how exposed it felt, as if the poster revealed something far more personal than you had ever intended. Your thumb brushed nervously over the back of his hand, a small, grounding motion.
His gaze lingered on the hooded figure, on the sharp, dramatic silhouette.
From where you stood, you caught the subtle shift in his expression.
There was something almost shy in it. Like he didn’t quite recognize himself in that version - the larger-than-life presence, carved out of shadow and gold. The figure in the artwork felt powerful, godlike.
The man standing beside you wasn't less than that.
But Vessel in that picture felt distant, untoucheble. There by your side he felt warm. Real. Close enough that you could feel the quiet rise and fall of his breathing.
You watched him watch the poster, your chest tightening slightly with a mix of vulnerability and something softer, something that felt dangerously close to being seen.
When he finally looked down at you, there was something unguarded in his expression. A flicker of pride, maybe. A hint of embarrassment. Something touched and uncertain.
And then he smiled.
Soft. Almost boyish.
“Come,” you said gently, your voice quieter now as you tugged his hand again, guiding him the last few steps into your room.
Your bedroom was small. Ordinary.
The kind of space you rarely thought about - until now. Now, every detail seemed louder.
The bed was unmade, the blanket twisted loosely across it. A few pieces of clothing rested on the chair in the corner, abandoned hours ago. Books sat in uneven stacks on your nightstand, and your desk carried the quiet chaos of papers and pens you had meant to organize but never did.
Nothing special.
And yet, with him standing there, it felt like everything mattered.
You watched him take it in, not with judgment, but with something quieter. Something that made your chest feel tight in a different way.
His breathing shifted, subtle but noticeable.
His eyes found you again. Then, just for a second, they dropped to the bed.
When they came back to you, whatever hesitation had been there before was gone.
He reached for you without warning.
One hand slid firmly to your waist, pulling you in, while the other came up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers warm and steady.
The kiss was immediate. Urgent. It stole the breath from your lungs before you could even prepare for it.
You melted into him instinctively, your hands gripping the front of his jacket, holding on like letting go wasn’t an option.
There was no space between you.
Not even a fraction.
Weeks of distance, of tension, of everything left unsaid collapsed into that single moment.
Your hands took off his beanie, then moved under the heavy fabric, pushing it down his shoulders. He broke the kiss just long enough to help you pull his T-shirt over his head, both of you a little breathless, a little clumsy in the rush.
The fabric dropped somewhere behind him, forgotten instantly.
His hands found the hem of your top next, hesitating only for a second before you lifted your arms, letting him pull it off. A soft, breathless smile flickered between you, something light, almost shy, cutting through the intensity for just a moment.
Everything felt unsteady.
Not chaotic in a messy way, just… too much all at once. Too real. Too close.
His hands were warm against your skin, but there was a slight tremor there, like he was feeling it too. Your fingers fumbled briefly as you reached for the buttons of his jeans, your movements hurried, impatient.
He kicked off his sneakers without looking, careless and distracted, while you pushed your shorts down, stepping out of them without ever fully letting go of him.
There was no grace in it. No careful choreography.
Just need.
For a moment, you both paused, just barely, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, your lips brushing with each inhale.
A quiet second.
Then his arms wrapped around you completely.
He lifted you just enough for your legs to wrap around his waist, your body instinctively moving with his. You felt the edge of the mattress against the back of your knees, and then the world tilted as he lowered you down with him.
The bed dipped beneath your weight.
But neither of you let go. Not for a second.
You held onto him like he might disappear if you didn’t. And he held onto you the same way.
The room faded around you - the quiet mess of the night, the lingering weight of everything that had come before. The fear, the exhaustion, the uncertainty… it all softened at the edges, dissolving into something warmer.
Something quieter.
Time seemed to blur inside those walls.
And for a little while, nothing else existed.
...
The sky beyond your window had begun to soften into pale shades of morning, darkness slowly giving way to that fragile, grayish light that came just before sunrise. You didn’t know what time it was anymore, not really, but you knew the night was ending.
You lay there, still, your body heavy in the aftermath of everything that had passed between you. There was a strange softness to it now - not the numb, distant kind you had been carrying for days, but something warmer. Looser. For the first time in weeks, your muscles weren’t tight with tension, your chest wasn’t braced for impact.
You felt… calm.
Vessel was quiet behind you, his breathing slow and even, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. For a moment, you thought he had fallen asleep, and honestly, it would have made sense after everything, but then his voice came, low and slightly rough, breaking the quiet.
“I never asked how long you’ve been a fan.”
You were lying with your back to him, turned just enough onto your side to fit naturally against his chest. One of his arms was tucked beneath you, supporting your shoulders, while the other rested securely around your waist. His hand covered yours, fingers intertwined in that effortless way that felt both protective and intimate.
“Not long,” you answered honestly, your voice sounding unfamiliar in the stillness. “Spotify recommended Emergence, and I was sold.”
“That recent?” he asked, a note of genuine surprise threading through his tone.
“Yeah.” You let out a small breath, a faint smile touching your lips even though he couldn’t see it. “I wish I could say it was earlier, though.”
He shifted slightly behind you, settling in more comfortably, his body pressing closer along yours, his warmth grounding.
“And why is that?”
You shrugged lightly against him. “I guess I just wish I had met you sooner.”
He hummed softly, his fingers tightening around yours in a quiet squeeze.
“Me too.”
Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It felt full of shared breath, of the quiet hum of something fragile and real.
And then the question came back.
It had always been there, somewhere in the back of your mind, lingering, waiting, but you had never been brave enough to give it a voice.
Until now.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
“I like to think you just needed to be at that show that night,” he said suddenly, his voice calm, certain. “If you had known us earlier… maybe things would have been different.”
That did it.
“Why me?”
Your voice came out softer than you intended. Almost hesitant. Like asking it might break something.
“There were so many girls screaming your name that night,” you continued, your throat tightening slightly. “Begging for your attention. Why did you pick me?”
You felt him inhale behind you, deep, steady, holding it for a second before letting it go.
“There was something… incredibly beautiful about the way you looked completely lost there.”
His hand came up to your face, gently guiding you to turn toward him.
“I can’t really explain it,” he admitted, his eyes searching yours. “But you caught my eye the moment I sat down, and I couldn’t stop looking at you for the rest of the show.”
His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek.
“I wasn’t thinking when I asked them to bring you backstage. Nothing about that night was rational.”
You nodded slightly, letting yourself lean into him as he pressed a series of soft kisses against your lips, one after another, each gentler than the last, like he was trying to say something without words.
And slowly, you melted. Whatever tension had been left in your body dissolved completely, leaving nothing behind but warmth. Just love.
The silence returned, but this time it felt deeper.
You shifted again, resting your head back against his arm, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his forearm. Along the scars.
Thin, pale lines crossing over each other in uneven layers. Some so faint they were almost invisible, others wider, slightly raised - older, healed. Time had softened them, turned them into something permanent.
There were many, but three stood out. Perfectly aligned. Too precise to be accidental. Your fingers slowed as they brushed over them, your chest tightening almost imperceptibly.
None of them were new, just… remnants. A past he carried.
You felt him tense slightly beneath your touch, just for a second, but then he exhaled, something quiet and resigned, his body easing again.
“Dark shit,” you whispered.
He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in deeply.
“Dark shit,” he echoed, his voice muffled, but you caught the tremor in it.
And then it came back.
The feeling. Sharp. Sudden. Like a fist to your stomach. The weight of it hit you so hard it knocked the air from your lungs.
You couldn’t stay there anymore, so you pulled away, sitting up, crossing your legs as you turned to face him. The sheets shifted around you, cool against your skin, grounding in a way you needed.
“I don’t want to be a burden in your life, Vessel.”
Your voice trembled despite your effort to steady it.
“What I did tonight… I can’t do that to you. I am too much. Too much problem, too much feelings…”
You closed your eyes briefly, forcing yourself to breathe, to stay present, to not spiral.
“I am painfully aware of how dependent I have become on you. And so are you.”
“Y/n…” he started, sitting up, his gaze fixed on you.
“Please, let me finish.”
Your voice was firmer now, even if your hands weren’t.
“This… whatever this is between us… it’s beautiful. It’s everything to me…” Your chest tightened, but you pushed through it. “…but it’s not healthy. I am no good for you.”
The words hurt. But they felt true.
He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you.
Thinking. Weighing. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, controlled, but heavy with something deeper.
“I don’t know if it’s healthy or not. Good god, nothing in my life has ever been easy, Sugar, and I went through some… dark shit. But you… you don’t feel that way.”
“Ves…”
“I’ve always had a hard time seeing myself as someone worthy of love,” he continued. “It got better with the band, with the mask… but it’s not the same thing. They don’t love me, Sugar. They don’t love this.”
He gestured toward his face. And your chest ached.
“But you do.”
He shrugged lightly, almost boyish, but his words carried weight far beyond that.
“So you have your issues. So what? I can handle it. Deep down, I think we’re perfect for each other because we complement each other so well. Darling…” He let the word linger, softer now. “You need me and I need you to need me. And that shit is dark and twisted, but so are we.”
Silence followed.
Thick.
Still.
Your eyes locked with his, neither of you moving, neither of you breathing properly.
Then he reached for your hand, brought it to his lips and pressed a slow, lingering kiss against your skin, his eyes closing like he was sealing something in that moment.
And then...
“Sugar, I love you too.”
Everything in you gave way.
Your body softened instantly, your breath catching, tears spilling before you could stop them.
He exhaled quietly, like even saying it had taken something out of him.
“I love you…” he repeated, more softly now. “In my own way, the only way I learned. Quiet, no deep declarations, not in the ‘taking you to see some shitty Hollywood movie and eat some ridiculously expensive popcorn’ way, but I do.”
He paused, his thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles.
“You have to believe me. And you need to stop annulling yourself the way you do, and I get it, it’s some kind of defense mechanism, but you don’t need to do that shit with me. Leave it to the others. With me, you can be who the fuck you are. You can be intense, you can be too much, you can call me crying in the middle of the night asking me to come because you miss me. I can take it.”
“Ves…” you whispered, barely holding together.
“I don’t know who broke you like this, Sugar. And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you need to know that I am aware of how broken you are. You don’t hide it as well as you think you do.”
He inhaled slowly.
“And don’t get me wrong, I’m not in a position to fix it. I can’t. I can’t even fix myself. But I can stay. I can stay with you. I can come to your place in the middle of the night when you call me… because you made me feel loved for the first time in my life.”
His hand came up to your face, wiping away the tears that had gathered along your jaw.
“Sugar, you make me feel loved. Not only desired. Not only worshiped. Loved. And I can’t let that go. I can’t let you go. So don’t come with that shit. I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiled then, soft, a little sad, and you could see the shine of tears in his eyes, barely held back.
“Let us be submerged together,” you whispered, your voice fragile, pulling from his own words.
He closed his eyes.
A tear slipped free, trailing slowly down his cheek.
And he didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t hide it.
And in that moment, it felt undeniable that the man who broke apart on stage, voice cracking through songs, was the same man sitting in front of you now, quietly telling you he loved you.
The silence stretched again, but you didn’t rush it. You knew silence was how he processed things. Finally, he reached out, his fingers finding the small golden charm at your neck, turning it gently between them.
“I knew I loved you the day I gave you this,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to say it. I spent a long time not knowing what to say… but you understood me so well. You understood everything… just not this.”
You swallowed, emotion rising too fast to hold back now.
“It isn't my favorite song,” you admitted with a small, shaky laugh.
He let out a soft laugh of his own - fragile, but real.
“Mine neither,” he murmured. “But now it is. Because it’s yours.”
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