The first thing Grian noticed was the silence. A heavy, insulated quiet that felt nothing like his flat back home, broken only by the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional groan of plumbing from some unseen corner of the hotel. The curtains leaked faint light, a thin stripe across the floorboards, enough to paint the room in washed-out gray. The sheets smelled faintly of detergent. Too crisp, too clean, but beneath it lingered something warmer, something distinctly not his.

  He blinked, disoriented for a moment, until his gaze landed on the figure beside him. Jimmy. Sprawled across the bed in a way that seemed both careless and utterly at home, one arm flung out, mouth parted, hair a chaotic halo against the pillow. The frontman of The Rejects, larger than life on stage, and here he was—snoring softly, blanket half-kicked to the floor.

  Grian let out a slow breath, the strangeness of it all pressing in at once. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this bed, not in this city, not waking up next to someone who had thousands of people screaming his name just hours before. And yet, here he was, and the longer he stared, the more his chest tightened with something dangerous he wanted to ignore. 

  It hadn’t even been his night, not really. That was the strangest part of all, this was never meant to be his story. It was supposed to be an eventful weekend, yes, but not for him. No. For his best friends, Gem, Impulse, and Scott, the up-and-coming band from their hometown. Gem and The Scotts had been ecstatic when they’d been asked to open for The Rejects during their country-wide tour. And as a loving, caring friend, Grian had come out with them to show his support.

  But big crowds of strangers, loud music booming from every direction, and the flashing of bright, colorful lights had never been his scene. Not even when he encountered the same chaos in his line of work. Grian had always preferred the comfort of being behind the scenes—the man in the wings, never at the forefront, unnoticed while others screamed for the real stars. It was who he’d been all his life, and he had no interest in anything more than that. All he wanted was his peace, and to be left alone with the work he loved.

  And yet, here he was. In this room, in this bed. How had he let it get this far?

  The sound of a stuttering snore snapped Grian out of his thoughts, and he glanced at Jimmy as he held his breath, wondering if the rockstar was about to wake. But then Jimmy’s breathing evened out again, chest rising and falling, bare skin striking against the sheets. The fair, soft skin was covered in darkening marks—evidence of the possessiveness that had overcome Grian in the throes of passion. Heat crept up his face before he could stop it. What was he thinking? Sure, Jimmy was handsome, beautiful even, but Grian didn’t care about things like that. He never had. Looks weren’t what drew him in. Relationships weren’t either. Perhaps that was why he had agreed to this in the first place.

   He shifted under the covers and rolled to his side, eyes tracing the soft scatter of freckles across Jimmy’s face, the kind that disappeared under makeup and stage lights. Faint, almost secret, like they were meant for no one else to see. His skin was bare here, untouched by eyeshadow, washed clean and glowing in the muted gray of morning. Ordinary, and yet somehow extraordinary—because Grian was the only one seeing him like this.

  This was the man those thousands of fans had been screaming for, the one they shoved and trampled just to get closer. Grian hadn’t come for The Rejects, he was there for his friends. He’d done his best to enjoy their set despite the chaos around him, but when it ended, he’d only wanted to slip away. He should’ve left. Instead, the lights shifted, the music swelled, and then Jimmy walked on stage. The noise hit like a tidal wave, and Grian had never been more irritated in his life.

   Who even were The Rejects? Some boy band cosplaying punk rock, with their loud colors and ridiculous makeup? And their frontman, Jimmy, what was so special about him? Sure, his smile was blinding, bright enough to rival his roommate’s, and yes, his voice was smooth, melodic even, but nothing Grian hadn’t heard before. Nothing extraordinary.

  Or at least, that’s what he thought until Jimmy looked at him. Really looked. Just for a second, the singer’s grin faltered, his words caught, like he’d forgotten the lyrics entirely. Grian told himself it was his imagination. Theatrics. Coincidence. But then it happened again. And again. Until Grian couldn’t pretend anymore that the singer’s eyes weren’t finding him in the crowd.

   He told himself he stayed put because the crowd was too packed to push through. That it was easier to endure than to squeeze past rabid fans. But deep down he knew better. Because every time Jimmy’s gaze snagged on his, Grian couldn’t bring himself to look away.

  Grian sucked in a sharp breath when he realized his hand was moving on its own, fingertips ghosting over Jimmy’s face. The slope of his nose, the faint scratch of stubble, the hard line of a jaw shaped by years of singing. He stilled, heat rushing up his neck. What was he doing? He didn’t know the first thing about The Rejects—their history, their rise, the countless nights that had made Jimmy into this. And even when Jimmy had said he wanted them to talk, to know each other, they hadn’t gotten that far. Not yet.

  That had been the excuse, hadn’t it? The cheeky frontman’s grin when he’d asked Grian to come backstage. Grian had almost bolted right then, slipping through the crowd to escape. What did a rockstar want with him? Why be so brazen? He’d tried to call Jimmy’s bluff, saying no, demanding a reason. But when Jimmy’s face softened, not with mockery or charm, but with something bashful, almost shy—something inside Grian had buckled. His chest had tightened, and before he could think better of it, he’d agreed. Maybe it was just spite, a little ego boost against the rabid fans who’d shoved him all night. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

  But the more Jimmy had spoken, the harder it became to pretend. There was something disarming about him; sincere, ridiculous, honest in a way that didn’t fit the stage lights. And against his better judgment, Grian found himself wanting more.

  Because why was Jimmy being like this with him? They didn’t know each other. Grian had assumed it was all just a pretext to get him in bed—because that’s what men like Jimmy did, wasn’t it? Yet when they slipped into the dressing room and sat down together, Jimmy hadn’t rushed anything. He’d looked at him, really looked, as if he wanted Grian’s thoughts more than his body. And then he’d said it. Complimented him, not with some rehearsed line, but with something quiet, almost reverent. Pretty.

  Pretty. Really? The word had made Grian’s brain stutter, as if it wasn’t meant for him at all. Not from a man whose name was screamed into arenas, who commanded a stage with every grin and gesture. And then, because apparently he wasn’t finished shattering every expectation, Jimmy had asked for a kiss. Asked. As though consent weren’t just courtesy but something precious to him.

  Grian had flirted back, half out of habit, half from the thrill of the absurdity: him and a rockstar, why not? He’d thought it would be simple, physical, something to laugh about later. But Jimmy kept peeling back the layers with his sincerity. His promise that he wanted to know Grian, that he meant to charm him, not just conquer him. It left Grian unmoored, defenseless against feelings he had no name for.

  Reckless. Risky. And before he realized it, he had already given in, tumbling headlong into something far more dangerous than the warmth of a rockstar’s bed.

  Grian’s heart raced as the images pressed in—Jimmy between his legs, Jimmy’s head thrown back in pleasure, the sweat, the heat, the impossible warmth of their bodies tangled together. And the kisses. God, the kisses. The ones that weren’t needed, not for a one-night stand. Because that was all this was. A rockstar on tour. A man who would be gone in days. There was no reason for tenderness, no reason for sweetness. No reason, except they felt good. Tasted good. Stayed with him long after.

  He wasn’t going to say Jimmy was the best kisser he’d ever had. Not when he hadn’t kissed many. Not when it didn’t matter. And he wasn’t going to admit that Jimmy’s mouth had been soft, or gentle, or that the sweetness lingering there wasn’t only the liquor. He wasn’t going to tell anyone about the way Jimmy sighed against him, those quiet, startlingly vulnerable sounds that belonged only to him.

  Those were secrets. His secrets. And he would keep them locked away, no matter how much they burned.

  Grian’s fingers ghosted over Jimmy’s parted lips, a feather-light touch that had nothing to do with arousal. They’d had more than enough of that last night—heat and hunger and too many kisses to count. No, this was different. He was simply… memorizing. Or maybe testing reality.

   Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. After what should’ve been one reckless encounter, Jimmy had asked him back. Not just for a drink, not just to keep talking, back to his hotel. To stay.

  Stay the night? Why would Grian ever agree to that? He had his own room, a perfectly good bed, and Impulse expecting him. But somehow, against every shred of logic, he’d said yes. Maybe it was Jimmy’s smile, or that same excuse about wanting to talk more. Maybe it was nothing more than weakness.

  His friends hadn’t pressed. They never did. Grian wasn’t the type to vanish without reason, and they trusted him to be fine. But they didn’t know. They couldn’t know. That Grian wasn’t being himself—he was being reckless. Careless. An idiot.

  They had come back to the hotel, kissed until their lips were raw, until sleep finally pulled them under. Grian had thought there would be more, that Jimmy would leave him with a wild enough story to last a lifetime. But that hadn’t been the case. And strangely, he wasn’t disappointed. Jimmy had shown him something else instead: a side no one else saw, and an impression Grian knew he would never forget. Memories he could tuck away, fond and secret, from the night he said yes to following a rockstar backstage.

  He’d been dragged out of his comfort zone, though Jimmy would never know it. The bright, careless frontman probably believed Grian was easy in bed, a natural flirt, someone with admirers lined up behind him. And if that was the story Jimmy told himself, Grian didn’t mind. He didn’t want to be special. Just another face, another fleeting city. Maybe one day, in some crowded venue or on some nameless street, Jimmy would spot him again—hesitate, double take, a name balancing on the tip of his tongue but not quite there.

   That would be enough. To live in Jimmy’s memory as the flirty minx who hadn’t quite given in. Not to the charm, not to the vulnerability. Not fully. Grian wasn’t someone who gave himself away so easily. And if Jimmy never understood that, well, Grian would remind himself it was true.

  Grian gasped softly when a door slammed somewhere down the hall, followed by muffled voices, the fragile stillness of the room threatening to shatter. Jimmy stirred beside him, a low mumble slipping from his lips before he settled again, lost to sleep. Grian’s pulse steadied as he tuned in to Jimmy’s breathing, then to the faint rattle of a luggage cart bumping over uneven tiles outside. The world beyond their door was waking, which meant soon Jimmy would too, and the long, improbable night would end.

  It had been a great experience, one Grian knew he could never quite forget. Even if some future version of himself wanted to erase it, the memory would cling stubbornly, stitched into the sound of rowdy crowds and the wash of colored lights. Concert halls would never look the same, and whenever The Rejects appeared on posters, magazines, or the radio, Jimmy’s voice would carry him back here; to the quiet moments, the ones Grian swore had been just for him.

  A phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the spell. Grian’s fingers curled into the sheets as he realized just how long he had been lying there, watching, thinking, feeling, all for Jimmy. His chest tightened, his heart quickening, but then those dark eyes blinked open. Jimmy turned toward him, lids heavy, and offered a slow, drowsy smile. Not the polished grin splashed across billboards, not the dazzling performance smile fans would scream for. This one was soft, private, dream-warmed.

  And Grian knew it would haunt him—in the best, most dangerous way—for months to come, surfacing in the dark each time he closed his eyes.