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Chapter Text

This Kind of Quiet, an Aesthetic Ruin - Do Not Fall In Love With A Rock Star story

Chris Raines is used to being seen. Tour lights, magazine covers, the endless scrutiny of the internet—fame has always been part of the gig. But marriage? That’s something different. That’s private. Or it was meant to be.

Jamie Nguyen never intended to be part of this kind of story. She fell in love with the man, not the myth. But once Chris Raines entered her life, she’s half of a love story she never agreed to narrate.

This Kind of Quiet is set after Do Not Engage and is a collection of vignettes, domestic detours, and emotionally charged stillnesses and the awkward tenderness of sharing a life that was never meant to be public.

Because falling in love was only the beginning. This is everything that comes after.

Disclaimer: This story does not follow a single arc. It’s an "intimacy sandbox"—a fictional relationship, explored moment by moment. Some scenes are sweet. Some are chaotic. Some are just socks and paperwork. If you’ve ever wanted to linger in the aftermath of a love story—to see what staying looks like—this is that.

Chapter Text

Chris was sitting on the floor of their living room, guitar resting across his chest, leaning back against the sofa. His socked foot tapped an easy rhythm against the rug, a picture of contentment and quiet self-satisfaction. The socks, infamously expensive—some absurd price upwards of $1,000 a pair—had been a gift from a sponsor, and every member of the band had a few tucked away. Jamie, whose own socks proudly bore Snoopy and had cost £1 at a thrift store, had greeted the discovery with unalloyed horror.

"I don’t care how sexy people think you are," she’d said at the time, holding one aloft like evidence in court. "Literally no one is going out to buy these because you guys are wearing them."

Chris had only laughed and kissed her. She had not been mollified.

Now, his hair was messily tousled in that infuriating way Jamie had come to recognise as “accidentally styled by playing with his hair during mixing.” He looked insufferably pleased with himself as he reached the final chords of the acoustic playthrough he’d insisted she sit and listen to, holding her captive on the sofa above him while she tried—and failed—to concentrate on a court transcript on her tablet.

"You do realise," she said, speaking slowly,"that that's not what a statute of limitations means.”

Chris glanced up, mock-innocent. “Isn’t it? I mean, technically—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Come on Chris. You know better than that. Not even technically. It's a procedural rule. It defines the period during which a party is permitted to commence a legal action. It doesn’t mean love doesn’t run out of time. It's talking about when a right to sue expires.”

Chris grinned. “My love for you will never end and your ability to sue me for loving you will last forever..."

Jamie stared at him.

“You know that’s not how it works.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “It’s metaphorical.”

“It’s not even that - it's legally illiterate and entirely contrary to the underlying legal principle.”

“It’s romantic,” Chris countered, strumming a soft chord. “And catchy. And Seb says the acoustic mix is ‘emotionally potent.’"

She let out a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “This is mortifying - people will think the legal analysis came from me.”

He grinned. “Sounds like it might need some clarification ... it's good I know a podcaster that debunks when legal principles aren't accurately conveyed ...”

Later that week, Jamie opened her podcast episode with her usual, dry tone—the one she used when dismantling dodgy legislation or tearing into a wildly inaccurate true crime dramatisation.

“Before we begin today’s episode, I’d like to clarify something. The statute of limitations is a procedural rule. It refers to the legally prescribed time frame within which a party must bring a legal claim —typically from the moment a cause of action arises until a defined deadline. It exists to ensure that proceedings are commenced while evidence is fresh and justice can still be done.

It is not, as certain romantic individuals would have you believe, a poetic metaphor about emotional durability. In other words, it does not apply to emotions. Or metaphysical concepts. Or the quote-unquote persistence of romantic feeling as a cause of action.

That said, my darling husband (whom I adore) has written a song which he claims is a "legal ballad". It is both emotionally sincere and deeply legally flawed. He believes it’s a kind of testimony. I believe it’s a teaching opportunity for all of us.

So, here’s ‘No Statute of Limitations on Love.’ Consider it a very passionate, very musically competent… legal misinterpretation. It will be followed by a disclaimer, as is appropriate given the nature of this channel.

The screen faded from black to soft amber lighting. The band was arranged in a semicircle, stripped down for acoustic: Chris centre-stage on rhythm guitar, Seb seated with his semi-hollow electric adding delicate melodic shimmer, Jake on upright bass, and Liam brushing softly across a snare with a tambourine strapped to one foot.

Chris started singing. His voice was low, earnest, a little raspy in the best possible way. The camera lingered on his hands, the movement of his mouth, the slight crease at the corner of his eyes when he hit the line:

“You can object, you can roll your eyes—
This love survives, it never dies.”

Jamie was watching with her head resting on one hand. She wasn’t smiling, but her expression was a combination of besotted and exasperated.

Just before the final chorus, the music paused, the band paused.

Jake: Legal disclaimer. This song does not constitute legal advice. The statute of limitations is a procedural doctrine that limits the time available to a party to initiate legal proceedings. 

Liam: It is not an eternal measure of romantic attachment and does not govern the persistence, validity, or enforceability of feelings.

Seb: Aesthetic Ruin makes no warranties as to the enforceability of affection or the admissibility of poetic metaphor in court. All emotional claims should be filed promptly, in accordance with local laws.

Chris, looking very serious continued. "Please consult your lawyer before falling in love with a rock star. Also, my wife, Jamie wants me to make it clear that she is not responsible for the poetic licence taken in relation to important legal principles in this song.

Then, grinning like an idiot, he strummed back in.

“But I’ll testify every day and night—”

The outro faded and smiling Jamie returned to mic, looking bemused. "We'll be back next week with a real episode."

Within 24 hours of posting, the episode had trended across several podcast platforms and racked up hundreds of thousands of views on YouTube.

Comments ranged from bemused to feral:

@jenscholarjd:
“As a lawyer, I hated how wrong this was. As a wife? I’d collapse instantly. Immediate summary judgment in his favour.”

@latefortorts:
“This has strong ‘husband who listens to your lectures and uses the terminology in bed’ energy. I’m obsessed.”

@vernacularsins:
“This is textbook misuse of legal terminology. It is also a nice song. I am in danger.”

@themarriedbarista:
“Her: ‘It’s a procedural rule.’
Him: ‘It’s poetry, babe.’
Me: absolutely crying at the emotional damage from both sides.”

@familylawfail:
“Unclear whether I want to be her, be him, or sue them for emotional distress. Also I now ship procedural doctrine x poetic metaphor.”

A headline from Rolling Stone's culture desk read:

“Chris Raines Makes Romantic Case Law: ‘No Statute of Limitations on Love’ Goes Viral”

With the subheading:
When your lawyer wife debunks your metaphor mid-episode and your fans still demand an acoustic tour.

And then there was the widely shared TikTok clip, captioned simply:

When he says “testify every day and night” and you realise he’s been listening to your podcast this whole time.

The audio cuts to a sobbing stitch: “I am not OK.”

Chris looked amused when Jamie gave him a very baleful update on the YouTube analytics for the podcast.

"Why do you look like that, beloved wife?" he asked, leaning over to press a kiss just under her jaw.

"The last time I got numbers this good, it was when you videobombed my livestream while half naked," she said, tilting her head slightly—either to make room for his mouth or out of reflex, she wasn’t sure.

"I was wearing pyjama bottoms," he murmured, his lips grazing the side of her neck, not quite apologetic.

"Barely. I still have comments asking me to ‘bring back the abs.’"

"Hey—any time, babe," Chris said, grinning as he tucked her hair behind one ear and kissed along the edge of her jaw. "Happy to contribute to the public good."

Jamie tried to glare at him, but he caught her mouth in a kiss—soft, teasing, then deeper before she could finish the glare properly.

"So your viewers liked it?" he asked between kisses.

"Yes," she managed, her voice thickening and slightly muffled as he drew her closer.

"And you still love me?"

"Yes," she repeated, almost groaning as he leaned in for another kiss, longer this time, his hand sliding around her waist.

"I rest my case. There’s no statute of limitations on love."

"Still not what it means," she managed, her voice catching as his mouth found hers again, the kiss deepening with steady intent. Jamie tried to hold her ground, but her arguments melted with every press of his lips, every teasing flick of his clever tongue.

Chris slid an arm beneath her and stood, lifting her with practiced ease. She let out a breathless squeak—half laugh, half warning—which he silenced with another kiss, slow and maddening, as he carried her the short distance to the sofa. He laid her down carefully, covering her body with his own, one hand braced beside her head, the other moving down her body to slide down the bare skin revealed by her linen skirt.

"Fortunately for me," he murmured, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, "creative works are protected by a range of expressive rights. I’m operating under poetic licence—"

A kiss to her jaw.

"—satirical exemption—"

A soft, maddening graze of his cool lips at the base of her throat.

"—and also spousal immunity. Look it up."

Jamie gave a shaky laugh, trying to focus, to push him back, but her attempts at resistance were unconvincing and increasingly half-hearted. His hand slid beneath her T-shirt, warm against her skin, fingers finding the clasp of her bra with practiced ease.

"Chris," she warned, breath hitching as his lips moved across her shoulder and his hand cupped a breast that had been liberated from the bra.

"Mmm?"

"You're still wrong. And making it worse, because now you're just playing legal word salad." She whimpered as his thumb brushed across her sensitive nipple.

"I know," he said brightly. "But I’m charming. And, legally speaking, adorable."

"That’s not a real category of law," she started to say, only to falter as his hand then slid down her body to move between her thighs. Her next word caught halfway through a gasp. "Uh—"

She groaned, somewhere between laughter and surrender. He removed the rest of her clothes with quiet, deliberate care, shucked off his own, and lowered himself over her again with a smile that made her want to object out of sheer principle.

She did not. The case was, quite clearly, closed."

He grinned against her skin. "Not yet. But I’m working on a precedent that no court in the country can overturn."

No Statute of Limitations on Love by Chris Raines

Performance:
Chris Raines – lead vocals, rhythm acoustic guitar
Seb Vaughn – ambient electric guitar / backing vocals
Jake Harrington – upright bass
Liam O'Connell – percussion

I heard it’s six years for a contract
Twelve for a deed if you’re that exact
Files get boxed and shelved away
Time ticks on, and rules decay

But I’m not letting this expire
Not love—it doesn’t work like fire
Doesn’t cool, doesn’t fade
It’s not evidence that can degrade

There’s no statute of limitations on love
No ticking clock from up above
No deadline, no archive shelf
This case keeps making itself
So cross-examine me all you like
I’ll testify every day and night
You can object, you can roll your eyes—
This love survives, it never dies

Maybe deeds need seals and dates
Maybe justice compensates
But you and me? No time clause fits
We’re not a filing—they can’t dismiss

So let the clerks all stamp and file
I’ll be loving you all the while
No clock, no code, no closing bell
You’re not a case—I just fell

There’s no statute of limitations on love
No ticking clock from up above
No deadline, no archive shelf
This case keeps making itself
So cross-examine me all you like
I’ll testify every day and night
You can object, you can roll your eyes—
This love survives, it never dies

They say some bonds are best released
Let old affections rest in peace
But this one lingers, sharp and clear
Not bound by place or passing year

There’s no statute of limitations on love
No ticking clock from up above
No deadline, no archive shelf
This case keeps making itself
So cross-examine me all you like
I’ll testify every day and night
You can object, you can roll your eyes—
This love survives, it never dies

So take the stand, or strike it down
Say it’s not legally sound
But you’re the verdict I’m dreaming of—
No end date here—there’s no statute of limitations on love

Chapter Text

Chris let himself into the flat well past midnight, the lingering buzz of the recording studio still in his veins. The last few hours had been full-on—layering final vocals, troubleshooting the bass reverb, Seb insisting they try a different version of the bridge one more time.  He was drained and looking forward to a quick shower and collapsing straight into bed, hoping to close his eyes and let the day go—but that plan dissolved the second he saw the living room.

It wasn’t a surprise Jamie wasn’t in bed. What was surprising was how not-in-bed she was.

She sat cross-legged on the living room floor in her pyjamas, laptop open, surrounded by a minefield of printed documents, colour-coded sticky notes, and a dangerously depleted bowl of M&M's. Her hair was up in a lopsided twist that might’ve started elegant but had given up halfway through the evening. She didn’t even look up when he walked in.

"Jamie," Chris said, toeing off his boots before entering the living room cautiously. "It’s tomorrow."

"Mm," she replied, pen stuck in her mouth. Her eyes darted across the screen with ferocious focus.

Chris narrowed his eyes, walked closer. "Are you… are you vibrating?"

"Don’t exaggerate."

He reached down and took the pen from her mouth, then crouched beside her. He gently hooked a finger under her chin, tipping her face up toward his. Her pupils were fully dilated. "I recognise that look. You're hopped up on Vietnamese coffee, aren't you."

She blinked at him with faux innocence. "Only a little."

"Jesus, Jamie."

"I had a lot to do."

Chris stood, stalked to the kitchen. The evidence was damning: the phin filter still on the sink, a nearly-empty tin of condensed milk, and a small mountain of spent coffee grounds in the bin. He turned slowly, leaning against the counter.

He shook his head in exasperation. "You have to take it easy - you've been going a bit too hard this week."

"I've got prep for these three back-to-back podcast interviews coming up - as well as having to cross-reference all these bail hearing transcripts ..."

The audience didn’t know how much work went into every podcast episode, but Chris certainly did. The ones that involved interviews were always the worst for prep—and through no fault of Jamie’s, the timing picked by the three guests had left her with a week of interviews scheduled nearly back-to-back when ideally she would have spaced them out more.

"Jamie," he said in a warning voice.

"It’s fine."

"You’re twitching."

"I am not."

He pointed. "Your foot is bouncing like you’re trying to launch into orbit."

She stilled it with a pointed look of betrayal, then promptly forgot and started tapping her pen against her knee.

Chris came back over and plucked the laptop from her lap, ignoring the small sound of protest that she made. He set it aside and sat down behind her, his long legs bracketing hers, arms coming around to rest against her jittery frame. His chest was broad and solid behind her, the quiet strength of his body wrapping around her like a weighted blanket. His hands began tracing slow, deliberate circles on her arms, grounding her with steady pressure.

"You need to come back down, babe," he murmured into her hair, his voice a low rumble against the back of her neck. "Come back to earth."

"The earth is slow. The earth doesn’t have deadlines."

"Mmmm. It does. You also need to stop drinking so much of that rocket fuel."

She sighed, some of the tension easing from her shoulders as she leaned back fully into him. He didn’t say anything else for a while —his warm breath against her ear, the steady rhythm of his heart thumping against her back as his arms anchored her firmly. Her body was still twitchy, but her breathing was starting to match his, syncing slowly, steadied by the deliberate calm he radiated. After a while, she spoke, quieter now.

"They’re getting it wrong. The media. About the case. They’re running with the actor's version because it’s shinier. The victim’s getting buried under it."

Chris kissed her temple. "Then write it. But not at 1am after a robusta overdose."

"You found the condensed milk, didn’t you," she mumbled.

"I always find the condensed milk," he said with a smile.

She twisted a little, peering up at him. "...I might've used two phins."

"Thumper. You’re like Thumper on speed."

"Accurate."

He nuzzled her jaw. "Right. Here's the plan. You’re going to drink a glass of water, eat some toast, brush your teeth, and then lie down. I will be applying what’s technically referred to as 'husband-grade grounding pressure'."

"You Googled that, didn’t you."

"Hydration, carbs, and cuddles," he said solemnly. "Classic treatment protocol. I’m practically a doctor."

She squinted up at him. "You just want to make me toast."

"I want to make you better," he said, already standing and heading for the kitchen. "And yes, the toast is happening. You need something besides caffeine and chocolate rattling around in your system."

"Fine," she muttered. "But I'm not an addict."

"Uh huh."

He returned with toast—actual toast, golden and hot, with just the right amount of butter. Then the water. Then a firm, affectionate pat to the rump.

"Eat. Hydrate. No arguing."

She took the toast grudgingly, chewing with an air of martyrdom. "Happy now?"

"Getting there."

He settled behind her again, tugging her gently back against him. "Now. Go brush your teeth while I have a quick shower... Then wait for me in bed. I might hum you a lullaby if you behave."

She made a low noise that might’ve been gratitude, then mumbled, "Only if you let me tell you about the cross-examination first."

Chris groaned. "Deal. But no legalese. If you say mens rea, I’m hiding the coffee."

They eventually made it to bed, though Jamie was still vibrating faintly under the duvet, like someone had replaced her bones with tuning forks. Her fingers twitched against the sheet; her eyes were closed but moving rapidly under the lids, like her brain was running laps even in rest mode. Chris shifted beside her, one arm draped across her waist, and murmured, torn between amusement and genuine concern, "I’m actually going to have to hide the Vietnamese coffee from you, aren’t I."

Jamie made a quiet, high-pitched noise that might have been a protest or possibly a dream-lecture on evidentiary standards.

"You’re like a legal hummingbird," he said, gently rubbing his hand over her arm. "With espresso in your veins."

Her reply was muffled by the pillow. "You can’t take it from me. It’s cultural."

Chris choked back a laugh. "Babe, if this is what cultural pride looks like at one in the morning, I’m staging an intervention."

She shifted, finally opening one eye. "Did I brief you about the transcript inconsistencies yet?"

He pulled her a little closer. "If you say the word 'precedent,' I’m putting the phin filter in a lockbox."

She grumbled something unintelligible and tucked her head under his chin. Her body was still buzzing like low-voltage electricity, but the edges were starting to soften.

"That’s better," Chris whispered, dropping a kiss to her temple. "Now shh. Sleep. You’ve got cross-examinations to rant about tomorrow."

A beat. Then, from somewhere beneath the duvet: "...they misquoted the judge."

Chris closed his eyes. "Of course they did."

He lay still for a moment, feeling the way her fingers kept twitching slightly against his chest. Her breathing had slowed but not settled. He could practically hear her thoughts skittering around like overcaffeinated squirrels.

"Right," he muttered. "Emergency measures."

She murmured something incoherent. Chris ignored it and began, in a deliberately low, monotonous voice, "So, Seb decided that the bridge needed a full rework—again—even though we already had six versions. Liam was trying to play diplomat, except he kept making sarcastic faces behind Seb’s back. Liam unplugged the bass amp by mistake and blamed it on a 'rogue frequency.' Then Seb declared he wanted to try the original chorus 'but with more primal texture,' whatever the hell that means."

Jamie gave a soft groan and burrowed deeper under the blanket.

Chris continued relentlessly, "Then the sound desk glitched, so we lost two takes, and Jake spilled orange juice into the synth rig. Which was probably my fault because I said something about hydration out loud, and apparently that triggered his subconscious. Liam got mad and said that their chaos was interfering with his creativity."

Jamie's breathing was finally starting to slow. Encouraged, he shifted slightly and began to hum quietly. Then, with just enough warmth to make her melt, he started to sing:

Baby mine, don’t you cry,
Baby mine, dry your eyes...

Jamie's body gave the tiniest sigh against his.

Rest your head close to my heart,
Never to part, baby of mine...

By the end of the second verse, her fingers had finally gone still.

Chris breathed deeply of her scent, the soft warmth of her body nestled against him, her earlier jitteriness finally giving way to a relaxed pliancy that made something deep in his chest settle. He could feel the shape of her spine beneath his arm, the rhythm of her breath now steady and calm. He didn’t move, didn’t shift—just let himself rest there, body curved protectively around hers, letting the quiet envelope them both.

"Good night, caffeine junkie," he whispered, lips brushing her hair.

Then, eyes closed and mouth curved with affection, Chris allowed himself to drift to sleep.

Jamie emerged from the bedroom the next morning looking like a crime scene in progress. Her bun had collapsed entirely, her dressing gown was half on, half trailing behind her, and her eyes were bloodshot in a way that made Chris wince.

She squinted at the light like it had personally wronged her. "Why are the blinds open?"

Chris, already halfway through his orange juice and reading something on his phone, gave her a once-over and said, "Ah. The noble caffeine hangover."

She groaned and shuffled into the kitchen like a woman twice her age. "It's possible I want to die."

"That’s what happens when you use your bloodstream as a coffee reservoir."

"You let me do it."

"I confiscated your laptop and sang you to sleep. That’s not enabling. That’s heroism."

She flopped into a chair and rested her forehead on the table.

Chris slid a glass of water and a Berocca across the table towards her. "We have a full recovery programme."

She lifted her head just enough to blink at him. "You’re far too smug for a man who had to perform a bedtime rendition of Baby Mine."

"You were twitching like a bug zapper. I had no choice."

"Still. There are images of Dumbo now stuck in my subconscious forever."

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "Welcome back to earth. Next time, half a phin."

She muttered darkly, "Next time, don’t let me near the condensed milk."

"That was the plan all along. It’s in a Tupperware labelled Quinoa. You’ll never find it."

She gave a pained chuckle, then winced. "Even my eyeballs hurt. Is this what it feels like to be hungover?" she asked.

"Not quite," he told her. "There's usually more vomit involved. He held a piece of toast to her lips.

"Eat this before you spiral into another sugar-and-legal-justice frenzy."

She took it silently. Then, after a long pause, said, "...they still misquoted the judge."

"Of course they did."

Chris wandered into the kitchen a bit later, rubbing his eyes, only to blink in confusion at the sight that greeted him: a pair of bare legs stretched up on tiptoe, a t-shirt just barely covering the essentials, and Jamie, balanced precariously on the counter, rummaging through the top cupboard.

"What are you doing?" he asked, bemused.

She didn’t even glance down. "You hid my coffee. And you replaced it with decaf."

Chris was torn between exasperation and amusement. "Jamie, it’s not safe for you to be climbing up there."

She twisted slightly to glare at him. "It’s not safe to be deprived of real coffee either."

He crossed the kitchen and planted his hands on her hips. "Come on, caffeine gremlin. Off the counter."

She was still reaching stubbornly toward the back of the shelf when he lifted her clean off, settling her gently to the floor—his hands sliding just a little longer than necessary, fingertips brushing the bare skin of her thighs as he set her down.

Jamie gave him a flat look. "That was a very opportunistic grope."

Chris grinned. "That was preventative safety handling. You’re lucky I didn’t frisk you."

She didn’t let go of him. Instead, she slid her arms around his neck and leaned in, her voice low and coaxing. "What if I promise to make it worth your while?"

Despite his immediate physical reaction to her, he raised a brow reprovingly. "Jamie."

She tilted her head, smiling up at him. "Just a hint. One clue. You don’t even have to tell me where. Just give me a riddle."

He laughed, half-bemused, half-exasperated. "You’re trying to seduce me into revealing the location of the coffee stash."

"Is it working?"

He dropped a kiss to her jaw, murmuring, "Nope. You’re going through detox."

She groaned, dramatic and thwarted. "I married a tyrant."

"You married a man who wants to keep your heart rate under 180."

"Same thing."

Chris tightened his arms around her and grinned. "Don’t worry. You’ll thank me when your eyelid stops twitching."

Chapter Text

They hadn’t known anyone was watching.

It had been late after the benefit gig, somewhere between the afterparty and the car park. They’d ducked into a back hallway to breathe—Jamie still barefoot from the stage, Chris still in his button-down with two buttons undone, sleeves rolled high on his forearms. The adrenaline was still thick between them, and the hallway was dim and quiet, lit only by an emergency exit light that buzzed faintly.

He’d kissed her like he couldn’t not. Like it was inevitable. One hand curled under the hem of her top, just pressing into her back. Not obscene. Just... deeply intimate. Her arms were around his neck, their foreheads pressed together before mouths met. Slow, soft, a little desperate.

Apparently someone took a picture.

Now it was everywhere.

Jamie didn’t say anything when she saw it. She just paused, thumb resting on the screen, expression unreadable. Chris, watching from the sofa, caught the shift in her posture even before she tilted the phone away.

He was still barefoot, having just come back from training with the guys, hair damp, T-shirt clinging slightly at the collar. He set down his drink bottle, thumb brushing lightly over the sticker of the two of them that he’d affixed on it in a moment of playful whimsy.

"Is it bad?"

She didn’t answer, just slid the phone across the table.

He picked it up. "Oh."

Jamie gave him a look.

"I mean… it’s a really good photo. But yeah." He handed it back and leaned down to press a kiss into her hair. "Private moment. Not theirs."

She said nothing.

He sat beside her, his knee brushing hers under the table. Her half-drunk tea had gone cold. One of her shoes was under her chair, the other nowhere to be seen.

"You all right?"

"Yeah." A beat passed. Then, quieter: "I just didn’t know anyone was there."

Chris was still for a moment. Then he said, "That’s what makes it a good picture."

She turned toward him slightly, her mouth tilting like she wasn’t sure what to make of that.

"It wasn’t staged," he said. "It was real. And anyone who sees it can tell."

Jamie looked away.

Chris nudged her knee again. "Also—not to be shallow—but you look gorgeous."

"I look wrecked."

"You look loved."

Jamie squinted at him. "God, that’s worse."

He kissed her cheek. "We’ll survive this one too."

She leaned into him, quiet for a few breaths. Then she whispered, "I hate that it wasn’t for them."

Chris wrapped an arm around her. "It still isn’t. They just don’t know that."

By the following week, the photo had been turned into a meme, a challenge, and—horrifyingly—a filter. TikTok was flooded with people re-enacting “the kiss that broke the internet,” complete with moody lighting, slow-motion spins, and breathy background music. Someone slowed down the footage and claimed you could see the exact moment they both “hit the peak.” One particularly viral comment read: “Chris Raines making his girl climax with a single kiss is the kind of male representation we need.”

Jamie lay face-down on the bed. Her phone buzzed somewhere under a pillow, stubbornly ignored.

Chris sat cross-legged beside her, scrolling through the latest batch of tags. "This one’s captioned: 'Imagine getting kissed so good you black out.'" He tilted the phone toward her. "Although to be fair, your knees did give out a little."

"That’s because you pinned me to a wall," she said, voice muffled.

"It was gentle pinning."

She turned her head slightly and looked at him. "They’re calling it 'the kiss that launched a thousand fantasies.'"

"I'm flattered."

"I mean, of course it’s a meme. Why wouldn’t it be."

He reached out to nudge her foot. "You realise half the internet thinks we had sex right there?"

Jamie shifted just enough to look over at him. "Don’t make me litigate this."

"You moaned," he teased her.

"I did not."

"Someone enhanced the audio. It's a trending sound."

"I guess it's good that people are learning how to use technology for useful things," Jamie replied.

Chris looked amused. "That's kind of iconic."

Jamie let her face sink back into the duvet. "I can’t even go into the comments. I made the mistake of opening one Reddit thread and someone had diagrammed our hip placement. HIP PLACEMENT, Chris.”

"Well, they weren’t wrong," he said. "Excellent leverage. Ten out of ten execution."

"You’re not helping."

"I think it's romantic."

Jamie rolled onto her side, face half-buried in the pillow. "There’s fanfiction. I saw tags I didn’t understand."

He brightened. "Is it good?"

"I am not telling you."

Chris leaned in and trailed his lips down the side of her throat. “At least they’re shipping us.”

Jamie muttered something about renouncing technology and becoming a lighthouse keeper.

Chris tucked an arm around her and pulled her closer. "I’d follow you there. I’d learn knots and oil the lantern and everything." He became serious again. "Look," he said, voice soft now, "I know it’s gotten weird again. But that moment was still ours. They can meme it all they want, but they weren’t there."

She didn’t answer straight away. Then, quietly: "They keep saying it looked... indecent. Like something private they shouldn’t have seen. Which it was."

Chris tilted his head. "Didn’t we come from kissing?"

Jamie elbowed him. He laughed and kissed the curve of her neck.

"I mean," he said thoughtfully, "if they're going to obsess over anything, I'd rather it be a kiss than, say, the time I tripped over a monitor and face-planted in front of 30,000 people."

Jamie exhaled into his chest. "You really are unbothered by all of this, aren’t you?"

He held her a little tighter. "Because I know who I get to come home to. Meme or no meme."

She sighed. "I still hate the phrase 'orgasmic kiss.'"

Chris grinned into her hair. "But it’s catchy."

"Chris."

"Fine. No more reading the comments tonight."

"Or the fanfic."

"No promises."

It started, as most band disasters did, with Liam saying, “I have a brilliant idea.”

They were at Seb and Tamara’s place for a casual dinner—just the band and their partners, sprawled across sofas, empty takeaway containers stacked like Jenga towers on the coffee table. Music played low. Drinks – of the alcoholic and non-alcoholic variety flowed freely. Spirits were high.

Jamie was curled up on the sofa beside Chris, his head on her shoulder, when Liam, half-draped over an armchair, grinned and cleared his throat dramatically.

“So,” he said, far too innocently. “Any chance of a repeat performance?”

Chris lifted an eyebrow. “Of what?”

Liam grinned. “The kiss. The kiss that made TikTok combust.”

“The now-legendary, internet-breaking, orgasm-in-a-back-hallway kiss,” Jake supplied helpfully.

“For science,” Liam added.

Jamie groaned. “Absolutely not. We are not doing this.”

Chris, already sitting up, looked entirely too intrigued. “Actually…”

“No one needs a sequel, guys. Seriously,” Jamie muttered, already half-buried in a cushion.

“Babe.”

Jamie levelled a glare at him.

“It’s just for fun.”

Liam, filming gleefully, chimed in, “It’s for posterity.”

Jake added, “And for TikTok. Obviously.”

Tamara grinned. “You have to admit that it’s entered the pop culture zeitgeist … Gone with the Wind .. The Notebook .. Upside Down Spiderman Kiss …”

Jamie looked at her. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging them in this lunacy…”

Tamara held up a hand, not quite apologetic. “It was a beautiful photo,” she said. “And honestly, this is a chance to take it back. Reframe it. Make it yours.”

Chris reached out a hand. “Come on. One take..”

Jamie sighed and stood up, muttering, “You’re all unbearable.”

Chris was already standing. “All right, so it was like this—dim lighting, post-gig adrenaline—”

“I was barefoot,” Jamie said flatly. “Don’t forget that part.”

“I was dishevelled. Very important.”

“You moaned.”

“It was a sexy moan!”

Jake doubled over laughing. Liam had his phone out, already filming. “Right, action shot—let’s go, mate. Give the people what they want.”

Chris struck a pose: emergency exit lighting imaginary above his head, one arm extended like a low-budget romance novel cover.

Jamie was still halfway sunk into the cushion, arms crossed. “I don’t like any of you right now,” she said, though the edge in her voice wasn’t just mock-annoyance. Last time a kiss got filmed, she’d barely survived the fallout.

“That’s not what your internet fan club says,” Jake called helpfully.

“Your fan club,” Jamie corrected. “I’m just the accidental prop.”

Chris dragged her to her feet. “Come on, babe. We can do this.”

Chris took her hand and pulled her gently into the centre of the room, lit only by warm lamplight and the flicker of a nearby candle. Liam raised his phone. “And—action.”

It started silly. Over-the-top. Chris pressed their foreheads together like some melodramatic romance lead, voice low and absurd: “I couldn’t stay away Jamie …” He had one arm possessively at her waist, the other cupping the back of her head with exaggerated drama.

“God, you’re such a dork,” Jamie said under her breath, but she was laughing uncontrollably, even as she curled her fingers around the back of his neck.

He tilted his head just so, forehead resting against hers, breathing like a tortured hero. Then, very slowly, he kissed her—over-the-top, deliberately cheesy, an absolute parody of the original. It was supposed to be a joke. It wasn’t supposed to be—

Soft. Lingering. Real.

Chris kissed her once, light and ridiculous—and then, unexpectedly, not. He steadied her, cupping the back of her neck, and when he kissed her again, there was nothing fake in it.

Jamie’s breath caught. Chris’s hand settled at her waist, fingers curling just slightly—tightening like he didn’t want to let go. She felt the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of her top, and it lit something under her skin. Her lips parted. His did too. The angle shifted. Slowed. Deepened as his tongue slid into her mouth.

Jamie barely remembered what they were meant to be doing. Her hands had slipped under the hem of his shirt at some point, her chest tight, her legs slightly unsteady. She could still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers when Seb spoke.

“Cut!” Liam called, still filming.

“That’s the money shot,” Jake told them. “You can stop now.”

Eventually, it was Seb who cleared his throat. Loudly. “Sorry to be a cock blocker guys, but you’re going to get us demonetised if you go into porn territory,” Seb said dryly.

Chris and Jamie pulled apart slowly—still breathless, still close, eyes locked… shaking.

“Jesus,” Seb muttered.

“Okay then,” said Tamara, eyebrows somewhere near her hairline.

Liam stared at his phone. “Do I post this or… call a priest? Also we’re monetised? We don’t even have an account,” Liam asked.

Jake was grinning. “If I weren’t gagging, I’d be aroused. That wasn’t acting.” Then he opened up the app on his phone. “Wait. How do you post things?”

“I think you need an account.”

“I don’t have one.”

Liam frowned. “Do I need a username?”

“Is it like Instagram? Can I just be ‘Jake’?”

“That’s not available,” Seb said without looking up. “Try ‘@JakeDidNothingWrong’.”

“Guys – you are not posting that. We’re still dealing with the aftermath of the photograph,” Jamie protested, looking at them incredulously. “Quit messing around.”

Liam was muttering under his breath, thumbs stabbing at his screen. “Why is it asking me to confirm I’m not a bot? I’m not a bot!”

“Give it here,” Jake said, taking the phone and proceeding to do it wrong in a different way.

Lydia phoned immediately. “What the hell is this?”

“You posted it????” Jamie demanded.

Jake and Liam had successfully created not one but two TikTok accounts, both following zero people, and had managed to upload the video with the caption:

“Orgasm Kiss 2.0 – now with better lighting”

Lydia stared at her screen. Then at both of them. Then back at the screen.

“You did what?”

Liam looked mildly defensive. “We’re expanding the brand.”

Jake beamed. “We even tagged the original fan account.”

“You also tagged it #accidentalkiss and #shouldweleaveyoualone?”

Jake snorted. “I was going to go with #someonegotlaidtonight but sure, yours works too.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Lydia said evenly. “Both of you. Please leave this sort of thing to the professionals. The first kiss was bad enough – this one is almost pornographic. The public and the media are going to have a field day.”

“It’s doing numbers already,” Liam pointed out, pleased.

“I am going to bury you in a shallow grave and spin it as a wellness retreat.”

Chris sipped his drink. “So… should we do a TikTok dance next?”

“Do that,” Lydia said, “and I’m leaking the footage of you falling off the stage in Prague.”

Chris shut up.

Jake leaned over. “I’m kind of impressed. I thought she was bluffing.”

“I am never letting you guys trick me into doing something like that. Now I know how people who were tricked into sending photos of body parts feel.”

“Even though we're married, she still refuses to send me anything except photos of her toes," Chris clarified.

“Kinky,” Liam mused.

Lydia pulled out her phone and started typing. “Fine. If you’re going to behave like idiots, I’m reclaiming the narrative. The caption’s being changed, the tags optimised, and you’re all doing a press response video tomorrow. Smiling. Sincere.”

Liam blinked. “Like… apologising?”

“No,” Lydia said. “Smirking just enough that people know you’re not sorry.”

Jake fist-pumped. “God, I love this band.”

Glastonbury, Maybe. Or Somewhere Like It.

The last chords had barely faded from the air when Chris finally stumbled offstage, sweat-damp and wrung out, voice shredded. The roar of the crowd still echoed in his skull, adrenaline buzzing in his blood like static. It had been a good set—a great one, even—but Christ, he was totally wrecked.

Jamie found him near the artist compound, tucked into the shadow of a temporary marquee, half-propped on a folding bench. She didn’t say anything—just offered him a bottle of water and a quiet look that said I know.

He reached for her hand instead, her touch grounding him in ways that nothing else could.

Eventually, they made their way to a small grassy rise behind the main tents, a patch of quiet away from the foot traffic. Someone had left a blanket; Chris didn’t question it. He dropped down, legs sprawled out, and Jamie curled into the space between them like it was second nature.

At first, they just sat. Letting the festival noise blur into the distance—the thump of bass from another stage, the faint whoop of a crowd still going. But then Jamie's head tipped sideways, resting against his chest. Her body softened by degrees until her breathing slowed and deepened.

She was asleep.

Out cold. Limp and warm in his lap, one hand curled loosely near his stomach, lashes brushing the skin just beneath the edge of his shirt. Her shoes were still on. Her hair was a mess. She looked completely at peace.

Chris didn’t move.

He wrapped his arms around her like a shield—one across her back, the other resting gently along her bare knee where it had flopped over his leg. Anyone watching would’ve seen the tattoos and sweat and grime of the weekend clinging to him like armour. But inside that makeshift circle, he was nothing but soft. Present. Completely undone by the sweetness of her trusting vulnerability in his arms.

His fingers moved absently along her back, slow and rhythmic, like muscle memory. He wasn’t soothing her as much as simply enjoying the peace of being with her.

And as always … someone was watching.

The photo turned up online the next day—candid, probably taken from behind a hay bale or a VIP barrier. It caught Chris mid-stroke, head bowed slightly over Jamie, her face hidden against his chest, his mouth tilted in a small, tired smile. Like he knew the world was still spinning, but for that one quiet moment, it didn’t matter.

Hours Later, Same Festival

The light had shifted by then—warm, gold-edged, stretching long shadows across the grass. Jamie was propped against a tree, legs splayed awkwardly, one boot halfway unlaced. Her arms were looped loosely around Chris, who had collapsed with his head in her lap, utterly spent.

And beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful.

His hair was tousled, strands stuck to his forehead, lips parted just slightly. One hand was curled near her knee, the other resting along the line of her thigh like an anchor. The slow rise and fall of his chest was hypnotic. His lashes cast faint shadows. He looked peaceful. Unreachable. Ruined in the best way.

Jamie stayed still.

One hand threaded through his hair, fingers brushing the nape of his neck in quiet rhythm. The other hand traced small shapes over his shoulder, unthinking. No music. No movement. Just this.

This photo came from the other side—from someone who must’ve walked past and doubled back. It caught Jamie looking down at him, not smiling exactly, but... anchored. As if she’d settled into the moment the way you do when you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

*

Both images went viral… but even the haters found it hard to find anything particularly hateful to say about them...

It started with a long-form article in The Observer—not a tabloid, not a gossip rag. A proper cultural piece with sepia-toned gravitas and a pretentious title like “Still Points in a Spinning World.”

The feature centred on a series of candid festival photographs that had quietly gone viral. The kind people pinned to moodboards and used as album art for acoustic playlists. The article traced the visual narrative of Chris and Jamie—her asleep in his lap, him dead to the world in hers—framing them as “a quiet ode to modern intimacy.”

Jamie read the headline three times before handing the phone to Chris with a neutral and unexpansive, “Oh …”

He found it hilarious. “They called us the photojournalist’s sweethearts,” he said, extremely diverted by the rather wanky hyperbole adopted by the writer.

“Is that good or bad?”

Chris shrugged. “Sounds kind of romantic.”

Across the room, Seb glanced up from the espresso machine. “You two have fully crossed into power couple territory now. All you need is your own signature fragrance ad and a divorce rumour.”

“Don’t tempt fate – there are millions of women who’d love a Chris Raines divorce,” Jamie muttered and Chris scowled.

“I only have eyes for you, babe.”

Liam poked his head in from the hallway. “If they’re a power couple, does that make the rest of us emotional support side characters?”

Chris was still browsing the article with low-key amusement. “They used the phrase ‘emotional oasis.’ I’m stealing that.”

“You’re absolutely not,” Jamie said.

“Too late. It’s going in a lyric.”

Tamara wandered in, mug in hand. “You do realise people project all their insecurities onto couples like you, right?” Her voice was soft, her dark eyes grim. “They either want to be you, sleep with you, or see you crash and burn.” Seb slid his arms around his wife and rested his chin on the top of her head as she leaned back against him. Their love story had been rocky – the ghoulishness of the press as he had spiralled had been brutal.

Jamie went very still at her words but said nothing.

Chris noticed of course. He reached out, lacing their fingers together. “Hey. We’re fine. People can write their think-pieces. Doesn’t make any difference. We’re still going to be here, passing out in each other’s laps at festivals.”

Jamie gave him a look—affectionate, edged with anxiety. “Not loving the idea of becoming some couple that people root against,” she said, then hesitated. “I know I’m being stupid. I mean, I hated it when people tore us apart—and now they’re putting us on moodboards and calling us aspirational, and somehow that’s just as weird. Like we’re asking for it.” She gave a small shrug. “It feels like jinxing something good, letting too many eyes on it.”

Chris didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, thoughtful. “Who cares what anyone says?” he said at last. “I mean yeah, sometimes it’s nice when they’re for us. But it doesn’t change anything when they’re not. It’s background noise. We’re not a brand. We’re not a concept. We’re just... us.”

“And the entire internet, apparently.”

“And them,” he agreed, with a grin. “But they’re not in the room.”

Jamie sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “I definitely liked it better when they didn’t know my name.”

“I didn’t. My beloved wife shouldn’t be invisible … ,” Chris said, taking her hand and kissing it lightly as he held her gaze. “But I get it.”

She didn’t answer, but her fingers curled tighter around his.

Across the kitchen, Tamara murmured as she scanned her phone. “You’re both on moodboards now, by the way. Engagement aesthetics, slow living, sustainable romance. Welcome to your legacy.”

Chris looked amused. Jamie continued to look apprehensive.

Seb picked up Tamara’s mug of coffee and toasted them, a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. “To the sweethearts of photojournalism.”

Jamie groaned into her tea. “We’re so doomed.”

*

Later that night, after the group had dispersed—Seb and Tamara went home and Liam and Jake left to do their version of ‘dating’.

Chris and Jamie found themselves alone again. The flat was dark except for the low golden wash of a lamp in the corner. Jamie had kicked off her boots and curled into the far end of the sofa, feet tucked under her, a cup of tea resting against her knee.

Chris wandered back from the kitchen with a fresh mug, setting it beside her without comment, then dropped down beside her and slung an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t lean in right away, just let the quiet stretch.

Then: “I totally know this is part of it,” she said softly. “Being with you. Being married to you. I know I can’t pretend I’m invisible.”

Chris didn’t rush to answer. He just watched her, his hand slowly tracing the line of her upper arm, warm and steady.

“I can deal with people recognising me,” Jamie continued. “Even people having opinions. But when they start framing us as something... aspirational—” She paused. “It makes me feel … super weird.”

Chris’s voice was quiet. “Because aspirational couples usually implode.”

“Because people want them to implode,” Jamie corrected, turning the mug slowly in her hands. “Any couple who seems too in-sync. Too happy. People either mock them or wait for blood.”

She let out a quiet breath, barely more than a sigh. “I wish they’d leave us alone. we’re not putting on a show. We’re not trying to sell a relationship brand. I’m not wearing coordinated outfits and launching a skincare line.”

“You could, though,” Chris offered mildly. “Your cheekbones alone—”

She gave him a look.

He sobered immediately. “I get it,” he said. “But that’s why I don’t care what they say - we’re not trying to be seen. We’re just... here.”

Jamie leaned into his side at last, resting her head against his shoulder.

“I really don’t want to be a power couple,” she said, barely audible. “I just want to be your person. Without commentary.”

“You are,” he murmured, kissing her hair. “You are the most important person … that’s the only job description.”

They sat like that for a while, the weight of the day finally melting out of her spine. Chris’s hand moved in lazy circles along her arm, grounding her in the kind of comfort that never needed an audience.

“I didn’t marry you to be anyone’s goals,” Jamie said eventually.

Chris smiled. “Good. I didn’t marry you for the brand synergy.”

She made a soft, amused sound and tipped her face up to look at him. “You married me for my limited culinary skills and my complete lack of artistic abilities?”

“And your sweet sexy hotness. Can’t believe my luck.”

Jamie rolled her eyes, but the tension had eased.

Chris bent down and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Let them romanticise what they want,” he said. “We’re not a concept. We’re just us.”

She sighed. “You’re right. Who cares what they say? It’s just background noise…”

And for now, that was enough.

Viral Fan Article – Excerpt

“Sixteen Times Chris Raines and Jamie Nguyen Proved Intimacy Isn’t Dead”
by @slowburnarchive, crossposted from Tumblr to Medium, X, and numerous Instagram moodboard pages

 “ There’s a moment in every tour, every public-facing relationship, where the veneer cracks. Where the exhaustion shows. For most couples, that’s where things unravel. For Chris and Jamie—it’s where they solidify.

In a sea of PR stunts, studio edits, and staged ‘candids,’ these two are accidentally iconic. They tie shoelaces. Share tea. Collapse on each other like home. They aren’t just couple goals—they’re what the idea of love looks like when no one’s watching.”

“They don’t post. They don’t pose. And yet somehow, every time a lens catches them, they look like the calm after the storm.”

“Protect them at all costs. We don’t deserve them.”

Top 16 Times Chris and Jamie Were a Whole Mood Without Even Trying
(a.k.a. yes, we saw the hallway kiss, and no, we’re not okay)

1. The Festival Nap Heard Round the World
   Jamie, fast asleep in Chris’s lap, boots still on. He’s half-wrapped around her like a human duvet, hand moving slowly across her back, mouth tilted in the faintest smile. You can feel the trust through the pixels.
2. Reverse Shot, Same Chaos
   Later that day, Chris collapsed in Jamie’s lap, all lashes and post-set exhaustion. She’s got one hand in his hair, the other cupped over his ribs, looking at him like he’s the most beautiful catastrophe she’s ever survived.
3. The Side-Stage Softness
   Jamie on a speaker case, legs swinging, watching Chris perform with an expression that isn’t awe or pride—it’s something quieter. Like she’s the only one in the room who remembers what he looks like at 3 a.m. when he can’t sleep.
4. The Hoodie Assist™
   Caught on a fan’s shaky phone camera: Chris helping Jamie into his hoodie one-armed while continuing a conversation with Seb. Jamie doesn’t even pause. This isn’t romance—it’s muscle memory.
5. Flower People, Not Power Couple
   A crew member snapped it in France: Chris tucking a sunflower behind Jamie’s ear, gentle and absurdly focused. She retaliates by shoving one behind his. They’re both laughing so hard she nearly drops her drink. Someone in the comments just wrote, sunflower supremacy.
6. Chris “I Braid Now” Raines
   Hotel hallway, 2am. Chris on the carpet behind Jamie, trying and failing to braid her hair. Tongue between his teeth, concentration intense. Jamie’s scrolling through her phone, entirely unimpressed. The braid is a disaster. They’re both glowing.
7. Tea in the Greenroom of Chaos
   In the middle of wires, guitar cases, and half-eaten crisps, Jamie sips tea from a porcelain cup with her legs curled up like it’s her living room. Chris stands behind her in stage clothes, towel around his neck, one hand absently on her shoulder. Domestic, but make it rock and roll.
8. Power Cut, Phone Glow
   A fan caught it in the van after a show. Jamie asleep, phone screen still lit against her chest. Chris is watching her—not creepy, just soft. The photo’s a little grainy, but you can see it: he forgot the world for a minute.
9. Road Case Lift
   Chris helping Jamie up onto a tall road case during soundcheck. One hand under her thigh, the other bracing her hip. He’s not showy about it, but someone in the comments zoomed in and said, this man lifts like she’s precious cargo.
10. Zipper Moment
    Taken in a mirror backstage: Chris zipping up the back of Jamie’s dress. His expression is focused, reverent. She’s blurred in the foreground, laughing at something out of frame. It looks like the cover of an indie romance novel.
11. Paper Hat Chaos
    Post-gig dressing room, caught mid-howl: Chris placing a paper hat (presumably made by him) on Jamie’s head like she’s won a very silly war. She doesn’t even flinch, just keeps eating noodles while he grins down at her. Iconic behaviour.
12. The Shoelace Incident
    Chris crouched in a gravel car park, tying Jamie’s shoelace before the band goes on stage. The laces are rainbow. She’s holding his energy drink for him.
13. When Silence Looked Like Love
    A photo from a boat ride during the European leg—Jamie and Chris sitting in total silence, shoulder to shoulder, both staring out at the water. It’s not posed. It’s not captioned. Just peace.
14. The Backstage Spoon
    Someone caught it during a break: Chris and Jamie curled up on a sofa, her hand tucked under his shirt, his forehead resting against her shoulder. Neither of them is asleep. They’re just... still. A kind of stillness people crave.

15. The Hallway Kiss™
    Security cam still. Blurry, black-and-white, timestamped. Jamie up against a hotel corridor wall, hands in Chris’s hair. Chris pressed flush against her, one hand braced on the wall, the other cradling her jaw like something sacred. After this kiss went viral, someone grabbed the security cram version. It’s devastating. Someone on Twitter wrote: I didn’t know a grainy corridor could hurt me like this.
    
    
16. The Teacup Tangle
    Final night of tour. Chris is drinking Jamie’s tea by accident, again. She catches him mid-sip, glares, takes it back, drinks anyway. The moment gets memed endlessly—but the comment that sticks is: they’ve reached shared-mug intimacy. We’re done for.

“Holy cow,” Jamie said, scrolling with increasing alarm. “This is… this is a lot.”

Chris was lying sideways across the sofa, head in her lap, watching her reaction with undisguised amusement. “They called us a ‘quiet revolution.’ That’s pretty poetic.”

“They called me ‘ethereal but grounded like a Jane Austen character with a Spotify premium account,’” she deadpanned, holding up the screen.

Chris blinked. “Okay, I mean... that’s oddly specific.”

“They’re putting schmoopy acoustic covers of Fleetwood Mac songs over slideshows of us drinking tea.”

He grinned. “To be fair, we drink a lot of tea….”

Jamie smacked his arm lightly. “How are you not freaked out by this? We have millions of stalkers.”

“They’re not stalkers,” he said. “They’re emotionally invested archivists.”

She gave him a look.

Chris shrugged, utterly unbothered. “You have to admit, it’s better than them thinking we’re a PR stunt. Or hating you. And at least these are public spaces – I prefer these over having people photographing us in our own home…”

“So my choices are - tragic indie love poem, public enemy number one… or hapless stalkee…”

He sat up slightly, fingers tracing her knee. “Hey. I know it’s weird. But all they’re really doing is seeing what’s already true. We’re solid. They just… caught it.”

Jamie stared down at him, at his easy confidence, his bare feet tucked under him like this was just another Tuesday. It was, she realised. That was the thing.

“Still,” she said, quieter now. “I don’t know whether to feel flattered or deeply creeped out that there are moodboards. Of us.”

Chris leaned back into her lap with a contented sigh. “I’m choosing flattered.”

“You would.”

“Besides,” he added, eyes closing, “if someone wants to set our tea-sharing to moody cello covers, who are we to stand in the way of art?”

“You’re honestly beyond redemption,” Jamie muttered.

“I was never applying for it,” he said lazily, not even opening his eyes.

She reached for the nearest cushion to swot it at his head.

Chris caught it one-handed before it landed, without looking, grinning.

“Told you,” he said, eyes still closed, fingers tapping lightly against the fabric. “Archivists. Not stalkers.”

Jamie didn’t reply. But when she looked down at him again, her mouth was tugging at the corners, and her fingers were already in his thick, golden hair.

Somewhere online, someone was probably already setting it to cello music. Jamie let her eyes close and didn’t care.

Chapter Text

It started, as these things always did, with Lydia forwarding an invitation to the group thread titled: "Chris's parents' anniversary dinner." She added, "Apparently they sent it to me since Chris didn't respond after multiple attempts to contact him and invite him and Jamie. They thought I could schedule a weekend visit into his 'commitments calendar'. Subtle. Chris. Please action. I don’t like being piggy in the middle with your parents…"

Chris had replied with a thumbs up and a skull emoji.

Sitting at Ruin House, while the band were working, Jamie laughed when she first saw the message  come through. "Wow, I feel really honoured at the invitation. You've told me about them—but I still pictured you being carved from marble by a touring PR team."

"I try not to talk about them," Chris replied expressionlessly. "It’s easier that way."

Jake chimed in, unsolicited. "You're gonna love it, Jamie. His dad once shook my hand like I was a bad investment."

Liam added, "Didn’t he call our first single 'an inefficient product'?"

Seb said nothing, just glanced at his friend with a degree of sympathy in his dark eyes.

Chris didn’t deny it. He just grabbed Jamie’s phone from her and tapped out the RSVP to his parents, a grim expression on his face.

Jamie spent the next few days trying to figure out what to bring as a gift.

"Don't bother, Jamie. They won’t care what you get," Chris said, barely looking up from his phone. "It won't be up to their standards."

"Well, that’s cheerful," Jamie replied, undeterred. "Still—I'm not showing up empty-handed."

Her usual gift preferences didn’t feel right for his parents so in the end, she settled on a limited-run framed photo of Chris from a press-only rehearsal shoot—one of the few where he looked relaxed and positively gorgeous —and a pristine set of Aesthetic Ruin merch from the last tour. Polished, neutral and safe.

Chris watched as she carefully wrapped it herself in elegant, upmarket wrapping paper. He smiled despite himself at how earnest her expression as. It was endearing if futile. "Trying to impress? Is that why you didn't use your favourite dinosaur wrapping paper?"

They travelled by train—Chris claimed he couldn't be trusted to drive without swerving off the road halfway there. Whether it was a joke or not, Jamie didn’t ask although she did volunteer to drive instead.

“Nah, you’ll enjoy the train trip … “ he told her. “It’s pretty along the way – and this way you can actually look at it.”

He wasn't wrong. The landscape outside the train was beautiful and picturesque. Hedgerows and stone cottages, sheep in sunlit fields, neat rows of trees broken only by the glint of a winding river. Church spires rose from postcard villages, and the clouds hung low and lazy like something out of a painting.

But Chris remained quiet, staring out at the countryside with a distracted expression and a tense set to his shoulders.

Jamie watched the scenery go past with unalloyed delight. It reminded her of things from a picture book. "It’s so weird," she marvelled as she studied the countryside. "We saw so many amazing places on our honeymoon - but I just realised now that I haven’t seen much of our own country outside of Marlwick and London. This is so pretty."

Chris didn’t answer, but his expression shifted slightly. The edges of his mouth softened. His eyes warmed as they flicked briefly toward her, and then back to the window. Jamie settled back against him, resting her head lightly on his shoulder. Her hand found his, and when their fingers laced, his grip was firm. Partway through the trip, he drew her in closer, pale grey eyes still staring outside the train window even as he lowered his lips to press a kiss to her forehead.

His parents' house was beautiful, in that distant, architectural magazine way—sharp lines, cool marble, impersonal symmetry.

His parents answered the door together, perfectly coordinated in charcoal and pearl. They were both striking—tall, elegant, with refined features and matching shades of ash-blonde hair that looked more editorial than genetic. Joan had the effortless grace of someone who had spent her entire life around privilege, and Philip, for all his tailored suits and measured tones, wore his success like someone who had clawed his way into a world that wasn’t built for him.

Jamie remembered Chris once mentioning that his father had grown up in a northern mining town—a detail so thoroughly erased from Philip's presentation that it felt like folklore. He'd sanded every trace of that life out of his speech; the accent was gone, replaced with the crisp, cultivated tones of upper-crust London. But his eyes hadn't changed. There was something in them—sharp, appraising—that didn’t match the marble and symmetry. Jamie wondered, fleetingly, if that was the same fire she sometimes caught in Chris when he was pushed too far.

In any case, his parents were polite. They were elegant. They were... fine.

Jamie smiled. She shook hands. She thanked them for having her.

She gave them the gift. They thanked her politely, declaring the gift lovely.

Dinner was multi-course and served by staff. Conversation was gentle but hollow. Philip asked about Jamie’s law degree and then asked again, as though her answer wasn’t quite adequate. Joan complimented the necklace she wore—a very simple second hand silver chain they’d found together in a tiny shop in Camden—then spent twenty minutes discussing the merits of crystal versus porcelain for formal settings.

No one raised their voice. No one touched.

Chris wasn’t cold here. He was muted. A version of himself with the volume turned down.

She had previously wondered why Chris hadn't introduced her to them earlier, why he had declined to invite them to their wedding.

She realised that not it wasn’t shame. It wasn’t because he didn’t think she could handle them - but because things had been fragile then. The kind of new that made everything precious and a little unstable. And Chris, in his way, had known that they probably wouldn’t have known how to welcome her.

So he hadn’t risked it. He’d chosen safety and protection. And maybe there was a part of her that probably should have bristled at that—resented the fact he hadn’t trusted her with it. But instead, all she could think was: he’d done it for her. And the wedding? That was clearer now too. Why he’d chosen joy, chaos, and a ruined abbey in her hometown over obligation.

Back in their large, elegant room, Chris threw off his jacket and said bleakly, "Well. That was character-building."

Jamie slid out of her flats, said, "I get it now."

"Get what?" he asked.

"Why you didn’t bring me here before."

Chris paused. "They’re not awful."

Jamie shook her head, half smiling. "Not at all. They’re perfectly civil. I just find it very hard to believe that they spawned you—this wild and beautiful force of nature."

Chris’s expression twisted into something bleaker. "I think they share the same confusion."

He laughed then, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jamie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t say anything right away—just held him, light and solid, until his arms came around her too.

After a moment, she asked softly, "Have you ever been hugged by them? Like, actually hugged?"

Chris shook his head. "No."

Jamie pulled back just enough to look up at him. "Well, I’ve got a secret."

Chris managed a faint smile. "And what might that be?"

She stood on tiptoe, and even then he had to lower his head for her to whisper in his ear.

"I have unlimited hugs for you."

Something inside him unlocked—not all at once, but just enough to let the air in.

He hesitated. Then, dryly: "Seems like a fair exchange for the unlimited orgasms I give you."

Jamie swatted his arm. "You really can’t let me have one sincere moment, can you?"

"This is me, you know."

“Fine. The hugs can go away,” she told him darkly. “Plenty of other people to hug…”

“You dare,” he said in a low, threatening voice, his eyes alight with a laughter that she hadn’t seen in him all evening as he tackled her onto the bed.

Later, they lay tangled in the enormous bed, the room quiet except for the faint creak of the house settling and the occasional distant hum of traffic. Jamie ran her fingers lightly over his arm, her touch absent and rhythmic.

Chris said nothing for a while. Then, quietly, "My father never forgave me for dropping out of university to join a band."

Jamie looked over at him. "Do you think you might’ve inherited any of your business sense from him?"

Chris gave a short, bitter laugh. "I don’t know. Maybe. Although I didn’t spend a lot of time observing him at work —so maybe it's genetic ..  maybe I just picked it up myself. Don't know. Don't really care."

He rolled onto his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "When I left uni, he told me I wouldn’t see a cent from him. Said if I was going to throw away a degree for a pipe dream, I could pay for it myself."

"After I made my second million," Chris added, "I got a letter. Just a line, slipped in near the end—‘We’ve updated the will to put you back in it.’"

He smiled without humour. "I don’t think he’s ever considered music money real money. But my father’s always been a pragmatist."

Jamie shifted closer, nudging her nose against his shoulder. Chris responded without thinking, running his fingers slowly along the inside of her forearm, then trailing lightly across her hip as if mapping out reassurance. His hand came to rest just under the hem of her shirt, warm and easy.

Jamie smiled, tipping over him to kiss him, her hair falling loose around his face.

Chris blinked up at her. "Why are you smiling?"

She kissed him again. "Because your dad has no idea how lucky he is. To be visited by one half of the internet's power couple—photojournalist sweetheart and walking emotional oasis… "

Chris groaned. "God. Not this again."

"The man who can apparently impregnate women with just his singing voice alone."

He gave a strangled laugh. "Stop."

"You’re an inspiration to us all, Christopher Raphaël Gabriel Raines."

He pulled her, stopping her teasing with a kiss. She laughed against his mouth before settling beside him again as he pulled her closer.

Jamie waited until his breathing slowed, until she was sure he'd fallen asleep.

She watched him for a long moment, her eyes tracing the lines of his face now softened by sleep—his lashes brushing faint shadows over his cheekbones. The tension that had gripped him all evening had finally slipped away. He looked younger like this. Entirely hers. She leaned down and kissed his mouth lightly. "I love you," she whispered.

She settled against him and fell asleep not long after, her breathing deep and even, turning towards him even in sleep.

Chris opened his eyes, taking great care not to wake her, he shifted just enough to lean in and press a kiss to the tip of her nose. "Ditto," he murmured hoarsely.

And finally, he fell asleep smiling.

The next day, things remained... orderly. Chris made them coffee in a kitchen that looked like no one had ever spilled anything in it—all polished granite and glass, every surface echoing faintly when the mugs clinked. The staff lingered just outside, looking faintly offended that he insisted on doing it himself.

But Jamie sat at the counter, legs tucked under her, watching him move around the unfamiliar space with effortless competence. He passed her a mug just how she liked it, then leaned against the bench beside her. For a moment, it felt oddly domestic—as if they'd carved out something warm and normal in the heart of this cold, polished place.

Chris nudged her ankle gently with his foot. "Coffee’s safe. Didn’t break the bed last night last night although you were pretty noisy.. guess we’re off to a good start."

Jamie took a sip, smiling into her cup. "You were pretty noisy yourself although I think I might've left bite marks on your collarbone."

He grinned. "Good. I hope it bruises."

And for the span of a few sips, they let it be easy.

They spent the late morning wandering the estate—a winding route through sun-dappled paths, clipped hedges, and rose-covered trellises. Jamie paused often, running her fingers along old stone walls, watching bees move through lavender bushes. Chris let her take the lead, trailing beside her with a kind of quiet reverence. He didn’t say much, but when she turned to share something—a cluster of wildflowers, a small carved plaque nestled behind ivy—he listened.

At one point, Joan joined them briefly, pointing out a few rare plants she’d cultivated herself. Jamie responded with genuine interest, and Chris stayed close, his hand resting low on her back. It was all terribly civil, the kind of day you half-remember like a soft photograph—filtered light, long shadows, no raised voices.

At some point, Jamie began striking mock-elegant poses beside the hedges and statuary, lifting her chin and folding her hands like she was being painted for a Regency portrait. Chris, laughed, pulled out his phone and began snapping photos, sending them to the group chat with captions like "Jamie pretending to be a fine English lady." and "Mood: inherited estate with tragic secrets."

Jamie took the phone off him at one point, grinning—only to find there were more pictures he hadn’t shared. Unposed ones. Quiet ones. A close-up of her laughing, the sun behind her. The curve of her jaw turned toward the sun. The edge of her profile as she bent to study a flower she hadn’t even noticed him photographing. Intimate and unfiltered.

Her breath caught slightly. Chris kissed her lightly but said nothing.

From a distance, his mother looked on, an unreadable expression on her elegant features.

That night, before dinner, they were early. Jamie wandered into the music room and found an untouched grand piano, the lid closed, the stool aligned to mathematical perfection.

Chris opened the lid, ran his fingers over the keys without pressing them. He sat down at the bench. Jamie sat beside him. "Play something for us?"

He gave her a look. "Like what? This thing’s here for aesthetic symmetry, not actual music."

"Wayfaring Stranger,” she suggested.

Chris blinked. "On piano?"

"Yeah. You’ll figure it out. I have faith in you."

Trust Jamie to want to hear a bluegrass classic on a grand piano …

The tune emerged slowly. Raw, a little awkward at first. Chris muttered something about the instrumentation being all wrong, but he kept going. Then he started to sing—low and quiet, not showy, but with that same unguarded ease that only ever surfaced when he wasn’t thinking about being watched. Jamie joined him, her voice steady and present. No performance, just presence.

Behind them, a shift in the air. His parents were standing in the doorway, silent. Watching. His father’s arms were folded, but not tightly. His mother’s expression was unreadable.

Chris nearly faltered—half-paused when he noticed them—but Jamie’s voice carried on without hesitation. A deliberate tether. So he kept playing, and they kept singing—he continuing in harmony, because she usually carried melody—he was the one who knew how to weave the harmony through.

No one said anything.

When the song ended, Jamie didn’t move. Chris let his long fingers rest against the keys, tension still evident in the lines of his body even in stillness.

His father cleared his throat. "Dinner’s ready."

But his voice was softer than before.

Later, at the table, conversation was a little warmer. Joan asked about the band’s acoustic sessions. Philip made a dry, faintly disapproving comment about the photos he'd seen online—public displays of affection, apparently, weren't becoming of a serious career. Something about fans and tea and moodboards. Chris’s whole manner changed—his shoulders tensed, his jaw set, the warmth in his voice vanished. He looked like he was about to bite back with something sharp. Jamie could see his father reacting too—brows drawn, the atmosphere tightening by degrees. Jamie placed a hand on Chris’s thigh, a calm touch, deliberate. It was almost absurdly subtle—yet something in him shifted, as if the worst of it drained out through her fingers.

Then she cut in lightly: "He gets like this when he thinks that someone is insulting his pet chicken."

There was a pause. And then, unbelievably, Philip laughed. A short, surprised sound.

Chris turned to look at his father.

And for a moment, the man actually looked like his son.

Joan smiled, a genuine smile that made her look warm for a moment.

Unfortunately the temporary accord was just that - temporary.

Philip took a sip of wine and said, "I suppose we should have expected a surprise grandchild by now. Surprise engagement, surprise wedding… that would have been on theme."

Chris’s shoulders went rigid again, but Jamie got there first.

"Definitely no surprise grandchild," she said, voice light but clear. "We’ll give you plenty of warning if that ever is a thing. But we are sorry about the wedding."

"Not really," Chris muttered.

Jamie smiled extra sweetly, keeping her eyes fixed on Philip. "What my charming husband means is that I kind of sprung it on him the day before, so pretty much no one was there except the band. It’s not his fault."

Philip raised an eyebrow. "He always dances so obediently to the tune played by his wife?"

Chris didn’t flinch. "Jamie’s happiness is my first priority," he said coolly.

Jamie gave a small shrug. "Like I said - I didn’t give him much time to make plans. He probably thought I might change my mind."

Philip turned to her, gaze narrowing slightly. "Are you really so flighty and changeable? Were you inclined to change your mind? Did you not really want to marry him?"

Chris’s expression turned positively thunderous, but before he could speak, Jamie cut in, laughing.

"No, that’s not it at all. I do love him. Very much. I’ll admit I was very nervous about the publicity—and the lifestyle I’d be marrying into. That’s where the hesitation was. But never about him."

Philip raised his glass. "I would have thought his immense wealth might have smoothed over some of the hesitation."

Chris looked like he might lunge across the table, but Jamie’s tone became very pointed. "Mr. Raines, you're making it very hard to keep Chris calm if you keep deliberately provoking him like this."

Chris choked with laughter. "You do know I’m right here, babe, don’t you?"

Unexpectedly, Philip laughed again. "When he told us about the engagement, after the media reports, he said you were extremely unusual. Fascinating, even. I can now understand what he meant."

Joan smiled warmly at Jamie. "He sent us photographs. Of the two of you. And your mother, too."

Jamie blinked, surprised. She hadn’t known that. Despite the cool distance between Chris and his parents, he had thought her—and her family—important enough to share.

That night, back in their room, Chris kissed Jamie’s shoulder and murmured, "I don’t know how you did that."

She just shrugged. "I didn’t do anything."

Chris didn’t reply. But his hand found hers beneath the sheets.

Jamie shifted slightly in the dark and whispered, "Well, we already disrespected the ancestral wallpaper once. Shall we keep up theme?"

Chris choked with laughter and buried his face in her shoulder to muffle the sound.

"I know you're hot, babe but do you really think you're going to be able to help me get it up two nights in a row in this place?"

Jamie shifted, just slightly. "Is that a challenge?" she asked, mock-offended.

Chris didn’t get a chance to answer. She kissed him, slowly at first, then with a very deliberate intent that made her point perfectly clear.

The sex that followed was extremely hot, extremely heavy and not at all respectful of their genteel surroundings.

The next morning, neither of them said anything, but there was no mistaking the aftermath. Chris looked like a man who’d slept ten hours on a cloud, and Jamie had the unmistakable glow of a woman entirely unrepentant. Both of them wore hickeys like they were naughty teenagers.

Philip and Joan missed nothing. Chris caught his father’s glance—just a flicker, quick as a blink—and wasn't sure what to make of it. Jamie, meanwhile, had the quiet sense that whatever they'd overheard, they weren't disapproving. But they said nothing. Over breakfast, there were small, oddly warm silences. Joan offered Jamie more toast and asked, with studied nonchalance, whether Chris might be making any more guest appearances on the podcast. Chris nearly choked on his orange juice.

Philip, looking entirely too composed, asked after the band’s next recording plans—though whether he was genuinely interested or simply making polite noise, no one could tell. Jamie answered easily, and Chris added just enough detail to make it clear they were building something, not just burning through their twenties.

When they said their goodbyes, Philip shook Jamie’s hand and held it just a beat longer than necessary. Joan kissed her cheek.

On the train back, Chris rested his head against Jamie’s shoulder and said quietly, “They like you.”

Jamie smiled. “Really?”

Chris nodded, watching the landscape slide past the window. "Not that they’ll ever admit it outright. But they do."

She leaned her head against his. The rhythm of the train was oddly soothing. After everything, it felt like an exhale.

"I like you, too," he added, kissing her nose.

They sat like that for a few minutes, tangled fingers resting between them.

Then Chris straightened slightly and pointed out the window. "That village there—famous for its award-winning goat choir. Performs every summer solstice."

Jamie glanced out, saw a perfectly ordinary collection of cottages and a petrol station. "I’m pretty sure you just made that up."

"Excuse me," Chris said, faux-offended. "You’ve told me you’ve never been out this far. How dare you contradict my regional knowledge."

"You’re such a liar."

"No," he said solemnly. "I’m a cultural authority. Next you’ll be telling me Wobbleton-on-Thames doesn’t have an annual pancake jousting festival."

Jamie laughed, her head dropping to his shoulder. "I stand by my original statement. You are full of it." She thought for a moment. "Don't even mention the idea of a pancake jousting festival to Liam and Jake," she added. "They’ll want to make it a real thing."

Chris grinned. "God help us all."

Chapter Text

Jamie had refused to take the band flight to Toronto. Not because she didn’t want to be with Chris—she did—but this one interview had taken ages to line up, and it wasn’t something she could pass on.

Sir David Leary, former president of the International Criminal Court, wasn’t exactly known for his availability. Or his warmth. He’d agreed to appear on Legal Fiction for a single in-person taping in London, under the strict condition that it not be recorded remotely. Something about trust, nuance, and “not being pixelated into oblivion.”

So Jamie had sighed, booked the studio at Ruin House, prepped for days, triple-checked all her recording backups and announced that she’d join Chris and the band in Toronto as soon as the interview was done.

Owen had offered to make arrangements for her to fly out after them interview but she’d waved him off—said she’d book it herself. She’d then had to deal with an extremely unimpressed Chris when Owen had told him what had transpired.

“Come on Jamie, just let the man do his job. There’s nothing wrong with flying first class – ”

She’d clambered into his lap and put her arms around him. “Indulge me, Mr Raines.”

“I do. All the time,” he told her in exasperation. “I’d indulge you more if you’d let me.”

“I mean .. allow me to do things the way I want to ..”

“Again, I do,” he told her with mock irritation and she grinned and nuzzled his jaw, sliding her hand beneath his shirt.

“Don’t try and soften me up,” he told her, amusement lacing his voice even as he slid his hands beneath her tshirt to rest on the warm skin of her back.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she mumbled, nibbling at his lips as he laughed and rested his head against hers.

“You’re such a fucking little brat…,” he muttered. “But I can deny you nothing, which is probably going to result in my premature death.”

“Drama queen much,” she told him, even as he tipped her back on the sofa and they forgot about talking.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Owen had remarked gloomily to Graham when he had told him about Jamie insisting on booking her own flight.”

“Oh fuck. She’ll probably book economy again,” Graham muttered.

“Definitely,” Owen agreed.

Now Jamie was somewhere in Ottawa, freezing her butt off, her backpack under her knees, her phone at 3%, and a growing suspicion that pride was not, in fact, an adequate substitute for a flight change insurance policy.

She sighed. There were going to be a lot of I Told You Sos coming her way…

The arrivals board still said Delayed, which was optimistic at best, considering the latest update from Air Canada had come with the words diverted and weather and stand by for rebooking.

Chris swore under his breath long and hard and pressed the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose—then thought better of it and dropped it again. No need to give the others yet another reason to accuse him of being overprotective and dramatic where Jamie was concerned.

“She’s not on the ground yet,” Owen said, holding up his phone like it offered proof. “They’re rerouting flights all over the place. Last I heard, hers might be heading to Montreal.”

“No—wait, now they’re saying Ottawa,” Graham added, eyes scanning another thread. “Looks like the visibility at Pearson tanked after that squall rolled in.”

Chris stared at them. “She’s being bounced between cities and you’re just reading me updates like it’s the bloody shipping forecast?”

Owen gave him a look that was meant to be soothing. It wasn’t.

“This is why we said you didn’t need to come to the airport,” Graham pointed out, as calmly as if they were discussing the catering rider. “You could’ve waited at the hotel like a normal human instead of pacing baggage claim like a drama queen.”

It actually wasn’t the baggage claim. They were in the Signature Suite at the Toronto airport, shielded from the eyes of the public, a bevy of attentive attendants waiting upon their every request.

Chris glared. “First - could everyone please stop calling me a drama queen? Secondly, if she’d just agreed to accept a proper ticket like a rational person —we’d know where she is. We’d have a manifest. We could talk to someone. But no. My stubborn wife had to insist on flying solo in economy because apparently God forbid anyone offers her lounge access.”

“She doesn’t want to be flagged,” Owen said mildly. “As she has pointed out - she’s not on the tour with us this time. She’s joining as your guest.”

“She’s my wife.”

“Your wife who specifically asked not to be treated like a VIP when she flies solo...”

Chris looked frustrated. “This isn’t about limo pick-ups and leather recliners. This is about the fact that I have no idea where she is. For all I know she’s sitting on a tarmac in a snowstorm with no food and no way to tell me she’s okay.”

Graham exhaled slowly. “Chris. I understand your frustration. It’s true that we can’t track her. She’s not on our system. If she was flying first or business, there’d be more visibility, more leverage, but she’s not. She’s a standard passenger on a standard airline. But come on - if something serious had happened, we’d know by now.”

“That’s not comforting,” Chris muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the opposite of comforting.”

Behind them, another update flickered onto the screen: AC872 – Diverted to YOW.

Chris stared at it, teeth clenched.

“YOW,” he said. “Tell me that doesn’t stand for Ottawa.”

“It does,” Owen said.

Chris took a long, slow breath. Then: “I swear to God, if she’s stranded in some remote Canadian snow-bound hellhole, I’m going to—”

“To what?” Graham cut in gently. “Call the Prime Minister? Charter a snowplough?”

Chris turned away, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the terminal doors that they could watch from the lounge as if Jamie might still materialise.

She wouldn’t like this. The drama. The pacing. The fact that he was making a thing of it.

But it was a thing. Because she was missing, and he couldn’t do a bloody thing about it.

Chris stared down at the unknown number lighting up his phone. Canadian code. He answered on the first ring.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then Jamie’s voice, calm as anything. “Hey. It’s me.”

He almost dropped the phone. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Ottawa,” she said, like she was reporting the weather. “Flight got diverted after Montreal. Runway closures, mechanical delays, bad visibility. I’ve been rerouted so many times I’m not even sure I’m in the same time zone anymore.”

“I know you’re in Ottawa – but where? What—why didn’t you—Jamie, I’ve been calling the airline, the travel desk, Lydia’s going full MI5 trying to find you in the terminal, and you’re just—curled up in some bloody snow-covered terminal like it’s fine?”

“It is fine,” she said, and he could hear the faintest edge of fatigue creeping into her voice. “I found a spare bench that didn’t already have someone lying on it. I have snacks. Someone let me use their phone. I’m calling to let you know I’m alive, so please stop freaking out.”

“Stop—Jamie—Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair for the umpteenth time that evening, pacing the lounge while the staff stared at him apologetically as if they were responsible for Canadian weather conditions. “You’re lying on a plastic seat in a half-frozen airport and you think I’m the unreasonable one for wanting to send a car or a plane or something – at least let us send someone to find you and put you up in a nice hotel for the night while you wait for —”

“No.” Her tone sharpened. “Don’t pull strings. Don’t send anyone. This is what happens when you fly commercial economy during a snowstorm, Chris. It’s temporary. I’ll get to Toronto by tomorrow. I’d rather be here than at a hotel – this way I can be on standby if they start up flights again.”

He stopped pacing, heart still hammering. “We can make sure you have priority and that they collect you –  “

“No, Chris. I’m fine.”

“Just—keep me updated .. Please. Something. Anything.”

“I don’t have my phone,” she reminded him. “This isn’t my number. Don’t try to call it.”

“Then how am I supposed to know you’re still alive?”

“I’ll find another phone. Or I’ll show up at your hotel. One way or another, I’ll get there. Don’t make this a thing.”

He sank down onto one of the chairs in the lounge, elbow on his knee, head in his hand. “Too late,” he muttered. “Already a thing.”

There was a pause, then a faint rustling noise.

“I took a photo. Want it?”

“What?”

“Me. On the bench. Wrapped in my coat like a very disgruntled burrito. A woman across from me said I looked ‘tragically resilient’ and offered me half a bagel.”

Chris let out a strangled laugh. “Send the photo. But I’m not going to like it.”

“I know.” A faint smile in her voice now. “That’s why it’ll cheer me up.”

The call disconnected before he could say anything else.

The call came through on an unknown Canadian number, WhatsApp rather than a normal call, and Chris answered immediately.

The screen resolved into a grainy front camera view—Jamie, huddled in a too-thin coat, hair mussed, a fleece blanket half draped over her shoulders like someone had handed it to her out of pity. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, lips chapped, and there were unmistakable blue smudges of tiredness under her dark eyes. She looked like crap but her smile was faint but intact.

She was seated on the floor, legs tucked up. Behind her, automatic doors kept opening and closing, letting in bursts of cold air and the screech of suitcase wheels.

Chris exhaled in a rush. “Thank fuck—” he exclaimed before he studied her and her surroundings in growing horrified anger.

“Hi,” she said calmly, like they were just checking in from separate cafés. She held up a hand playfully. “Still in Ottawa. Still at the airport. No flights out until tomorrow. Possibly the next day.”

She angled the camera slightly, revealing the source of the borrowed phone.

Chris blinked.

Sitting beside her was a tall, lanky, good-looking young man with a guitar propped against his leg and a look of clear admiration on his face.

“Who the hell is that?” Chris asked, narrowing his eyes.

Jamie didn’t miss a beat. “This is Etienne. He’s a music major in Toronto. Also stranded here in Ottawa.”

Etienne leaned into frame with an easy, camera-ready smile. “Jamie is so charming and lovely.”

Chris stared. “I know,” he said flatly.

Jamie shot him a withering look. “Relax. We couldn’t sleep, so we’re singing instead. He knows how to play ‘Pancho and Lefty,’ which buys him some goodwill.”

“I will fly to Ottawa and destroy him,” Chris muttered.

Etienne laughed like it was a joke. Jamie just rolled her eyes.

“You look like you’re fucking freezing,” Chris said, more sharply now. “You’ve been sitting near an automatic door for hours, and your face looks like you’ve been cry-laughing through a wind tunnel. Why are you near the door?”

“It’s the only part of the terminal with power outlets,” Jamie said, tilting the camera to show the charging station behind her. “My phone’s dead, and I’ve been guarding this spot.”

Chris softened, just slightly. “You should’ve said something. I would’ve sent someone—anything.”

“I told you. Don’t pull strings.”

“I’m not pulling strings, Jamie. I’m worrying about you. You’re alone in a snowbound airport and now you’ve formed a folk duo with some Canadian busker named Etienne.”

Etienne gave a friendly wave.

Chris didn’t wave back.

Jamie tucked the blanket more firmly around her. “I’m fine. Really. I’ll get to Toronto as soon as I can. Please don’t freak out. No strings.”

“You’re freezing, exhausted, and probably haven’t eaten anything but vending machine peanuts.”

“They were cashews, actually.”

“Not any better and you know what I mean.”

Jamie glanced sideways at Etienne. “Do you mind if we wrap this up?” she asked him softly.

Etienne nodded, already rising. “Of course. Wave when you’re done and I’ll come back.”

Chris watched him leave with narrowed eyes.

Jamie turned the camera back to her face. “Don’t try to call this number again. It’s not mine.”

“Text me when you find another phone.”

“I will.”

A pause. Then, more quietly: “I miss you.”

Chris’s jaw unclenched. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Tell Etienne that,” she teased.

“I’ll put it in a song.”

“Don’t you dare.”

She hung up first.

Chris stared at the blank screen, then down at the list of airline numbers on his phone.

He wasn’t going to call.

But if she didn’t make it to Toronto by the next day, all bets were off.

The message came through a few minutes after the call ended. Unknown Canadian number again. Chris opened it with a sense of foreboding.

Hi Chris! This is Etienne. Jamie asked me to let you know that she would very much like it if you went back to your hotel and got some rest, so that you’re not grumpy when she finally gets to Toronto.
She also says you’re already brooding like a Victorian sea captain.
We’re about to try harmonising on “Landslide.” Wish us luck!

Chris stared at the screen then sat back, rubbing his jaw, visibly torn. Across the room, Owen and Graham exchanged wary looks.

"What are you thinking now?" Owen said apprehensively. "She very clearly said she didn’t want you pulling any strings."

Chris let out a breath, then shrugged. "I’m not. I’m respecting her request. I’m just—look, make sure there’s security keeping an eye on her at all times. Very low profile. Hang back so she doesn’t see anything. But make sure she’s safe. And also please make sure she’s got more than vending machine food to eat."

Graham raised a brow. "And how exactly do we do that without her knowing we’re pulling strings?"

"I don’t know," Chris said. "Give free coffee and snacks to everyone in the terminal. Those doughnuts from that Canadian place people like."

“Which one?”

“Their version of Starbucks.”

"Tim Hortons?"

"Yeah. Everyone gets a coffee and a doughnut. Make it look like some random festive act of goodwill. Keep it quiet."

Owen pulled out his phone and dialled. "Hi, yes, Tim Hortons at Ottawa International? I need to organise a bulk order. Coffee and doughnuts for... everyone in the terminal. Yes, really."

He cupped the phone. "What about the passengers who are gluten-free? Nut-free?"

Chris waved a hand. "They can all have a soy doughnut for all I care. Just make sure Jamie gets fed."

Owen frowned slightly, still on the phone. "There’s a biscuit option too—sorry, cookie. The Canadians call them cookies.""

"Chocolate chunk," Chris said immediately. "Not chip. She doesn’t like chip—says it’s a textural betrayal."

Owen rolled his eyes. "Chris. I’m fully aware. You don’t need to tell me this." He closed his eyes. He’d had this particular debate about chips versus chunks with Jamie many times in the past.

He went back to the call. "Yes, if you’ve got cookies, chocolate chunk. Not chip. No, I’m not joking."

He paused, brow furrowing. Then, slightly exasperated, he turned to Chris. "Okay, but what if someone doesn’t want a doughnut? What if they’re more of a breakfast burrito or muffin person?"

Chris didn’t even blink. "I don’t care. As long as Jamie gets fed."

Owen turned slightly. “So you want the Tim’s staff to cater to all dietary subgroups, cross-check against Canadian aviation laws, and somehow make it look like a festive coincidence?”

Graham added dryly, "Just make sure the staff remind everyone to check the ingredient lists. If someone has a nut allergy, we do not need this turning into a lawsuit."

Chris nodded. “Right. Quiet and safe. They can do the usual disclaimers—ingredients available, allergies flagged, all that. Just make it clear.” He paused. "But low-key.”

"You're going to blow a few grand on pastries to avoid admitting you care."

"It’s not about avoiding it," Chris corrected him. "It’s about not making her feel like I think she can’t handle herself."

Graham gave him a long look, then nodded. "All right. We’ll make it work.” He shrugged. “It’s still less than you spent on that jacket for her birthday.”

“The one she told me to return? Yeah. This at least came with a burrito.” Chris hesitated, then added, "Also—see if someone can quietly pick up a wireless charger for her from one of the shops at Ottawa airport. Wireless, good battery life. Find the guy she was talking to, Etienne. Tell him to say he found it in his backpack or something."

"Seriously?"

"Just say it fell out of his guitar case. I don’t care. She needs to be able to charge her phone."

Owen was already typing again. Graham muttered, "You are absolutely pulling strings."

"I'm just ensuring basic infrastructure," Chris said. "There's a difference."

They didn’t argue. Because there wasn’t really one. Not when it came to Jamie.

He finally agreed to go back to his hotel room, kicking off his boots, and pulling the hotel duvet over his head like a human burrito.

Brooding. Victorian sea captain. Honestly.

She wasn’t wrong, though.

It started with a blurry fan photo—Jamie, curled up on the floor of Ottawa airport, coat pulled up around her ears, backpack wedged under her head. Her expression was peaceful, if clearly exhausted. The caption:

“Pretty sure that’s Jamie Nguyen-Raines?? Sleeping in the actual terminal???”

Then another image followed—a wider shot, unmistakably her, with a group of similarly stranded passengers, one of whom was strumming a guitar while another hands around a shared packet of crisps.

By the time Chris saw it, the photo was already circulating under the hashtag #WAGOnTheFloor.

Within hours, online gossip accounts had picked it up.

Fan comments ranged from concerned to savage:

“Why is Chris Raines’s wife sleeping on the floor of a budget terminal like she’s a uni student with a bus pass?”

“The band spends millions on tour logistics and lets her travel economy? This is actually disgusting.”

“Either he’s a terrible husband or their management is a joke.”

Lydia was halfway through crafting a statement when Etienne posted a video to Instagram Stories—a spontaneous singing circle, half a dozen travellers gathered in the middle of the terminal, singing the Daniel Lanois song Jolie Louise. Jamie’s voice was clear and low, singing along with Etienne’s as the camera panned over strangers leaning against luggage and tapping time against plastic water bottles.

It was beautiful.

And then came Jamie’s post, shared through Etienne’s feed with her full permission. She was seated cross-legged in the airport lounge, backlit by fluorescent light, looking rumpled but unbothered.

via @etienne.chante

A note from Jamie Nguyen-Raines, who doesn’t have Instagram but would like a word:

“Since this photo seems to have gone global while I was asleep on the floor (a new life achievement), let me clear a few things up.

I wasn’t abandoned. I wasn’t mistreated. I wasn’t forbidden from flying first class.

When I travel with the band, we fly private or first-class for safety reasons—because otherwise we don’t make it through the terminal without the guys being mobbed. But when I travel alone, I prefer to fly economy.

It’s cheaper. It’s simpler. It has a smaller carbon footprint.

If anyone wants to yell at someone, yell at me—not my beautiful husband and certainly not his amazing team. They’ve been bending over backwards worrying about me and I asked them not to intervene on my behalf.

Also, I’ve made three new friends, shared cashews with a stranger named Linda, and a music student named Etienne has sung one of my favourite Daniel Lanois songs with me...

So maybe consider that not everything needs PR spin. Sometimes, things are just human.

And if you’re really upset about me being on the floor, maybe lobby for more funding for public seating, heating, and decent infrastructure in travel spaces.

I’m fine. I’m tired. I’m lucky. And I’m going to nap again before anyone suggests a jam session.

#AirportFolkClub #NotADamsWifeInDistress #AlsoChrisIsMakingSoupBackInTorontoLikeAManPossessed"

Chris stared at the post for a long time without saying anything.

Lydia, halfway through revising her damage control draft, deleted the file.

A few hours later, new posts began surfacing from the Ottawa terminal.

@marcy_does_travel: "Just got handed a free coffee and doughnut at YOW. Apparently someone bought a round for the entire terminal?? #KindnessIsContagious #CanadianHospitality"

@nerdydrummerkid: "I asked the Tim’s cashier who paid for all this and she just smiled and said, a bit flustered, ‘Someone’s very famous husband, I think. I’m not supposed to say more. Just enjoy the doughnut.’ Cue sleuth mode. Pretty sure this was a Raines move."

@invisibleviola: "WHO ELSE THINKS CHRIS RAINES QUIETLY FED A WHOLE AIRPORT TO LOOK AFTER HIS WIFE WITHOUT GETTING CAUGHT. We stan a stealth husband."

@flightdelayfunnies: "Okay but real talk—whoever this guy is got the Tim’s staff to cater for gluten-free and nut-free passengers. Even the vegan dude in our row got a banana muffin. Legend."

@delayedbutfed: "I got a burrito. A breakfast burrito. At an airport. For free. Because of a mystery rock star husband. What is life."

@localviolinist: "Just heard someone say the chocolate chunk cookies were a specific request? WHO IS THIS MAN AND HOW DO I JOIN HIS FAN CLUB."

@canadianinheels: "One of the staff said the guy insisted it be 'low-key'. Babe. You bought out Tim’s. There's nothing low-key about this."

The hashtag #SecretlySoft trended by nightfall, complete with fan theories, screengrabs, and a few blurry photos of Jamie laughing with her little airport folk club, holding a Tim Hortons cup in gloved hands.

Chris was silent but studied the images of Jamie in her coat and holding her Tim Hortons cup.

Etienne, still seated nearby, nudged his phone toward Jamie. “You’ve gone viral again.”

Jamie scrolled for a moment, then paused, her brows lifting slightly. “They catered for gluten-free?”

He nodded. “Someone got a banana muffin. Someone else got a burrito.”

She shook her head faintly, then murmured, “Please tell me Chris didn’t actually do this.”

Etienne smiled. “I think he might’ve done more than this.”

The plane had barely reached the gate when Chris spotted her—hair tousled, clearly exhausted. She scanned the terminal until her eyes landed on him.

She walked quickly—he was faster, breaking into a run compared to her jog. He held his arms wide and she threw herself into his arms. Chris caught her easily and pulled her up into his arms.

She didn’t say anything. And then, despite all the online clapbacks and snowbound bravado, Jamie melted against him. Just pressed her face into his shoulder with a muffled sigh, her fingers curling into the back of his jumper.

Chris held her close, arms tight around her. “You’re finally here, brat,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’m here,” she whispered back. “Don’t call me a brat.”

She felt like ice and flight cabin air and something familiar beneath it all. And for a few minutes, that was enough.

Behind her, Etienne waited politely with Jamie’s bag and guitar case in hand. Chris pulled back slightly, one arm still around Jamie’s waist, and offered his free hand.

“Etienne, yeah? Thanks so much for looking out for her.”

Etienne grinned, cheeks slightly pink. “She looked out for all of us, actually.”

Chris’s mouth tilted. “Why does this not surprise me? Still. Appreciated. If you’re around, come jam with us while we’re in town. We owe you one.”

Etienne blinked. “Wait—seriously?” He looked overwhelmed.

“Seriously.” Chris shifted Jamie’s bag over his shoulder, still keeping one arm braced around her. “I’m very grateful. Thank you.”

“Wow,” Etienne said, genuinely starstruck now.

As Etienne handed over Jamie’s guitar case, he hesitated and held out the wireless charger awkwardly. "Oh—hey, someone gave me this to pass along to Jamie. I think it’s yours?"

Chris shook his head lightly. "Keep it. Consider it a thank you. You looked out for her. I appreciate it."

Etienne blinked, then smiled. "All right. Thanks. It’s a really good charger. And thanks for the doughnuts and coffee. Total morale booster!"

Jamie narrowed her eyes at that but didn’t say anything.

They said their goodbyes, and Chris led Jamie out toward the waiting car..., helping her in before climbing in beside her. She leaned against him without hesitation, blanket in her lap, one boot half undone.

Only once they’d pulled out of the airport did Chris remember he was supposed to be annoyed.

“You know,” he said, glancing down at her as she had toppled over and was leaned against his shoulder, “you’re a bloody pain in the ass.”

“Mm,” Jamie said, eyes already half-closed.

“Sleeping on the floor. Borrowing strangers’ phones. Starring in viral group singing videos while brattily refusing all offers of assistance—”

“I told you not to freak out,” she mumbled, nudging her nose against his arm.

Chris gave her a long look. “Do you think that was a realistic expectation?”

“I think you worry too much.”

“I think you don’t worry enough.”

Jamie shifted just enough to look up at him accusingly. "Charger? Coffee and food for everyone in the airport? So much for not pulling strings."

Chris didn’t even try to look innocent. "Technically, I pulled strings for the whole airport. You were just... also there."

She gave a faint laugh, too tired to argue properly. "I should be annoyed with you, but I’m so tired..."

"Then rest ... you’re really bad at letting people take care of you."

Jamie threaded her fingers through his again, tilting her head up, barely awake. “Are you going to scold me all the way to the hotel?”

Chris exhaled slowly, then tugged her closer. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead and tucked her closer as the city passed quietly outside. “Just until you admit you missed me.”

“I was the one stranded in a fluorescent frozen purgatory. Of course I missed my normal heat pack.”

He grinned, the tension draining out of him. “Good. Because I missed you like crazy.”

Jamie’s eyes closed again, her hand finding his. “You are crazy.”

“Crazy about you...” he countered teasingly.

“The feeling is unfortunately mutual.”

It was their first proper day off in Toronto, and Jamie had one priority: Roots.

Chris raised an eyebrow when she mentioned it over breakfast. "You want to go retail? You never go retail."

"Roots is iconic," Jamie said firmly, buttering her toast. "If I leave Canada without a hoodie or a hat, I’ll regret it forever."

They headed there mid-morning, Jamie filled with determination as she navigated the store with the casual efficiency of someone who’d already stalked their entire website. Chris genuinely wanted to come along, entertained by her enthusiasm and watching her with amusement as she touched every fabric and tried on half the accessories wall.

She ended up buying a soft beret in deep crimson, which she tugged on at a jaunty angle before turning to face him. "What do you think?"

Chris tilted his head, clearly enjoying the view. "You look like you’re about to join the Canadian French Resistance and start smuggling coded messages in baguettes."

"That’s the goal."

But she didn’t stop there. She also found two deeply questionable knitted hats in earthy, slouchy shapes—one in a variety of greys and blues, the other a faded olive green. When she pulled one on, Chris squinted.

"You look like a junkie from Amsterdam."

"Perfect," Jamie said, beaming, and tossed it into her tote.

Chris watched her, equal parts baffled and charmed. "You do realise you just walked past the whole wall of perfect hoodies to buy a hat that looks like it smells of bong water."

"A hoodie is too expected."

"You literally said the point was getting something iconic."

"Iconic with a twist."

Chris shook his head, smiling as she adjusted the beret in the shop mirror again, eyes narrowing at the angle like she was styling a shoot.

Before they left, Jamie insisted on picking out something for Chris too. After rejecting a series of very earnest plaid shirts and an aggressively patriotic hoodie, she settled on a soft, dark green quarter-zip with a subtle Roots logo at the hem. "You’ll wear this," she said with absolute certainty. "It makes you look rugged but approachable."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "I’m already rugged and approachable."

"Now you’re branded, too," she replied, tossing it into their pile.

Later, as they stepped back onto the chilly street, she tucked her arm into his. The beret stayed on, jaunty as ever.

"I give it three hours before you switch to the junkie hat," he said.

"Maybe," she said sweetly. "But if I do, it's only because you secretly like it."

"I really don't."

"Liar."

Chris glanced down at her, affection etched into every line of his face.

Later that night, a blurry photo surfaced on social media—Chris Raines at the Roots store, holding up a knitted hat like he was assessing its potential for smuggling contraband. He hadn’t noticed the fans at the time, just a couple of teenage girls near the changing rooms who had done a double take, then quietly fumbled with their phones. Jamie had noted it at the time and murmured, "You've been made."

Chris had just grinned. "Too late now."

They hadn’t approached—just snapped a few photos from a distance, trying to be subtle. Chris hadn’t minded. It had been that kind of day: easy, unguarded. He hadn’t even worn sunglasses.

The caption on the photo read: Iconic meets chaotic at the Toronto flagship store.—Chris Raines and Jamie Nguyen-Raines, leaving the Roots store with matching bags and new gear—her in a crimson beret tilted just so, him in the new quarter-zip she’d insisted on. The caption read: Iconic meets chaotic at the Toronto flagship store.

Lydia texted him five minutes after it hit social media. You're not officially endorsed by Roots, just so you know.

Chris replied with a shrug emoji and: Jamie really wanted some Roots clothing.

She sent back a sighing face, followed by: Please try not to start an unofficial merch line.

It was their first night in Toronto, and the energy still buzzed under Chris’s skin. The first of the shows had been electric—Canadian fans loud, euphoric, relentless. The band had gone hard, soaked in adrenaline and sweat, and ended the set high and wrung out.

Chris had been elated, energised, still riding the high when he'd whisked Jamie off to his dressing room. They'd already fucked once in there, both of them flushed, rumpled, and wrecked. They’d made out like teenagers in the back seat of the car on the way to the hotel, her thigh thrown over his lap, his hands under her shirt.

At the hotel, Jamie had showered first. Chris had resisted the urge to join her, contenting himself with walking in under the pretext of fetching things when really he’d just wanted to stand there enjoying the silhouette of her body through the misted glass. The curve of her full breasts and sweet ass .. he’d taken his time about it. 

When it was his turn, he took a fast shower and came back out—hair damp, a towel slung low around his hips, the cut of his abdomen still glistening—only to find Jamie standing at the dresser, one of the hotel’s robes wrapped around her, towel-drying her hair in slow, distracted motions. The robe looked huge on her and she looked smaller than usual.

The bedside lamps glowed dimly behind her through, casting a soft light into the room. Her face was tilted down, not even looking at the mirror.

He crossed the room without a word.

She sensed him when he reached her. Not startled—just stilled. Her shoulders settled an inch lower. The towel slid from her hands to the counter.

Chris stood behind her and met her gaze in the glass.

She didn’t move, didn’t smile. Just looked at their reflection. The space between them wasn’t much, but it felt deliberate.

“Are you looking at yourself,” she said quietly, “or me?”

“Both,” he murmured, lowering his head. “But I like looking at you more...”

She gave a quiet hum in reply, the corner of her mouth twitching, and then he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her back into him.

The robe slumped slightly as she leaned. He slid one hand up beneath the edge, palm warm against her bare skin, then higher—hands cupping the underside of her breast deliberately. She inhaled sharply, her back arching just enough to press into him. His mouth dragged slow over her neck. His thumb moved across her nipple, firmly and she sighed in need.

In the mirror, her eyes half-lidded. His face against her neck. Their bodies angled just enough.

She reached back, found his lean bare hips, held them. Pulled him closer.

The robe loosened when he slid his hand down her stomach. She watched her own breath hitch. Watched his hands move lower, sliding between her thighs to where she throbbed hot and wet. She grabbed the dresser for balance. He smiled at her in the mirror.

Jamie turned in his arms, stood on tip toes and kissed him hard. He caught her waist and walked her back until her hips hit the edge of the bed. One tug and the robe loosened, sliding open under his hands.

The mirror caught all of it. Her mouth parted under his. The robe slipping. His voice low against her skin. Her hands clutching at his back. Her thighs open for him, wanting him there. By the time he thrust into her—hard, deep, sure—she was already gasping, one arm flung around his shoulders to pull him closer, the other braced against the mattress. 

She tightened around him with every thrust. Her slim frame jolted with the force of it, legs slipping wide, fingers scrambling desperately for purchase on the bed sheets. Her head fell back, mouth open, a choked sound breaking free as he slammed into her again—harder this time, relentless. Her body took it, craved it, flailing beneath him like she couldn’t get close enough. She clenched around him, sudden and tight, and he nearly lost it right there—gritting his teeth, breathing ragged, every muscle straining to hold on. 

She was trying to stay quiet, lips pressed together against the sounds building in her throat. Chris leaned in, mouth close to her ear now. "Don’t hold back," he murmured, voice low and teasing. "You know I like hearing how much you want it."

"You're conceited enough," she retorted, but the next stroke had her crying out again, thighs trembling. She broke apart fast, clenching hard around him, gasping as the wave tore through her. He felt it—felt every desperate pull of her body—and cursed under his breath, holding back with effort.

He changed the angle, drove in deeper, teeth gritted, jaw tight. She was still shivering from her release, and it only pushed him further.

“Fuck—Jamie—”

His rhythm faltered. He sank deep, hard, rough, and came with a guttural sound against her neck, hips grinding in until he had nothing left to give.

They lay there for a moment, limp and breathless. Then Jamie nudged his shoulder and mumbled something about cleaning up before they passed out. They made their way to the bathroom—slow, sticky, laughing softly when Chris caught sight of them in the mirror and quipped about the state of her hair. She swatted his arm, and he kissed her cheek.

Back in bed, clean and wrapped in hotel sheets, she curled into his side. He pulled her close, nuzzling her hair.

“The show tonight was wild,” she murmured. "I didn't think they'd ever let you leave the stage."

“Toronto’s insane,” he said. “Loudest crowd of the tour so far.”

She traced a fingertip along his stomach and then up to flick across a nipple, smiling when he gave a sharp intake of pleasure. “You looked like you were levitating when you came offstage.”

“I was.” He paused, voice quieter. “I’m really fucking glad you’re finally here with me.”

Jamie tilted her head up and smiled crookedly. “Have you forgiven me for the inadvertent detour?”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me. I was watching flight trackers like a psycho. And I told you to fly first class instead of economy. You're so stubborn.”

“Chris it's fine.”

“You spent the night on the floor of Ottawa airport. That’s not okay. And then when I tried to help, you told me not to pull any strings."

“You didn't listen to me. You bought Tim Hortons for an entire terminal.”

He grinned. “Still didn’t help. I was losing my mind.”

Jamie pressed her nose into his chest. “Well, I’m here now.”

“Yeah,” he said, arm tightening around her. “You are.” He kissed her lingeringly. "Things always feel better when you're with me," he told her simply.

"Such a charmer."

"It's just the truth."

"I love that about you," she said softly.

"And I just love you," he replied, kissing her again before pulling her against him and holding her close until they both fell asleep.

Preparations to leave Toronto were what you’d expect. When Chris finally made it through the bottleneck of airport security, he headed straight for the first-class lounge, scanning the sleek room for Jamie. He’d told her to go ahead with the others while he dealt with some last minute logistics with the guitar techs.

The rest of the band were already there—Seb half-asleep in a recliner with Tamara reading a book beside him. Liam was sifting through a snack basket with focused determination while multi-tasking and flirting with a pretty fellow passenger at the same time.

But no Jamie. And no Jake.

Chris frowned. “Where is she?”

Liam looked up, unbothered. “Out there.”

Chris blinked. “Out where?”

Lydia didn’t even look up from her laptop. “The wilderness.”

“She wouldn’t come in,” Owen said with a grimace. “She said she’d see us on the flight… Jake went with her for company.”

“Or just to witness Chris losing his shit,” Liam said with a grin.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Chris muttered, turning on his heel.

He stepped back into the main terminal—low ceilings, chaos, children crying like banshees, and some poor gate agent being berated by a man wearing Bluetooth earpods and entitlement like a scent.

And there they were.

Jamie, perched primly on a cracked vinyl seat not far from a vending machine, wearing her Roots beret jauntily. Jake was sprawled next to her, long legs stretched out in front of him,  dark eyes alight with amusement and looking like he’d just discovered a hidden species of bird and couldn’t wait to tell someone about it.

Chris approached slowly, like he was entering a war zone. “Do I even want to know?”

Jake brightened. “Jamie says she’s not a lounge member.”

Chris stared at her.

Jamie didn’t blink. “I’m not.”

“You’re automatically a lounge member. You’re married to me.”

Jamie’s mouth tightened. “That’s not the same as earning it.”

Chris’s face twisted like she’d personally stabbed him with a monogrammed boarding pass.

“Jamie, we didn’t earn it either. We paid for it.”

Jake helpfully added, “We all tried to invite her in. Very politely. She declined. I couldn’t leave her out here alone.”

Jamie shot him a look. “Jake, that’s very sweet of you and I appreciate it - but I’m not going to fall to pieces just because I’m by myself.”

Jake shrugged, grinning. “It’s actually more interesting out here anyway. That couple over there—” he tilted his chin toward a pair mid-domestic meltdown—“has been arguing for twenty minutes about whether or not the dog sitter is a real threat to their marriage.”

“I know, right?” Jamie demanded. “I’ve been eavesdropping on them, too .. low-key so they can’t see me listening. Do you think he’s actually – “

“Totally, he’s totally banging the dog sitter,” Jake insisted emphatically.

Chris sighed and looked up at the ceiling like it might hold answers that he sought.

“I’m very grateful,” he said to Jake. “Now go. Flee. Save yourself.”

Jake beamed and stood. “Pleasure as always, Mrs Raines.” He offered Jamie an exaggerated bow, then sauntered off toward the lounge like a man who knew he’d done his civic duty.

Chris dropped down beside Jamie on an empty seat, carefully avoiding a suspicious smudge of old, discoloured chewing gum. He looked down at her, taking in the stubborn set of her shoulders and the faint look of defiance in her dark eyes.

“Sleeping at Ottawa airport .. now this? You know that you’re just making a point for the sake of it, babe.”

Jamie opened a small blue tin of chewy mints with a snap and offered him one. “Possibly.”

Chris took it. “Recalcitrant wife,” he muttered.

 Jamie popped a mint into her mouth. “Pretentious husband,” she retorted.

And somehow, in the middle of all the noise and delayed flight announcements, it felt exactly like home.

Chris had barely had a chance to even chew his mint when Jake reappeared, sliding back into his seat like he’d never left.

Chris stared. “You were gone for less than two minutes.”

Jake looked affronted. “It’s extremely boring in there. All lavender scented hot towels and whispering about quinoa. Also, three different people tried to flirt with me while I was attempting to pour myself a cup of tea.”

Jamie pretended to look sympathetic. “Poor baby. Chris has that problem, too. It must be so hard being so irresistibly hot….” She laughed when Chris glared at her.

Jake nodded solemnly. “Yeah. The struggle is real when you are this fucking gorgeous. Anyway, I panicked. Smiled at someone. She asked me what scent my hand lotion was – I’m not wearing any for fuck’s sake. Then touched my arm like we were sharing a moment - we weren't. I had to fake a call to my dentist.”

Chris blinked. “Why your dentist?”

“Because it’s weird enough to kill the vibe,” Jake said. “Anyway, I also really want to know what happened with the dog sitter.”

Jamie leaned in like they were discussing state secrets. “Okay. So. She accused him of liking all the sitter’s Instagram photos—including one where she’s holding a very small dog. He says he liked it because of the breed. She says he doesn’t even like Chihuahuas. It’s spiralling fast.”

Jake grinned. “I love these people. It’s like a front row seat to the best reality TV show...”

Chris looked between them, equal parts exasperated and entertained by their ongoing sibling dynamic. “You two are both absolutely feral. Jake – please stop encouraging the brat.”

Jamie sipped her water. “We’re invested.”

Jake nodded. “What she said,” he told Chris.

“There are chairs in the lounge,” Chris pointed out. “Soft ones. With neck support. And silence...”

Jake shrugged. “We’ve got popcorn-level drama and a kid over there practising the recorder. This is theatre.”

Chris shook his head, but he was smiling in genuine amusement now.

Jamie bumped her knee against his. “Just hanging out with my fellow commoners.”

“Next time,” Chris muttered, “I’m sedating the both of you and rolling you into the premium lounge in a luggage trolley.”

Jake looked delighted. “Only if I get the window seat.”

Chris groaned exaggeratedly - but he stayed exactly where he was, his gaze lingering warmly on Jamie.

And when the dog sitter couple got up and switched rows, Jamie gasped like it was the season finale of her favourite show—Chris didn’t even pretend he wasn’t watching too.

A few rows away, half-hidden behind a potted plant and a stack of neck pillows, two teenage girls watched with wide eyes and silent disbelief.

"That’s Jake Harrington," one whispered. "That’s definitely Jake Harrington."

"Okay but like... why is he here? Why are they out here with us like they're normal people or something?"

"I don’t know. Maybe it’s a prank? Like maybe there’s a hidden camera crew or something?"

One of them actually stood up, pretending to stretch, and did a full slow turn, scanning the terminal. Nothing. No cameras. No crew. Just... them. Sitting there.

"Is that—oh my God, that’s Jamie. She just gave Jake a breakdown of a full stranger’s relationship."

There was a pause.

"No way. Holy shit. That’s legit Chris Raines sitting with them...

Their eyes locked on him like they couldn’t quite believe he was real and actually there in the waiting area. He looked impossibly good in person. Tall, sharp-boned, dressed in some kind of drapey vintage coat that made him look like he’d stepped out of a moody fashion film. His jawline alone could’ve cut glass. One girl actually clutched the other’s arm as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it just enough to look effortless. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but there was this lazy curve at the edge of his firm mouth as he listened to Jamie. Like he’d already decided there was nowhere else he’d rather be."

"Like, actually him. Why is he just... sitting out here? Like it’s totally normal?"

""He’s even hotter in real life—I think I just ascended."

"He looks like he wants to be anywhere else. But he's totally listening to her. Like actually paying attention. Oh my God, look at how he looks at her..."

They didn’t approach. Couldn’t. It felt too surreal—like spotting a unicorn at a bus stop.

Chris had started off wary, posture tight and eyes scanning the terminal like he expected someone to jump out with a long lens. But Jamie had looped an arm through his and plonked herself on the armrest beside his seat, recounting an overheard phone call in vivid detail until even he cracked a smile. Eventually he stretched out his long denim clad legs, let his head tilt back, and just... watched her. Like she was the most entertaining thing in the terminal.

Jake contributed mostly sounds of amusement and off-colour commentary, drawing looks from other passengers, but even he seemed happy to be off the grid for a minute.

By the time the trio gathered their bags and headed to the gate—still laughing, still mid-tease, Jamie swatting at Jake with an empty snack packet while Chris shook his head at her —Chris reached for Jamie’s plain, scuffed backpack before she could stop him. She protested—half-hearted, mostly for form—but he slung it over his shoulder anyway like it weighed nothing. The gesture was clearly instinct. Automatic. Like carrying her things was just part of how he moved through the world.

"Come on, Chris ..."

"I need to keep the snacks safe," he teased her, kissing her on the nose.

The girls were still frozen in place as the three of them moved together easily, falling into step like they’d done it a thousand times before. There was a kind of warm, offbeat energy between them.

The rest of the band and their entourage had been swept ahead to board early—something about timing and tarmac coordination—but Jake, Chris, and Jamie were still lingering at the gate like they were just three more people flying economy.

Except, of course, they weren’t. And the rest of the terminal definitely knew it.

People kept sneaking glances. A few outright stared. One guy pretended to tie his shoelace for a full two minutes while side-eyeing Chris. A teenager dropped their phone when Jake laughed too loudly.

When the gate agent finally announced priority boarding, Jamie turned to the boys with a wicked grin on her face. "Go on. You know you're dying to board first..."

Chris folded his arms. " You realise that she's trying to make us feel like snobs, Jake."

Jake nodded solemnly. "She is. She absolutely is. I can’t believe you’re trying to shame us like this..."

"You wrong us, Jamie," he added, putting a hand to his heart. Then, with a flourish, he stepped aside and gestured magnanimously for the rest of the queue to proceed. "Please. After you."

Chris, ever the co-conspirator, made a show of clutching his coat and pretending to be deeply moved by the moment. "The common man deserves the aisle seat too."

They hung back deliberately, letting families and elderly couples shuffle past. Jake chatted up an old woman with a tartan neck pillow and helped lift her bag onto the wheeled ramp. Chris nodded gravely at a toddler like they were in on some cosmic joke.

Jamie was nearly doubled over, trying not to laugh loud enough to draw even more attention.

One flight attendant paused mid-clipboard check, staring like she couldn’t quite trust her eyes. Another whispered something to a colleague and pointed subtly—though the effect was somewhat ruined when the colleague gasped.

An Air Canada staff member hustled over, wide-eyed and apologetic. "Mr Harrington, Mr Raines—you don’t need to wait. The rest of the band and your team are already on board. You can board at any time. We didn’t mean for you to—"

"Disappoint Jamie?" Jake cut in. "We’d never." He grinned, utterly unbothered. Chris gave a regal little nod of agreement.

The staff member turned helplessly to Jamie. "Can you—please?"

"I don’t even know them," Jamie said, wiping tears from her eyes.

"Jamie," Chris said, deadpan. "We’re being shamed."

"Yup," Jake added.

“Please Mrs. Raines,” the wide-eye flight attendant told her in desperation. “the word is definitely spreading that members of Aesthetic Ruin have been spotted - we're going to have a spectacle here if we don't get them onto the plane and out of sight..”

"I can’t take you anywhere," Jamie told an unrepentant. Jake and a triumphant. Chris, finally stepping in to herd them toward the jet bridge like unruly children.

They went, of course. Still laughing. Still waving at the other passengers like minor royalty. Passengers craned their necks and took photographs. Someone actually applauded.

The flight hadn’t even taken off yet, and they were already a legend in Group Four.

The first posts went up on X within minutes.

@terminaltea just saw actual rock stars sitting in the main terminal like it was NBD. jake harrington gave me a thumbs up when i dropped my smoothie and i am now deceased. also?? jamie nguyen-raines was explaining a strangers’ breakup to them like they were on gogglebox.

CHRIS RAINES looked like a moody runway model in a vintage coat but kept passing her snacks and smirking when she roasted jake. is this a bit or are they just...like this? #airportcore #wethoughtitwasadream #gummygate

A photo accompanied it—blurry, a bit zoomed, but clear enough: Jake grinning like a tourist, Jamie mid-story, hands gesturing animatedly, and Chris with a resigned tilt to his head and his fingers pressed to his temple in disbelief, though his mouth was tugged up in a smile he didn’t bother to hide. Jamie’s backpack was slung casually over one of his shoulders, completely at odds with the polished coat and rock star aura—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It went mildly viral by that evening, racking up thousands of likes and quote tweets like:

“Celebs. They’re just like us. Except... weirder.”

“I would watch a reality show of them doing this exact thing in every airport across Europe.”

“Chris Raines is one more chaotic decision away from putting Jamie in a papoose and carrying her through security.”

Lydia simply forwarded the thread to the group chat with one line: This is somehow both PR gold and completely off-script. Do not change anything.

Chris sent back a screenshot of Jake’s face in the blurry photo and just wrote: Find this man a Daytime Emmy.

Jake replied with a selfie from the gate: #GumGateLive

The tweets kept coming.

A photo, grainy but unmistakable: Jamie, flanked by Chris and Jake, seated in a row of grim-looking plastic chairs in a busy airport terminal. Behind them: chaos. A toddler mid-tantrum. A businessman arguing with someone on speakerphone. A woman juggling three takeaway coffees and a suitcase.

In the centre of it all, the three of them looked bizarrely serene. Chris in sunglasses and his coat, arms folded and clearly judging someone. Jake mid-laugh, holding what appeared to be a melted Twix. And Jamie, hands folded in her lap, expression politely curious as if awaiting a lecture on urban planning.

The caption: @airportrats Can someone please explain why two members of Aesthetic Ruin + Chris Raines’s wife are just... sitting in the main terminal like a stoic indie band promo shoot? What’s happening?? Is it a protest? Is this performance art? Are they doing a bit?? #TerminalTrinity #JamieRainesDoesNotFearDeath #IsThisAnInstallment

It spread fast.

“It’s giving ‘we’ve rejected modern luxury and are now communing with the people.’”

“No, hear me out—it’s a silent critique of elitism in commercial air travel.” “Or maybe they just missed the lounge snacks.”

“I want this framed in black and white above my fireplace.”

Within the hour, someone had overlaid the image with fake campaign slogans: STOIC. CHAOTIC. DISILLUSIONED. Vote Raines '25.

Chris forwarded that one to the group chat and just typed: Can I defect from my own band.

Jake replied with: Not without your papoose, Christopher.

Jamie left the chat for twelve minutes in protest. Everyone added her back.

Lydia sent back: This is better publicity than the Brit Awards.

And somewhere in the corner of the internet, someone was already drafting a Medium post titled: “The Airport Trinity and the Myth of Controlled Fame.”

No one understood it. Everyone reposted it.

A legend was born.

And then came the boarding chaos.

More blurry footage surfaced within hours—TikToks from stunned passengers, shaky vertical videos showing Jamie shoving Jake and Chris toward the gate when first class was called, laughing, "Go on... you know you're dying to board."

Chris, solemn: "She’s trying to make us look like snobs, Jake."

Jake, theatrically offended: "You wrong us, Jamie."

The videos documented that instead of boarding, they had lingered—letting everyone else pass, making exaggerated polite gestures, helping old ladies with bags, and turning the boarding gate into a full-blown slapstick routine. One video showed Jake offering his arm to a pensioner while Chris gave a solemn nod to a child clutching a teddy bear. Jamie was nearly doubled over in the background, laughing so hard she had to brace herself against the gate pillar.

The kicker? When a mortified Air Canada staffer approached, flustered and apologetic, insisting they didn’t need to wait and were welcome to pre-board at any time, both men waved her off cheerfully.

"We wouldn’t dare disappoint Jamie," Chris said.

The videos showed that in the end, the frazzled staff member had turned to Jamie, begging her to intervene.

More posts flooded in: "Not Jake Harrington flirting his way through priority boarding like he’s on a cruise ship in 1964."

"Chris Raines helped a gran with her wheely bag and nodded like he was knighting her. I’m unwell."

"Jamie Nguyen-Raines is the only person alive who could convince two rock stars to board like pensioners on a school trip."

The boarding gate had never known chaos like it.

#GateGhouls #RainesWrangled #GroupFourEver

Chris nearly spat out his coffee. “She’s not the papoose, Jake. The papoose is the carrier.”

Jake, utterly unfazed, grinned. “Yeah, but it’s funnier if she is the papoose. Look at her—small, stubborn, aggressively portable.”

Jamie glared at him. “Jake, stop calling me a papoose.”

Jake leaned back smugly. “You say that, but one more delay and he’s going to strap you to his chest and carry you through international customs. I’m just preparing the world.”

Chris, deadpan: “I will do it. I’ll get the branded version. With rhinestones.”

Jamie buried her face in her hands. “I married into a circus.”

Jake: “Travelling circus. No fixed address. Surprisingly good harmonies.”

Chris: “Terrible snacks.”

Jamie: “Too many emotionally invested group chats.”

Lydia, from the doorway without looking up from her phone: “And no off switch.”

Jake: “See? She gets it.”

Jake lit up like it was Christmas. “Yes. A designer papoose. Functional and fashionable.”

Tamara, flipping through a fashion mag, added without looking up, “Maybe Burberry. Or Oroton. Something understated but recognisably luxe.”

Jamie gave her a betrayed look. “You too?”

Tamara shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “If it’s going to happen, it might as well match your boots.”

Jamie shot her a flat look. “I wear boots from secondhand shops, Tam. Nothing I own matches.”

Tamara didn’t miss a beat. “All the more reason to anchor the look. Statement papoose, thrift-store boots. Very intentional contrast. The fashion blogs will eat it up.”

Jake nodded sagely. “Grunge-core babywearing. I can see the trend piece already.”

Chris leaned back, stroking his chin. “We could get it monogrammed.”

Jake perked up. “Oooh—JNR. Jamie Nguyen-Raines. Embroidered in gold. Maybe with discreet pockets for snacks and earbuds.”

“Stop designing it,” Jamie said firmly.

Liam wandered in mid-conversation. “Are we talking about the papoose again?”

“Still,” Chris confirmed.

Liam nodded. “You know what would be handy? A built-in travel pillow. And like—rain protection. Sort of a fold-out hood.”

Jake snapped his fingers. “Like a baby Björn, but for emotionally independent wives who refuse VIP lounges.”

Jamie got up and walked out of the room without a word.

“Where are you going?” Chris called.

“To disassociate,” came her reply.

Jake looked at Chris, delighted. “We are 100% getting that thing made.”

Chris deadpanned, “I already emailed Burberry.”

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Chris glanced over from his seat and immediately paused.

Jamie had fallen asleep mid-movie, curled on her side with the blanket up to her chin, earbuds still in and one hand tucked under her cheek. Except now—thanks to turbulence and the slipperiness of airline upholstery—she’d slowly slumped downward until most of her was halfway into the footwell of her sleeping pod.

Only the top of her head and one shoulder remained visible above the edge.

Chris blinked.

Then leaned over and murmured, “Babe.”

Nothing.

He tried again, a little louder. “Jamie, love... You’re sliding into the abyss.”

Still no response. Just the faintest snuffle of deep, contented sleep.

One of the flight attendants walked past, did a double-take, and gave Chris a politely concerned look.

He sighed. “She does this.”

The attendant smiled. “We usually see it with children.”

Chris looked mildly aggrieved. “Not helping.”

With gentle manoeuvring, he reached down, gathered her up—arms under her shoulders and knees—and lifted her back into the centre of the seat. She stirred just enough to bury her face into his jumper and mumble something about someone stealing her blanket.

Chris chuckled, tucking the blanket back around her. “Just me here. No one’s stealing your blanket - promise.”

“’kay,” she whispered sleepily, eyes still closed.

Ten minutes later, she’d slipped sideways again, one arm dangling off the edge, the heel of her socked foot just brushing the cabin floor.

Chris looked down at her, shook his head, and whispered, “We’re getting you a papoose.”

The turbulence started with one light bounce.

Chris barely looked up from his book. The cabin lights dimmed slightly. A chime sounded overhead, followed by the captain’s reassuring voice mentioning “a little rough air ahead.”

Jamie froze.

Chris turned his head slowly. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, voice high and tight, gripping the armrests with white-knuckled determination.

Another bump. The plane dropped half a metre and levelled again.

Jamie let out a noise. Not quite a squeak. Not quite a curse. Something in between.

Chris shut his book. “Okay, come here.”

“I am here.”

“You’re clinging to the seat like it’s a moral anchor. That’s not the same thing.”

Jamie made a strangled little noise and unbuckled her belt just long enough to crawl across the tiny gap between their pods and wedge herself against his side, limbs tangled, face buried in his chest.

Chris held her without comment, one hand stroking her back, the other bracing his water so it didn’t spill.

Another bounce. Jamie let out a very undignified whimper.

“I’m a strong, capable woman,” she mumbled into his hoodie.

“You are,” Chris agreed, kissing the top of her head.

“I don’t like this part.”

“I know.”

Another wobble. Jamie made a low keening sound.

Chris reached for his phone, already opening the group chat.

Chris: turbulence. jamie’s just launched herself into my lap like a human barnacle

Liam: tell her to breathe

Seb: tell her to focus on the science

Jake: tell her she can have extra snacks if she makes it to the descent without crying

Chris: too late. she’s promised god things she can’t deliver

Jamie (from under hoodie): don’t you dare

Chris: she says hi

A particularly strong jolt shook the cabin and Jamie grabbed the collar of his jumper like a lifeline.

Chris kissed her forehead. “You’re safe. Just air currents. You know how this works.”

“I do. I just hate it.”

“Then cling away, papoose.”

“I swear to God—”

“You’d look very aerodynamic strapped to my chest.”

“CHRIS.”

But she didn’t move.

And when the turbulence finally passed, she didn’t let go.

Not for a while.

A discreet cough interrupted their cocoon of turbulence-induced intimacy.

Chris glanced up. One of the flight attendants stood beside them with the polite expression of someone trying very hard not to be judgy.

“Mr Raines. Mrs Raines.” A nod to each of them. “Just a quick reminder that the seatbelt sign is still illuminated.”

Chris blinked. Looked down.

Jamie was sprawled across his seat, half under his blanket, one leg still in her seat, the other wedged behind his knee. Neither of them were buckled.

Jamie blinked sleepily. “I was emotionally bracing myself.”

The flight attendant’s expression didn’t change. “We understand. However, turbulence can be unpredictable.”

Chris cleared his throat. “Right. Yep. Sorry. Restraining the barnacle now.”

Jamie glared at him and whispered, “You’re the barnacle.”

The flight attendant gave them both a smile that somehow said I’ve seen worse and moved on.

Chris guided her gently back into her seat, clicking her belt into place. “There. Civilised. Legally compliant.”

Jamie muttered, “Emotionally compromised.”

Chris leaned over, brushing her cheek with his fingers. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

He smirked. “No crying. No snacks lost. No midair confessions of guilt. I’m proud.”

“I still think we should sue the sky.”

Chris reached for his water. “I’ll have Lydia write a statement.”

Jamie sighed, settling back with her arms crossed. “Tell her to include emotional damages. And altitude-related betrayal.”

Chris nodded solemnly. “I’ll have her quote you directly.”

Chapter Text

Clothes

The flat was warm, lazy with weekend quiet. Chris was in the kitchen making them both coffee and he put a mug out for her.

Jamie appeared from the bathroom, barefoot, hair in loose braids and wearing only one of his old band t-shirts which had become paper-thin with age and a pair of black cotton boy briefs.

Chris glanced up from where he was pouring coffee and froze.

The shirt was old, the kind of soft that clung, translucent in the light. It barely covered her backside and did absolutely nothing to hide the long stretch of leg or the outline of her breasts beneath the worn cotton. She wandered in like it was nothing, reaching past him to snag her mug from the counter.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said without preamble.

Jamie took a sip of her coffee, lips curving slightly. “It’s laundry day.”

“You have other clothes.”

“They’re in the cupboard.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So was my old tshirt.”

She shrugged innocently and leaned against the counter, the hem of the shirt lifting just enough to make him groan. “Not my fault if your shirts are more comfortable than mine...”

Chris stepped forward, only for her to dart out of reach, grinning.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she teased him.

“Jamie - ” he said warningly.

“Touch me and I’ll spill this,” she told him, lifting her mug of hot coffee like a shield.

Chris paused, then folded his arms, eyes sweeping her slowly from bare legs to tousled hair. “You are an extremely evil little imp.”

She gave him a bright, faux-angelic smile. “Nope. This is just payback for all sorts of bad things that you have done.”

“You like the bad things I do to you,” he countered, grinning wolfishly.

Then he took a slow, deliberate step toward her, testing her resolve. Jamie stepped back warily, not trusting him not to not make a grab for the mug of coffee to disarm her.

“You can’t win,” she said, backing toward the hallway.

“I don’t need to win. I just need to outlast you.”

She disappeared around the corner. “Good luck with that,” floated back toward him.

Chris stared after her, hands on his hips, jaw tight. She was absolutely going to be the death of him.

And he would go willingly.

*

For the next half hour, she kept just out of reach. She padded around the flat, humming to herself, pretending not to notice how often Chris watched her - how his gaze tracked every movement, how his jaw flexed whenever she bent over to retrieve something or leaned against a doorframe.

He said nothing. Just waited.

When she perched on the arm of the sofa, just out of reach, grinning like she hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes tormenting him, Chris finally moved.

Casual, quiet. Pretending to put his own mug away.

She didn’t catch on until it was too late - until his footsteps changed. Less lazy, more purposeful.

Jamie darted up, but he was faster.

He caught her around the waist just as she squealed and tried to bolt down the hallway. His arm looped low around her hips, lifting her off the ground as she wriggled and cursed through helpless laughter.

“You said I wouldn’t last,” he murmured into her ear, walking her backward toward the bedroom.

“That was not an invitation - !”

He tossed her gently onto the bed, following her down in one smooth motion, hands already sliding beneath the hem of the shirt that had taunted him all morning.

“It was,” he said, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, the other trailing deliberately down the inside of her thigh, “most definitely a challenge.”

Jamie’s breath caught. She arched slightly, involuntarily, mouth falling open.

“And I always win.”

The teasing vanished fast. So did the distance. He kissed her like he meant it, like he’d waited for this exact moment - because he had. Every shift of her body beneath his, every teasing glance, every smug little smile… it all unravelled now, his hands claiming what she'd been dangling out of reach all morning.

When she finally gasped his name - fingers gripping at his back desperately, the shirt rucked up to her ribs and forgotten - Chris grinned into her neck.

“Ready to accept the consequences of your action, imp?”

Jamie let out a wrecked little sound that might’ve been a laugh, but mostly wasn’t.

“Thought so,” he whispered, and kept going.

No Pants Sunday

Sunday night grew late and Jamie wandered into the living room, barefoot, hair in a demure braid curled about her head, wearing a cotton nightgown that looked as though it belonged to someone’s grandmother.

Chris looked up from where he had been sprawled on the sofa listening to music. Jamie had vanished earlier to change for bed.

“Interesting aesthetic,” he said, his voice low and amused.

Jamie yawned. “I’m wearing a nightie. Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not being weird. I’m being extremely appreciative.”

She padded over and stole his tea, taking a sip before handing it back. “Is there a reason you’re looking at me like I’m the last biscuit in the packet?”

He set the mug down and looked at her. “No reason. Just admiring you.”

Jamie dutifully twirled in her very demure nightgown that went up to the neck, covered her arms, and went down to her ankles.

Chris tugged her down onto the sofa beside him and nuzzled her neck. As Jamie settled into his lap, pulling the blanket tighter, his hand slid up under the hem of her nightgown, fingers brushing the smooth skin of her thigh.

"You’re not wearing pants," he teased her.

Jamie didn't even open her eyes. "It’s a nightgown. It goes all the way to my ankles. I don’t need pants."

Chris grinned, his hand still resting against her bare leg. "Absolutely scandalous."

"Comfortable," she corrected.

"Irresistible," he countered, and kissed the corner of her mouth.

They stayed like that for a while - her legs stretched across his, his fingers tracing light patterns on her thigh, neither of them in any rush to move. The flat smelled like clean laundry and the faint scent of jasmine.

Eventually, Chris murmured, “You know… I think every Sunday should be no-pants Sunday.”

Jamie, eyes half-closed, shifted slightly in his lap and mumbled, “I’m literally wearing an ankle-length nightgown.”

“Exactly. Very anti-pants of you.”

“Are you ever serious.”

He grinned against her skin. “I'm extremely serious about you.”

Jamie elbowed him lightly. Chris caught her hand and kissed her knuckles, then tucked their joined hands under the blanket.

The playlist shifted tracks, something soft and acoustic. Jamie hummed along under her breath. 

“We should write a song about it,” Chris said.

“About me wearing a Victorian ghost nightie?”

“Exactly. It’ll be a ballad. A tragic, yearning piece about how your modesty drives me to distraction.”

“No. You can't keep writing songs about everything....”

“Too late. I have you here in my power. No pants, no escape.”

Jamie laughed and leaned over to kiss his jaw. “Only because you’re warm.”

Chris moved his head slightly so that her lips slid onto his mouth and he kissed her lingeringly. “I’m always warm. I've assumed that that’s why you keep me around.”

She smiled against his lips and then he shifted slightly to reach for his phone and started typing into the notes app.

Jamie squinted at the screen. “Are you seriously drafting lyrics?”

Chris didn’t look up. “Verse one: nightie to her ankles, neckline to her chin. The longing begins.”

Jamie laughed. “That’s really awful.”

“It’s evocative.”

“It’s deeply unsexy.”

Chris grinned. “No, it's sexy. The restraint. The long nighty. The realisation that there's nothing under the nighty but your underwear and bare skin ..."

Jamie leaned her head against his shoulder. “God help your fans if they ever see your drafts folder.”

He turned and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “They could never handle my domestic masterpieces.”

Chris chuckled and put the phone down. Jamie shifted so she was curled more securely against him, her breath evening out.

No pants. No problem.

Chris's hand stayed where it was, nestled high on Jamie's thigh beneath the nightgown, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles against the warm skin there. She shifted slightly, her breathing shallow, but said nothing.

"It's just to keep my hand warm," he murmured, not even pretending to be innocent.

Jamie arched a brow, eyes still half-lidded. "That is so not true."

"It's true. I'm very focused. Thermal regulation is important."

She gave him a very sceptical look but didn’t move his hand.

Chris closed his eyes, smug and content, and let the song finish playing before following through.

Practise Over

Jamie had been plotting revenge ever since the podcast.

She'd been halfway through a serious segment - something about sentencing reforms - and Chris, just off-camera, had pulled a face so absurdly tragic while holding up their half-eaten tub of ice cream that he’d found in the freezer that she'd burst into laughter mid-sentence. Completely derailed. The clip had gone semi-viral. Because of course everyone knew who had been the one to make her laugh. Speculation was rife about what he had actually done, though - most of the speculation had been suggestive in nature. Clearly, her audience had dirty minds. She was never going to live it down.

Which brought her to now - curled up beside him on the couch, fingers under his shirt and mouth at his neck, with very clear intentions. She was supposed to be napping. That was the deal - he’d practise, she’d doze. Instead, she’d slinked in, draped herself over him like a human blanket, hooked one leg over his and pressed her whole body against his back like she was trying to merge with him. One hand crept under the hem of his T-shirt while the other tangled idly in his thick blond hair, tugging gently as her mouth moved lazily against his neck, warm and open.

Chris kept messing up the guitar part.

“OK you’re being distracting on purpose,” Chris muttered, missing another chord as he shot her a look, an equal mix of exasperated and amused.

Jamie hummed, not quite a denial. “I'm not doing anything? What am I doing precisely??” she asked, breath against his skin.

He gritted his teeth, restarted the riff, and fumbled it again when she bit down lightly just below his ear.

“That,” he said, voice low and strained. She nibbled on his throat next.

“Maybe I like hearing you mess up,” she whispered, and slipped her hand down, fingertips dragging across his stomach. Her hand slid lower, slow and deliberate, until her fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, knuckles grazing along the firm plane of his lower abdomen. She knew exactly what she was doing - and so did he. "I mean ... it's not nearly as bad as making someone laugh when they're on a podcast livestream, right?"

Chris abandoned the guitar entirely. “Fine. Practise over.”

Jamie shook her head disapprovingly. "Tsk tsk...," she teased softly, keeping her tone innocent. “You're a professional. Aren’t you supposed to be able to be able to avoid all distractions and concentrate?”

He gave her a very pointed look. Jamie laughed, extremely pleased with herself. “Well, if you really need to work,” she said innocently. "I should let you ... I'm going to go and read or something.”

She made to get up from the sofa when Chris’s hand shot out and caught her wrist, tugging her straight back down and into his lap. His guitar lay forgotten beside the couch.

“Absolutely not,” he said, locking his arms around her and grinning wickedly. "It's time for my wife to get what she's clearly asking for."

She straddled his lap, smiling down at him with equal playfulness.

Their mouths met a heartbeat later, the kiss slow and thorough - just the beginning of what promised to be a very thorough response to her earlier provocations. The guitar was long forgotten. There were far more interesting things to do with his hands.

The living room faded into background as Chris murmured something low against her skin and Jamie laughed again, breathless, already reaching for him.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Not that they were even trying to get there.

Bet You Can’t

It started as a joke.

Jamie was in one of his T-shirts and nothing else, arms folded smugly as she stood in the middle of the room and issued her challenge. “No touching. First one to cave loses.”

Chris narrowed his eyes. “What does the winner get?”

She grinned. “Whatever they want.”

They shook on it. Sort of. It involved lingering fingers, a brush of thumb over palm, a lot of eye contact, and probably already counted as cheating.

For the first few minutes, they pretended to be casual. Chris sat back with his phone, scrolling aimlessly, while Jamie flipped through a magazine on the armchair, legs tucked up primly beneath her.

Then came the first jab - Jamie uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, just a little too slowly.

Chris's fingers twitched on the screen. He glanced up. She didn’t even look his way.

Chris retaliated by stretching with theatrical laziness, arms lifted high, shirt riding up just enough to expose the lean muscle of his stomach and the deep V at his hip.

“So juvenile,” she murmured, not looking up.

“Effective,” he said.

Another minute passed. Chris ran a hand through his hair like he was bored. Jamie, not to be outdone, reached up to adjust the neckline of the T-shirt she was wearing - his - revealing the barest flash of skin along her upper thigh as the hem lifted.

“You’re twitching,” she said lightly.

He arched an eyebrow. “You’re smirking.”

Jamie deliberately shifted, crossing her legs slowly in a way that made his jaw flex.

He countered by tugging his shirt off altogether with an exaggerated stretch, dropping it on the back of the sofa like he’d simply overheated.

"Seriously. We're going there?" she demanded incredulously.

A pause.

Jamie licked her fingertip and turned the page like it was nothing. Chris watched her mouth too closely.

“You’re getting desperate because I’m winning," Jamie remarked.

“You wish," he said in a low voice.

She hummed, rising to her feet with the same insufferable grace she used whenever she wanted to mess with him. As she walked past him in the hallway, she let her fingers trail lightly across his stomach - just the barest whisper of contact, as if she hadn’t done it at all.

Chris was off the sofa before the magazine hit the floor.

"You touched me first," he said accusingly, even as he closed the distance.

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Barely. It doesn’t count."

"It was sabotage. You broke the rules."

"Prove it."

"Oh, I will."

He caught her around the waist and pushed her gently against the wall, his mouth already finding hers.

“Lost the bet,” Jamie said breathlessly. “What happened to the cocky rock star who told me he always wins?”

“Worth it,” he muttered, kissing her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted. “Also, I consider this a win win”

She couldn’t disagree.

Whatever I Want

Jamie hadn’t even tried to pretend she was sorry.

“Technically, you touched me first,” Chris had pointed out, right before she’d shoved him back onto the bed and climbed on top of him like she’d just been waiting for the chance.

Her grin had been all wicked satisfaction. “Technically,” she’d echoed, as if that settled it.

Chris had opened his mouth to argue - mostly for the principle of the thing - but then she’d reached down, unfastened his jeans, and made short work of his boxers, pushing them down just far enough. Her underwear and tshirt followed, discarded with equally ruthless efficiency. When she sank onto him in one slow, determined motion, a soft whimper escaped her lips - tight, stretching, almost too much - but she didn’t stop. His hands clenched instinctively, breath catching as her body adjusted around him. Her control never wavered, but the effort showed in the tremble of her thighs, the low, broken sound in her throat. His brain short-circuited entirely, every coherent thought replaced by the feel of her clenched tight around him.

“Unfair,” he’d managed, his voice thick, as she pinned his wrists above his head.

“Should’ve been faster,” she murmured, bending down to press a slow, taunting kiss just beneath his jaw. “Now be a good sport and admit it.”

Chris was flat on his back, arms stretched above his head, wrists caught loosely in Jamie’s grip. She was already seated on him, hips flush against his, completely in control - and he was already gone, undone by the feel of her, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, breath rough. He wanted to touch her - God, he wanted to - but he didn’t move, didn’t even try to break her grip. Not when she was like this. In control. Deliberate. Glorious.

His fingers flexed uselessly against the sheets, aching to cup her breasts, to run over her skin, to pull her down and kiss her stupid. But he stayed still, letting her ride out every bit of power she’d claimed, every flicker of heat she was wringing from both of them., arms stretched above his head, wrists caught loosely in Jamie’s grip. She straddled his hips, completely in control, and he was already gone - eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, breath rough.

Jamie rocked against him slowly, deliberately, watching every reaction chase across his face.

“Say it,” she murmured.

Chris swallowed. “You win.”

She smiled, wicked and sweet. “Damn right I do.”

Her pace quickened, slick heat grinding against him in rhythm, and she felt the moment it shifted - her own control faltering as the pressure built. Her hands slid down his arms, braced against his chest. She rode him harder.

Chris groaned her name, but she wasn’t listening. Not properly. Not when everything was hot and tight and urgent and she was right there -

She came with a loud, raw cry, hips jerking, vision blanking out for one wild second - and in that same breath, she released his wrists, letting him grab at her freely.

And then she kept going.

Chris surged up beneath her, grabbing at her with both hands, rough and eager and completely unrestrained now that she’d let him go. One hand fisted in her hair as he yanked her down into a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, the other sliding up to seize her breast, thumb dragging hard over her nipple. The low guttural sound he made was delicious to her ears as she clenched around him again, still moving, still in charge, even as he lost what little composure he had left. “Jamie - fuck - ”

She just leaned down and whispered in his ear, “We agreed I could have whatever I want.”

Chris met her eyes - wrecked, breathless, his hands still locked on her like he couldn’t decide what to hold tighter.

"Then take it," he rasped.

She did.

He broke - loud, desperate, undone beneath her - and she followed, shuddering through a second climax with a cry that tangled with his.

And when the chaos finally settled, she collapsed against him, both of them panting, boneless, entirely sated.

It had started as a bet.

They’d definitely both won.

Urgently

Jamie had sent the photo just before midnight. She was curled up in bed, tangled in the duvet with one bare thigh peeking out, hair loose around her shoulders and a sleepy, crooked smile on her face. The message underneath had read: This bed is way too big without you.

Chris had stared at his phone, the image burning into his brain. Across the table, Lydia was outlining some multi-phase campaign calendar while Graham attempted to mediate a very serious dispute about hoodie colourways for the spring merch drop. He hadn’t cared. Not about colour palettes, not about SKU projections, not about Seb’s extremely strong opinion that no one should ever be seen in 'sage'. He had tugged his jacket off the chair.

“You leaving already?” Owen had asked.

“Yeah,” Chris had said. “Emergency.”

He hadn’t elaborated.

But the ache had already settled deep in his chest, hot and insistent. The thought of her alone in their bed, waiting, had overridden everything else. He didn’t need the meeting. He needed her.

Twenty minutes later, he was letting himself into the flat as quietly as he could. Jamie was still in bed, the room dim and warm, her limbs stretched across his side like she was saving it for him. Her voice was still thick with sleep when she turned her head toward him, eyes barely open, hair fanned across his pillow like she belonged there and nowhere else. She stirred when he slipped out of his clothes.

“Didn’t expect you till late,” she murmured.

“I saw the photo,” he replied, sliding under the duvet.

“Oh,” she said, grinning now. “Sorry - I didn't mean for you to come back for that ...”

He kissed her before she could finish the tease, catching her gasp with his mouth, pressing her back into the pillows. Her body arched to meet him like it always did - eager, familiar, utterly his.

When he finally pulled away to breathe he said in a low voice, his eyes dark. “No. I came home for this.”

His hand slid down her body, and she stopped smiling.

She moaned instead.

His mouth found the curve of her throat, kisses slow and possessive. She hooked a leg over his hip, drawing him in. There was no rush - just heat and hunger and that familiar pull between them, like gravity.

"Missed you," she whispered, breath catching.

"I know," he said, voice rough against her skin. "I felt it."

Interruptus: Studio Version

Chris was trying to get a clean take of a new acoustic demo. The flat was quiet, headphones snug over his ears, mic live. He was seated on the edge of the bed, guitar balanced across his thigh, the red recording light glowing steadily from the setup in the corner.

His focus was locked in - until Jamie wandered in wearing one of his button-downs. Unbuttoned. Nothing underneath.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded casually across her chest, legs bare and gaze lazy. He didn’t see her at first. But when he looked up, mid-take, she just mouthed something provocative.

He coughed, fumbled the chord, muttered "fuck" under his breath, and ripped off the headphones.

“You are banned from the studio.”

Jamie tilted her head, entirely unrepentant. “Is it really a studio if it’s also our bedroom?”

“I was halfway through a decent take.”

She wandered in, bare feet silent on the floorboards. “Your hands were shaking.”

“They were not.”

She sat beside him on the bed, nudging his thigh with hers. “You want to prove it?”

Chris glared at her, but his eyes dropped - instinctively - to the open shirt, then quickly back up again. “You are the worst.”

“I’m very supportive,” she said, trailing a finger along his forearm. “Just not of that take.”

He groaned. “It was a good take.”

Jamie leaned in, brushing her mouth lightly against his jaw. “You can do better.”

Chris let the guitar slide off his lap and onto the bed. “You’re an actual workplace hazard.”

She smiled against his skin. “But very motivating.”

Legal Lecture Seduction

Jamie was dictating notes for her next podcast. Something about evidentiary thresholds and cross-examination technique in adversarial systems - specifically how misreporting by the media distorted public understanding of what testimony could actually prove. Chris was lying nearby, sprawled on the sofa with a cushion under his head, eyes half-lidded, listening with a mix of admiration and calculated mischief.

“You’re very sexy when you talk about burden of proof,” he said lazily, eyes fixed on her mouth as she spoke.

“Shh,” she said, not looking at him. “This is important.”

He didn’t listen. One hand slid up her thigh beneath the throw rug. “Objection… relevance.”

She arched a brow. “Overruled.”

He shifted closer. “Motion to compel.”

“Denied.”

His hand moved higher. “Motion for discovery?”

“You’re getting dangerously close to contempt,” she murmured, but her breath hitched.

He grinned, taking that as encouragement. “I promise I’m only here to examine the facts.”

“Chris,” she warned, setting down her tablet. “This is a very serious outline on procedural fairness.”

“I’m very fair,” he said solemnly. “Equitable. Thorough. Deeply committed to due process.”

He rolled over and kissed her knee, then began trailing kisses slowly up the inside of her thigh - light at first, barely more than a brush of lips, each one closer than the last. She shivered, breath catching, and her legs shifted involuntarily as he moved higher.

“Is this your way of requesting an adjournment?” she asked, voice beginning to soften.

“It’s more of an oral argument,” he said, sliding his body over hers with the kind of practiced ease that made her toes curl.

She laughed shakily, trying not to respond. “You better cite your sources.”

“Oh, I’ve got case law,” he promised. “And exhibits. You’re going to want to examine them closely.”

The Distraction Bet (Remix)

It started because Chris brought it up again.

“You cheated last time,” he said flatly, arms crossed, staring her down in the kitchen.

Jamie didn’t even blink. “I did not.”

“You touched me first.”

“You followed me down the hallway and pinned me to a wall.”

“After you grazed my stomach with your hand and then pretended it was nothing.”

She smiled slowly. “Still sounds like your fault.”

Chris narrowed his eyes. “Rematch.”

Jamie leaned against the counter, smug as hell. “Let’s see if you can go an entire afternoon without touching me.”

“Winner gets what they want?”

“Obviously.”

For the first hour, she was mostly well-behaved. But then came the tank top. Old, faded, low armholes. No bra.

She bent unnecessarily to pick things up. Sat cross-legged with one leg nudged up against him. Whispered things she absolutely didn’t need to say.

By the third hour, he was visibly sweating.

She leaned close, breath brushing his ear. “You lasted longer than I thought.”

He grabbed her. “Game’s over.””

The Morning Plank

Chris was doing core work in the living room - planks, push-ups, the whole routine. He was halfway through a timed set, sweat beading at the base of his neck, muscles taut with effort, when Jamie shuffled in wearing his hoodie and nothing else. She stepped onto the mat without a word and climbed directly onto his back.

“Weighted resistance training,” she mumbled, cheek resting on his shoulder blade.

“Um. Jamie? Kind of busy here.”

“I'm helping!”

She draped herself over him like a sleepy cat, her thighs loose around his hips, hands tucked into his sweatshirt pockets. Chris let out a laughing groan but didn’t drop. The added weight made everything burn.

“You’re going to make me fail my set,” he gritted.

“It's good for your core.”

“Debatable.”

“Do I feel heavy?”

“Emotionally? Always.”

She laughed, but didn’t move. He held the plank a full minute longer than planned, stubbornness alone keeping him up, before collapsing onto the mat with a dramatic gasp, careful even in collapse not to jostle her too much.

She still didn’t move. “Best workout ever.”

He rolled onto his side, dragging her with him, and nuzzled into her neck as though seeking comfort - though his hands had already started wandering beneath the hoodie. “You continue to be a threat to my sanity,” he muttered, stern in tone, but entirely betrayed by the way his mouth was brushing against her skin and his fingers were tracing slow, deliberate lines along her hip.

She kissed his jaw, sleepy and smug. “I aim to please.”

Phone Call Shenanigans

Jamie was mid-call with a sponsor rep, her tone crisp and professional.

Chris walked by. Naked.

Deliberately.

She didn’t react. Not even a flinch.

He walked back the other way, slower this time, eyebrows raised.

She held eye contact. “Yes, the Q4 integration model needs review, but we’ll flag that for legal - ”

He mouthed: Want help finding your concentration?

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Sorry, could you repeat that last question?”

When she finally hung up, Chris wandered back in - this time wearing boxers and a T-shirt, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“That was a sponsorship call,” Jamie said, fixing him with a look. “If you’re not careful, they’ll pull the Hugo Boss deal and put you in a dinosaur onesie for a children's charity campaign.”

Chris didn’t even blink. “What kind of dinosaur?”

“T. rex. Cartoon. No dignity.”

He leaned in, kissed her cheek. “Worth it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why are you like this?”

He shrugged, completely unapologetic. “Because last week, you sat on my lap during a band strategy call and whispered suggestions for what I should do to you once it was over.”

“That was different.”

“Different how?”

“It was muted.”

Chris pointed at her. “Exactly. You were free to do whatever you wanted, and you chose violence.”

Jamie smirked. “You were the one making those little breathy noises.”

“I was being suffocated by your thighs.”

“Still your fault.”

He grinned. “We’re even now.”

She gave him a look. “You think this is even?”

He leaned in closer. “Baby, this is just the opening arguments.”

The Strategic Nap

Jamie was “napping.” Technically.

Chris was reading notes on his laptop. Something complex - drafting revisions to a project charter for one of their charity partners, or maybe wrangling the new release schedule Lydia had sent through, full of overlapping promo cycles and proposed acoustic sessions. His brow was furrowed in concentration, one hand resting lightly on Jamie’s bare thigh, stroking up and down without thinking as he read. 

Then her hips shifted. Just a little. Then again.

He froze. “Are you awake?”

Silence.

She shifted again. Her thigh slid across his.

“Jamie,” he growled.

Still nothing.

“If this is you asleep, I’m terrified of you awake.”

She smiled and wondered how long it would take him to close his laptop and put it aside.

The answer was: not long.

Chris paused, shut the screen with slow, deliberate finality, and set the laptop on the floor.

“Right,” he said, shifting to pin her properly beneath him. “You want my attention? You’ve got it.”

Jamie stretched like a cat, entirely unrepentant. “That took longer than I expected.”

“I was trying to work.”

“I was trying to nap.”

“You were grinding.”

She feigned surprise. “Was I?”

Chris slid a hand under the oversized shirt she was wearing - his - and found nothing underneath. His hand stilled, then tightened slightly on her thigh. He made a sound of low, surprised pleasure, something between a groan and a laugh.

Jamie tilted her head, eyes dark with amusement.

He smiled, already lowering his mouth to her collarbone. “I have no complaints.”

The Turnabout

Jamie was at the table, expression intent, entirely absorbed in a podcast draft she’d insisted needed to be finalised before midnight. Her laptop was open, legal tabs everywhere, and her expression had entered the “do not interrupt unless on fire” zone.

Chris had no business touching her.

Which of course meant he was going to.

He started innocently enough - refilling her water, placing a plate of sliced fruit beside her elbow. She mumbled something incoherent without looking up.

Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. She tensed. “Working!”

“Helping!” he replied, mouthing the word against her skin.

His hands found her waist. Then slid under her jumper.

“Chris.”

He kissed lower, just beneath her ear. “You said this draft needed punch. I’m punching up the mood.”

“I will murder you in your sleep.”

“Legally?”

“Legally.”

He grinned against her. “Then I better make it worth it.”

She tried to keep typing. She really did.

She failed.

Chris reached around her, hit Control+S without breaking eye contact, and shut the laptop with exaggerated care. Then, in one smooth motion, he lifted her out of the chair.

“Chris - ”

“I’m preserving your work and your sanity,” he said, already carrying her toward the bedroom. “Like a good husband.”---

Chapter Text

It was late. The flat was dim and quiet, lit only by the golden wash of the streetlight outside filtering through gauzy curtains. The air held the last traces of dinner—soy sauce, garlic, a hint of lemon—and somewhere between dessert and dozing off, Jamie had ended up on the floor again.

Chris had long since stopped protesting this habit. Tonight, he hadn’t even tried to lift her onto the sofa. He’d just dropped down beside her, letting his body melt into the carpet, one arm behind his head, the other lazily curved toward her hip.

The record player clicked softly as the arm dropped, and then a hush fell over the room.

Then: the low, aching swell of Roberta Flack’s voice, slow as honey and twice as devastating. Her voice filled the space with longing, the kind that curled into your ribs and stayed there.

The first time… ever I saw your face… I thought the sun rose in your eyes…

The first time… ever I saw your face…

Neither of them spoke.

They had both heard the song before. But certainly not like this. Not in this room, not at this stage of knowing. Not with one another ... with bare feet brushing, limbs loose from warmth and ease, and all walls and barriers between them entirely vanished...

Jamie blinked slowly at the ceiling. The next line floated over them, impossibly gentle:

And the moon and the stars… were the gifts you gave…

Her hand twitched once on the floor.

Chris rolled onto his side. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He just leaned in and kissed the inside of her wrist. Then the soft bend of her elbow. The slope of her shoulder. The line of her jaw.

She turned her head toward him, not all the way. Just enough to see his face—his pupils so wide his eyes looked almost black, the expression there so loving, so focused, it felt like being held in place by gravity itself.

Her breath caught. Her whole body quivered.

The first time… ever I kissed your mouth…

His lips lingered just above hers, smiling, as though the line had reached straight into him. As though he knew exactly what it meant to both of them now, what it had never meant before.

He kept going. Slow, unhurried kisses like full stops in a love letter.

Her skin was warm beneath his mouth. Her breath a quiet thread.

To the dark… and the endless skies…

The song felt endless too, expanding across the room like light through water.

When he reached her collarbone, she murmured his name, so soft it was more breath than voice.

The music moved around them, vast and tender.

Chris pressed his forehead to her temple and closed his eyes.

They stayed like that, still and quiet and undone, until the needle lifted at the end of the side and the room returned to silence, humming with something that would never quite leave.

“I really like that song,” she whispered against his lips.

“I really like you,” he countered.

The video appeared on the band’s YouTube channel without warning.

Title: “The First Time (Live at Blackhall Studios)”

It opened in silence.

Then: the flicker of grain, the soft scratch of static. The image settled into a high-contrast black and white shot of a dim studio, a bare bulb glowing in the corner. There were no logos, no introductions, no preamble—just a camera moving in slow, deliberate circles around a small, tight cluster of musicians.

Chris sat at the piano. Head down, fingers resting lightly on the keys. His hair was tousled, shirt sleeves rolled, collar open. To his left, Seb adjusted the strap of his guitar, eyes half-closed as though listening inward. Jake stood behind a vintage mic with his bass, the edge of a grin tugging at his mouth. Liam was already settled at the stripped-down drum kit, a single floor tom, a snare, a ride cymbal, everything pared back to rhythm and breath.

Around them: the quartet. Two violinists, a violist, and a cellist, all dressed in black, seated in a loose semicircle. They weren’t background. They weren’t ornament. They were stitched into the heart of the arrangement.

Chris began first—just a few bars of delicate, aching chords.

Then the strings joined him.

The camera stayed wide, unblinking. It didn’t rush or cut. It simply watched.

The arrangement built like a storm in slow motion. The cello was rich and low, the violins high and almost weeping. Seb came in with a single sustained note that curled beneath the harmony. Jake’s bass grounded it, humming underneath, while Liam’s brushes stirred gently across the snare like footsteps on carpet.

When Chris started to sing— The first time… ever I saw your face…

—his voice was raw, low, and so intimate it felt like a confession.

The strings swelled beneath him. The camera caught the movement of his throat, the way his mouth shaped each word as though he were trying to memorise her name.

It wasn’t a performance. Not really.

It was a memory, made visible.

At three minutes and twenty seconds, the camera moved slowly across each of the players. Jake watching Chris with quiet pride. Seb’s fingers on the frets, eyes closed. Liam, locked in with the cellist, both of them lost in the same tide.

The final line landed with silence before it: And the first time… ever I lay with you…

A held breath. A pause. And then the last note, drawn out so gently it was hard to tell when it ended.

The screen faded to black. No titles. No credits.

Just silence.

Lydia and PR had floated ideas for the video. Something visual, they’d said. Footage of Chris and Jamie—nothing explicit, just suggestive. A bed. Sunlight. Rolled sheets. A kiss drawn out long enough to set algorithms alight.

Chris had laughed, knowing there no way Jamie would want to do something like that. "Even Tanya Barnes could figure out who I’m singing this one to," he’d said, and that had been the end of that.

In the comments, the first one read: “I was not emotionally prepared for this.”

The second: “Who let them do this in black and white with strings? WHO.”

The third, with sixty-two thousand likes in under an hour: “I’m never falling in love again unless it looks like this.”

Within a day, fans had taken it into their own hands. They stitched together their own versions—video compilations of Chris and Jamie caught in candid moments: walking side by side in behind-the-scenes clips, laughing at airport lounges, sharing whispered words at soundchecks. Grainy tour footage, shared looks, hands brushing.

They layered the studio audio over it all.

The first time… ever I saw your face…

Footage of Jamie asleep in Chris’s lap at that open-air festival—his arms around her, his hand on her back, protective and barely moving. Later, he was in her lap, dead on his feet, her fingers carding through his hair. Edits caught the soft glances on stairwells and side stages, the way they held hands like they didn’t mean to, like they kept remembering and forgetting they were allowed to.

There were clips of them sitting on flight cases backstage, forehead to forehead, speaking without moving their mouths. Jamie brushing his shirt collar flat. Chris helping her into his hoodie with one hand while arguing about setlists with Seb.

And then the long, unhurried stares—Jane Austen levels of aching restraint—when one of them thought the other wasn’t looking. Only, they always were.

Chapter Text

Chris was enjoying breakfast with Jamie when the sound from the radio made him grimace. The usual music station had been replaced - something low-effort and vaguely tabloidish, the kind of programming neither of them ever voluntarily chose. Jamie had apparently forgotten to change it back last night after listening to an interview, and now they were stuck with a morning show full of peppy hosts and forced laughter.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, equal parts amused and horrified as the hosts unleashed a volley of prank calls, fart jokes, and constant, unfunny double entendres. It was like being trapped in a breakfast show pitched at twelve-year-olds with adult voices.

“Sorry,” Jamie said, lifting her coffee. “I take full responsibility for our possible indigestion.”

The table between them was a clutter of domestic detritus: two mismatched mugs, toast crusts, and the last of last night’s dumplings in a shared bowl. Jamie sat barefoot in one of Chris’s T-shirts, hair twisted up in a messy knot, face bare as always. Her eyes were still a little puffy with sleep, but her posture was alert, chin lifted as she stared at the radio with faint disdain.

“Coming up tomorrow,” one of the hosts chirped, “we’ve got a certified sexologist in studio to tell us exactly how to fake an orgasm - because apparently, you’re not doing it right!”

Chris reached for the remote with the weary precision of someone defusing a bomb. One button-press and the trashy chatter disappeared, replaced by music: mellow, familiar, undemanding. He sat back down and picked up his coffee.

Jamie, spooning rice into her mouth with perfect casualness, said, "What a random topic," then added, "So why do some women fake orgasms?"

He inhaled sharply, and the next thing he knew, he was choking on his coffee. Spluttering, he set the mug down, wiping his mouth. “Bloody hell, Jamie. Can you wait until I’ve finished swallowing?”

She shrugged. "I mean - I get that not everyone can climax from penetration or whatever. That’s not new. But faking it? As a kind of relationship default? That’s the bit I don’t get. Isn’t it dishonest? Like, is that just considered a normal and acceptable white lie - like telling someone they look great even if they’re wearing a questionable jumper? Social grease kind of thing?"

Chris had assumed she was trying to throw him off, but she looked genuinely puzzled now as she mused what had been an offhand teaser by the radio host. "What? It's not something I've ever really thought about, but they said it so offhand - like it was just normal. Made me wonder: why pretend?"

Chris stared at her, his brain still catching up as he processed the question. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised - random discussions like had actually always been normal for them. They talked about everything. One time it had been Jamie reading aloud from an article about people who never forgot anything and wondering what that kind of memory would do to a person. Another time it had been Chris lying in bed next to her, musing aloud about what synaesthesia would be like for a musician - whether C major might taste like cinnamon or if the note B flat felt blue to some people. They’d also once spent twenty minutes debating whether sugar should really count as a liquid during the baking process. Another time, they’d had an equally earnest discussion about whether it was worse to clog a friend’s toilet or accidentally send a text about them to them. 

This was just... them.

The thing was, Jamie also had a way of asking things like this with zero warning and total sincerity. It threw him, sometimes. The way she trusted him to give her real answers, like she was collecting data for some private thesis.

“I just don’t understand why you’d go through the effort of faking instead of just... not.”

Chris tried to figure out how best to answer. “Well, uh... there are a lot of reasons. Not wanting to hurt someone’s ego, wanting it to be over quicker, pressure to make the other person feel good - ”

Jamie frowned. “That seems counterproductive. I can't imagine anyone just wanting to get it over faster. Isn’t the whole point to - ”

“Yes,” Chris cut in quickly, shifting in his seat. “Ideally. But not everyone is honest about what they want, and sometimes people think it’s easier to pretend.”

She thought about that, then wrinkled her nose. “I mean, if it’s not happening, it’s not happening. But pretending it is? That just feels... off. Like the kind of thing that would eat away at you over time.”

Chris watched her carefully, and then with a jolt he remembered she'd never been with anyone else except him. He sat back, a faint smile curving his mouth.

“Sometimes it's not that easy, babe.”

“What does that mean?”

He rubbed his face. “You never read about this? Talked about this with your girlfriends?”

“Not really... Cassie used to overshare a bit after her encounters... but I'd usually tune out. I do remember her saying that it was very unusual that I was able to orgasm during my first time.”

Her cheeks were faintly flushed. Chris grinned at her, lifting her hand to his lips. “You're welcome.”

“Don't let it go to your head.”

Chris paused. “Look, there are probably a ton of reasons why a woman might fake it. If the guy doesn't bother to make sure she's ready, she'll have some pain and just want it over with. She may know she's not going to come anyway, so she'll just pretend. The guy might be impatient, and she just wants to make him happy. It's not great, but it happens.”

Jamie frowned at his words, processing. Although their sex was frequently rushed and frantic .. Chris had never tried to rush her to a response. If anything, he'd always made sure she was more than ready - taking his time, learning every little reaction, never once making her feel like she had to hurry. And despite his own impatience in most things, when it came to her, he seemed happy to take however long it took. She shifted slightly, the realisation settling in.

“What is going on in that head of yours?” he asked, eyes narrowing in curiosity.

“Sometimes it takes me longer to come than other times...” she mused thoughtfully. "And sometimes I don't always get there .. although it's always good anyway..."

Chris laughed and lifted his mug. “True... sometimes you're so turned on you pretty much come with just a look - and other days it takes longer... or not at all …”

“Do you mind?” she asked curiously.

“Of course not. Sex isn’t a performance. It’s not a scoreboard. Like you said, it’s good whether you come or not. Some days it’s fast, some days it’s not happening - and sometimes the best part’s just the way you look and feel afterwards. Or the way you curl up after. Either way, I'm in as long as you are."

Jamie looked at him, brow furrowed slightly. “Is that why we switch it up sometimes?”

Chris laughed, lowering his mug. “Partly. Physical overstimulation can happen during prolonged intercourse – hence the times I haven’t been able to come myself and we’ve had to stop rather than keep pumping away.” His mouth twisted. “Also, sometimes people just get in their heads, or distracted, or tired. It’s not a big deal. Bodies aren’t machines.”

He caught the amused twist of her lips and added, “OK babe, you’re doing that thing where you talk like a podcast host and I start sounding like a textbook even when talking about something fun...”

She grinned. “It’s comforting. I like this textbook very much.”...” He studied her face, smiling at her serious expression.

Jamie was still thoughtful. “Have any of your other partners faked it with you?”

Chris raised an eyebrow, setting his coffee down. “You're seriously asking me about other women I've slept with?”

Jamie gave him a look.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly, I couldn't say for sure. Some of them were probably pretty good at acting... so maybe? But there are certain physical signs that can't be faked if you’re paying attention.”

Jamie kept looking at him.

Chris relented. “All right, fine. Things like muscle contractions, changes in breathing, skin flushing - it’s all involuntary. You can fake noises, but your body doesn’t lie.” He could see she wasn’t just curious - she was genuinely interested, almost as if she were filing the information away, like she did with podcast prep or one of her more philosophical Reddit threads.”

Jamie continued to listen intently. “In your case, you're so responsive, I'm pretty sure I’d know if you were faking it. Your response is usually pretty intense... I can feel it...”

She flushed. “Clearly I lack subtlety.”

“Hey - I’m totally into it. Besides, if you can tell when I come, it's only fair I can tell when you come.”

“Well you are definitely not subtle about it,” she teased.

He shrugged. “Hey, I'm not ashamed.” Then he gave her a long, thoughtful look. “And please don't consider that a challenge to try to start faking orgasms.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “I thought you said you could always tell...”

Chris grinned, but then his expression turned more serious. The conversation had started out playfully, but something about it lingered in his mind. Jamie had only ever been with him. No matter how confident she sounded now, he couldn't ignore the reality that some people, years down the line, started wondering about what they’d missed.

Jamie caught the shift in his demeanour and set her mug down, eyeing him over the last cold dumpling. "Okay, but seriously - what does that expression mean?" It only struck her then how absurd the conversation would’ve sounded to anyone else - dissecting sexual psychology over leftover dumplings and lukewarm coffee.

Chris didn’t think Jamie would ever cheat on him. That wasn’t the fear. But he also knew - intimately - what it meant to explore, to compare, to learn yourself through contrast. He’d had that. She hadn’t. He’d slept with people he hadn’t loved, he’d had wild nights and slightly longer flings. He'd also had complicated entanglements that hadn't always ended up clean. Jamie, by contrast, had only ever known him. Chosen him - yes. Freely, fully. But not after being with other people.

And that was the part that stayed with him. He hadn’t just chosen her with the benefit of hindsight - he’d chosen her because of it.

Chris hesitated, then shrugged. “I was just thinking about how I'll have to work hard to make sure you don't go looking elsewhere for variety or a change. A lot of people don’t want to only ever have one sexual partner. It’s not even about anything being wrong - it’s just human curiosity sometimes.”

She went quiet for a moment, turning that over. Then, with complete certainty, she met his gaze. “I can’t imagine ever wanting anyone else. You're enough for me. More than enough.”

Chris studied her for a long moment, fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee mug. Then he let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Well, thanks but it’s not just about penis size, babe.”

Jamie choked on her coffee, dissolving into laughter.

Chris leaned back in his chair, pleased. “See? Still keeping things exciting.”

Music was playing again in the background - easy and unobtrusive. Jamie was still laughing when he stood, the sound of her mug clinking gently as she set it down.

Jamie eyed him warily. “What are you doing, Chris?”

He shot her a grin. “What does it look like?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Chris... we're supposed to head into Ruin House this morning...”

“You can't just bring up faking orgasms and expect me to sit through breakfast like a monk.”

Before she could protest, he scooped her up, her laughter echoing as he carried her toward the bedroom.

“Chris! Put me down! We have to get ready for work - I’m going to fake it!” she threatened.

He kissed her. “You won't have to,” he said wolfishly.

Jamie mock-sighed, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. “I swear, one day we’ll make it through breakfast without analysing the human condition.”

Chris grinned into her hair. “That’s foreplay.”

They were a little late to work that morning.

The duvet was tangled halfway down the bed, one of the pillows had migrated to the floor, and a faint breeze stirred the half-open window. The sweat on their skin was beginning to cool, tacky and slow-drying where her body pressed against his.

Jamie lay sprawled on top of Chris, bare limbs loose and heavy, cheek resting just above his heart. She felt boneless, utterly spent, in a soft, deliciously melted way that made her want to stay exactly where she was forever. Chris’s fingers traced lazy patterns down the bare skin of her back.

After a long, wordless stretch of quiet, Jamie slowly lifted her head and stared down into his eyes. Wide-eyed. Intense. Unblinking.

Chris blinked back, his light grey eyes meeting hers squarely. Then he burst out laughing. “Jesus,” he said, “you look like you’re about to ask me my greatest fear.”

Jamie didn’t crack. She just kept staring at him like she was trying to burn his soul into memory.

He smoothed a strand of damp hair away from her flushed face, his grin soft and crooked.

“Jamie,” he said solemnly, “I swear I didn’t fake it.”

Chapter Text

The conversation started with a song. It usually did.

Chris had just finished playing through a new arrangement in the living room—one of the slow-burn numbers they'd been workshopping for the acoustic set. His voice had gone low and aching near the bridge, something in it catching at the edge of breath. Jamie had been curled in the armchair nearby, ostensibly reading. But now her tablet lay flat on her lap and her brows were drawn slightly as she watched him put the guitar down.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

Chris looked up, amused but immediately wary. "Am I about to be psychoanalysed?"

"Possibly." Jamie didn't smile. Her eyes were thoughtful, not teasing. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sound like that. Like... sound like you actually mean it. Every time. Like you’re breaking your own heart while you’re singing, even when you’re not."

Chris looked slightly startled, then slowly sat down on the edge of the sofa. "You think I’m faking?"

"Not faking," Jamie said. "That’s not quite what I mean. More like—how much of it is real, and how much is craft?"

Chris rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "Both. All of it. Depends on the song."

Jamie leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees. "But it always feels true. That’s what I don’t get. You can go from something raw and bleeding to something sweet and light and then into something sexy as hell that makes me want to climb you like a tree —and all of it feels like it’s coming straight out of you."

He watched her, silent for a moment. Then he shrugged lightly. "It is coming out of me. Just not always the me I am in that exact moment."

Jamie tilted her head. "So it’s acting."

"It’s remembering," he said. "It’s going back to a feeling and letting it take the wheel for three minutes. Or imagining what it would feel like, if I’d ever been there. Sometimes it’s empathy. Sometimes it’s muscle memory."

Jamie studied him. "Do you ever fake it?"

Chris gave a quiet laugh. "Not like that."

"You know what I mean."

He leaned back into the cushions and shrugged. "Sometimes. If I’m wrecked. Or if the crowd’s weird. Or if the mix is off and I can’t hear myself properly and I know I’ve got two interviews after this and one of them’s with a guy who thinks 'emotional depth' means smashing a guitar over your head. Then, yeah. I pull the string that works. Give them the performance."

Jamie frowned slightly. "But I’ve seen you on stage, Chris. You don’t look like you’re pulling strings. You look like you’re bleeding."

He smiled, small and tired. "Because I’ve bled before. That part’s always there. You just... learn how to let it up to the surface without getting cut open again."

She was quiet for a while. Then: "So when you sing something like 'This Quiet Turns'..."

Chris didn’t move. Just said, "That one’s never fake."

Jamie nodded. Her throat felt tight. She looked down at the tablet she hadn’t touched in half an hour.

"Sometimes I think you feel things more than most people," she murmured.

"I don’t know about that. I just... let more of it show."

"That’s not always safe."

He looked over at her. "No."

Jamie met his gaze. "I’m glad you do it anyway."

Chris didn’t reply. He just reached over, took her hand, and pulled it gently into his lap. They sat like that for a long time—quiet, warm, still.

Later, when she thought he was asleep, Jamie whispered into the darkness, "You’re not faking it. I’d know."

He didn’t open his eyes. Just smiled faintly into the pillow. "I know you would." There was a moment's silence. "So which songs make you want to climb me like a tree? Just asking for a friend."

Chapter Text

The flat was quiet when Chris let himself in, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. He didn't hear the usual sound of Jamie typing on her laptop, or podcast prep, or even a rustling of pages. No kettle, no offhand legal rant, no background news and even more unusually – no background music. Just stillness.

He left his shoes by the door, walking softly towards the kitchen. Jamie was seated at the table, barefoot, cross-legged on one of the chairs. Her hair was half up, half fallen down her back, and she wore one of his old T-shirts, neck stretched out, sleeves rolled.

The high-end, horrifically expensive Meze Elites he’d bought for her were snug over her ears. He still hoped she never looked up how much they cost. He already knew she’d be outraged—and not in the impressed way. But the professional in him would defend the purchase to the death: planar magnetic drivers, absurd dynamic range, featherlight comfort.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. Her dark eyes were fixed on her laptop screen, expression unreadable. There was a stillness to her, a suspension. Curious, he moved a little closer, craning just enough to glimpse the video she was watching.

It was the official video for Our Kind of Quiet. Their usual style—just the band, no storyline, extras, plot or cringey acting. A darkened stage, industrial textures softened by low amber lighting. Cameras panned slowly, framing them in shadow and silhouette. The only thing that mattered was the music.

Seb was off to one side, cool and unflinching, his guitar lines clean and exacting. Liam, backlit, a figure of relentless rhythm, locked in tight. Jake’s bass slung low, his body swaying with each measured pulse. And himself—

He saw himself on the screen. The weight of his gaze. The curl of his fingers around the mic stand. The stillness before the chorus hit, a held breath in his chest. The way his mouth shaped the lyrics, how the camera caught the tension in his jaw, the movement of his throat as he sang.

He looked good. He knew that. But it wasn’t vanity. It was precision. Focus. Every gesture exact. Every inhale earned. He could see it now, see what she saw. The intensity. The gravity. The quiet ache in every note. Everything Jamie had once asked him about—How do you sing like that? What are you thinking when the camera’s that close?—all of it was there, visible if you knew where to look.

She didn’t move when the video ended and his eyebrows shot up when he saw her just click to the beginning of the video again.

He stood there, watching her watch him. Her expression hadn’t changed. But something in the line of her thighs, the way she shifted slightly in her seat as if she wanted something. Maybe someone.

When she finally noticed him, she startled, her eyes becoming huge. One hand lifted, pulling the headphones off her head and setting them down on the table. She looked very self-conscious as though she’d been caught doing something she oughtn’t.

"Sorry," she said a little too quickly, flushing a little and a slight catch in her breathing. "Didn’t hear you come in."

"Also sorry—didn't mean to sneak up on you," he told her apologetically, stepping in behind her. He leaned down, his mouth moving along her smooth cheek before catching her soft mouth in a long kiss. Her lips clung to his and he smiled slightly, pulling away and sliding his mouth lower, along the side of her neck, where her pulse kicked hard beneath his lips. His hand slid down her body to grip her breast through the thin cotton of his shirt with a casual and possessive certainty. His thumb brushed her nipple once, slowly and deliberately and she made a small sound of pleasure in her throat, pupils dilating.

"What are you doing?" he murmured, nuzzling her throat, even as he continued nuzzling her sensitive nipple playfully.

"Just listening to some music," she said, a little too fast, a little breathlessly.

"Listening?" he echoed, his mouth curved against her skin. "Looked like you were watching something. And very intently at that."

She made a soft sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "It’s a good song."

"Mm." He kissed her again, slow and deliberate. "You were critiquing it, were you?"

"Maybe," she said primly although she flushed again.

He pulled out the chair beside her and sat, their knees touching as he studied her flushed face with equal parts desire and affection. "What part, then? Lyrics? Arrangement?"

"Lyrics," she said, recovering slightly. "I was wondering what you meant by 'stillness bites'."

Chris tilted his head, watching her. "It means what it sounds like. Stillness can be passive, or it can be a blade. Depends who's holding it."

"Passive resistance isn't something I really associate with you, Chris."

He grinned. "It's not classic satyagraha I agree .. a bit angrier ... Any more questions?" he asked her teasingly as he humoured her pretence at analysing the 'lyrics'.

She bit the inside of her cheek. "And 'every breath still fights'?"

"You don’t have to scream to resist. Sometimes staying standing is the fight."

Jamie nodded. Then, quieter, "It doesn’t sound angry. It sounds... loaded."

"Because it is." He smiled faintly. "It’s all the things we weren’t allowed to say."

"To your old label?"

"To anyone who tried to stop me from getting what I want." His smile was very grim, slightly wintery, and she caught a flicker of that colder version of him. A side of him that he didn't show to her, but she knew still existed within him.

It was the version of him that she'd first encountered in his dressing room when they first met - cool, guarded and unreadable eyes. Extremely charming, self-contained and charismatic. Beautiful in the way a sculpture might be: finished, untouchable and very cold.

But that wasn’t the man in front of her now. Not really. She’d seen the version of Chris the one who pressed his face into her neck in the dark. Who reached for her in sleep. Who wasn't afraid to share his vulnerabilities with her, who never hid the weight of what he felt when it was just the two of them. There was still cold steel in him, but no distance.

He smiled slowly and devastatingly at her. "Are you going to write an essay about my song?"

"I'm thinking about it," she said lightly.

"Should I be flattered, or nervous?" he questioned.

She mumbled beneath her breath. "The song was also kind of hot."

One brow lifted. "Is it now? Go on."

"The rhythm," she continued. "Commanding. Sexy."

"Mm. I'm flattered."

"I meant the song," she lied.

He grinned, then stood and tugged her up with him in one swift movement. Before she could say another word, he hauled her into his arms. She gave a breathless laugh, legs instinctively locking around his waist.

"What are you doing now, Mr Raines?" she asked him with mock innocence in her dark eyes.

He kissed her throat, nuzzling the soft skin lingeringly and then bit down with a little pressure, making her moan. "Just wondering if this is one of the songs that makes you want to climb me like a tree."

Their lips met again. Even as she kissed him, her lips brushing his, she murmured provocatively, "I was merely critiquing the lyrics of the song."

""Right," he said, carrying her toward the bedroom, her legs still locked around his waist. "Pure academic interest—just so happened to involve watching the video on loop, not just listening to the track...""

"You're quite full of yourself sometimes, rock star," she taunted.

"Mmm, I could say something, but I won't. I mean if I make you come by just talking dirty - the fun's over before it begins," he teased her and she groaned laughingly.

"Oh my God. There is not enough room in this flat for your planet-sized ego and me."

"As I've discussed before - I'll fit," he promised her and she choked back a laugh again.

He didn’t stop at the bed. Instead, he deposited her on the carpeted floor in front of the full-length mirror that was along one side of their large bedroom.

Clothes disappeared without ceremony. He turned her around and eased her down to all fours, her hands braced against the floor, slim back arched. They both knew this position well—she was so always sweetly and sexily submissive for him like this, hips tilted just for him, gaze meeting his in the mirror, waiting for him to take her.

And he always took.

He knelt behind her, hand tightening on her hip, the other trailing up her back. She trembled, breath hitching as his weight shifted. The head of his cock nudged against her and she shifted instinctively, greedy for him, breath catching—

Then he sank into her in one powerful, devastating thrust that knocked the air out of her lungs. She gasped, palms flat against the carpet and they both saw her eyes widen in shock.

The mirror in front of them reflected every line, every shift of muscle, every glint of sweat. Her skin was flushed, already damp with heat. Her breasts swayed with every deliberate movement. The pressure of each deep and powerful thrust rippled through her body, thighs tensing, belly drawn tight, hips rising to meet him in perfect, instinctive rhythm. With wide hungry eyes, she watched herself take it, take him and beg for more...

“Chris ..”

His own reflection was brutal—jaw clenched, sweat dripping, chest heaving with effort. His eyes were fixed on her, dark and consuming, the line of his body taut with restraint. Every movement was measured, deliberate, but extremely relentless. He was fucking her like he needed it—like she was the only thing tethering him to the present. He watched her fall apart in the mirror and bit back a groan—fuck, he was close already, and he hadn’t even let her come yet. It took everything in him not to come the second she moaned his name like that.

"Look," he ground out, voice low and raw. "Look what you do to me. Look what I’m doing to you."

She raised her head, her eyes glazed with heat and pleasure locked on his in the mirror.

"Good girl," he said, rough with pride and hunger, and slammed into her deeper. Her mouth dropped open on a choked cry as her body jolted, pushing back into him instinctively, desperate for more. Her arms gave out, elbows slipping, and she dropped to her forearms with a broken sound. "Chris—oh my God—Chris—"

"Tell me," he said, voice low against her ear, "what exactly were you thinking about when  you were watching that video?"

She whimpered as his hand slid over her breast, thumb grazing across her nipple.

"You look like such a good girl but were you in fact being a naughty girl? Imagining yourself backstage? Wanting to bang the lead singer?"

His hand moved lower, fingers slick with rhythm.

"Did you want his autograph?" he teased, and then caught her moan with his mouth.

Her reply dissolved into a gasp. Her body arched. Her eyes fluttered closed and then opened again—watching them both, caught in the reflection.

"Still just critiquing?" he asked.

"Shut up," she said breathlessly.

He grinned against her neck. "That’s what I thought."

"Stop talking about yourself in the third person like you're Elmo," she managed to gasp and he gave a choke of laughter.

"So fucking sassy," he observed. "Do you know what happens to sassy girls like you?" he taunted her. He gripped her hair and tugged her head back as he thrust deeper, one hand gripping her hip hard, watching her come undone inch by inch. Forearms and knees digging into the carpet, her head was falling back onto his shoulder as he thrust his hips against her, fucking her slow and unrelenting with complete control over himself.

"You were so flushed when I walked in," he murmured. "Moving around in your seat like you couldn’t sit still."

She shuddered. "Uh.. Uh"

"If I hadn’t come home just then," he whispered, biting down hard on her throat. "What would you have done?"

She whimpered, trying to answer, but he slid his fingers between her thighs and coaxed another moan from her instead.

"Would you have touched yourself," he asked, voice thick with heat and hunger, "thinking about my mouth? My hands? That voice you like so much?"

She made a helpless noise, half-defiance, half surrender. He smiled, kissing the hollow of her throat.

"You can tell me," he said, thrusting deep and slow. "I like knowing what turns you on although I'm very glad I got home in time for this.."

One of his hands slid under her to press flat against her stomach, holding her steady as her body trembled against him.

In the mirror, her skin was flushed, her mouth parted, eyes glazed. His body curved over hers, possessive and unyielding. Each movement deliberate. Controlled. Devastating.

"Look at you," he whispered, watching her in the glass. "You look so fucking wrecked."

She could barely breathe. "I am."

"Good," he said, and pulled her tighter against him. "Because that’s what you did to me first."

And he drove into her again, drowning them both in rhythm, until critique and resistance and all other thoughts fell away.

"Let me come... please," she whispered, voice cracking around the edges of her breath. Her arms trembled as she braced herself, elbows slipping slightly on the carpet. Her hair hung in tangled curtains around her face, damp with sweat, hiding nothing from the mirror.

Chris bent over her, lips brushing her ear. "You want to come, babe?"

She nodded frantically, entirely unable to form words.

"Then show me," he murmured, hand sliding low across her stomach. "Show me how much you want it. Let me watch you take it."

Her body obeyed before her mind could catch up—hips arching, thighs straining, every muscle taut with need as she opened herself to him. Her mouth had fallen open in soundless pleasure, and her eyes locked on the mirror again, watching every second of what he was doing to her.

He pulled back when she was on the edge and gave a low laugh at her sound of pure indignant frustration. "Soon," he promised her. After a moment, he leaned in close, his mouth brushing her ear.

"Funny," he murmured, voice thick with heat. "I still remember a disapproving intruder in my dressing room claiming that our music was too loud, sweaty, and angry for you.."

She made a strangled sound between a laugh and a moan, glaring at him in the mirror.

"I believe the phrase was 'this kind of music,' wasn’t it?" he asked her.

She swore beneath her breath, her body was still rocking back into him. "Stop holding a grudge... ."

"Mm," he said, teeth biting down on her shoulder. "I think you’re a fan now."

Another thrust. She keened, helpless against it.

"Or maybe," he added, low and smug, "you’re just a fan of the sweaty, angry lead singer."

Another thrust. Her whole body jolted.

"The one," he murmured, "who makes you watch yourself come apart in the mirror.""

She couldn't answer. Couldn't even pretend to.

He grinned. Then gave her exactly what she needed.

Jamie's fingers clawed at the carpet, her breath shattered into gasps, and then she came hard, crying out, the sound raw and unguarded, echoing between them.

He fucked her through it, one arm tight around her waist, his body shuddering against hers until he followed with a broken curse pressed into the back of her neck.

For a long time, neither of them moved. Chris’s forehead rested between her shoulder blades, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Their reflections were still caught in the mirror—tangled, slick, ruined. Jamie raised her head slowly, hair falling back from her face. Her lips were parted, eyes heavy-lidded.

She met his gaze in the mirror again. "Still not my kind of music," she panted defiantly and then to add insult to injury, she poked her tongue out at him.

Chris gave a hoarse laugh. "You are such a fucking little liar."

Chris lifted her off the carpet like she weighed nothing, even though her limbs were useless and her body was boneless with satisfaction. Jamie gave a dramatic groan and flopped against his chest like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Jesus," he muttered, laughing despite himself. "You're really leaning into the ragdoll bit."

"I'm helping," she said into his shoulder.

"You're dead weight."

"Exactly."

He carried her to the bed and eased her down onto the cool sheets. She sprawled onto her back, arms flung out, hair wild. He stretched out beside her, propped on one elbow, eyes roaming across her flushed, marked, thoroughly satisfied body. His fingers moved idly across her skin—lazy, worshipful and very possessive.

Jamie stared up at the ceiling, catching her breath. "I was going through the band's back catalogue earlier."

Chris raised one eyebrow in satisfaction. "See? I told you. You're a fan now."

She wrinkled her nose but didn’t deny it. "I can admit I was wrong to dismiss the early stuff as just loud, sweaty, angry noise. There’s actual meaning in it."

Chris looked scandalised. "Wow. This is huge. Do you want to write that down?" He pretended to reach for his phone. "Lydia needs to get a press release out  - "

She elbowed him. He made an exaggerated sound of pain.

She kept talking, but her voice wavered slightly as his mouth began trailing across her collarbone, her sternum, the underside of her breast. His hands hadn’t stopped moving, either—moving over her again, like he was confirming that she was still real.

"I got a bit sidetracked," she admitted. "Was listening and then I watched the video for Our Kind of Quiet... and then I might have watched it again."

Chris didn’t lift his head. "That's right. I think you said it was academic interest."

She made a noise that might have been a laugh or a moan, depending on where his mouth had just landed.

"It’s not my fault you looked like that," she murmured. "All intense and furious and—" she exhaled. "So very, very fuckable."

Chris gave a low laugh. "Part of me wants to put the song on again and fuck you to it. But I think I have to draw the line at shagging to my own vocals. That’s just too weird."

Jamie laughed. "Interesting. Too egotistical, even for you?"

"Barely," he admitted with a grin, nuzzling her breasts for a moment before asking. "Which is your favourite part, though?"

She thought for a moment, her fingers tangling in his thick hair as his mouth continued straying, nibbling and sucking.

"Um .. uh .. maybe the chorus .. there's just something ... something about the way the song intensifies to the chorus..."

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, teeth grazing lightly over her hipbone. "Should we add a warning to our videos? 'May cause inappropriate thoughts in the viewer'?"

Jamie dragged a hand over her face. "You're so unbearable."

"You watched it at least twice."

"Shut up and fuck me again."

He was already doing exactly that and looked forward to her further exploration of the band’s back catalogue.

[Intro]
We didn’t vanish. We didn’t run.
We watched. We waited. We didn’t scream.
This isn’t silence. It’s our choice
You think we’re gone? We’re listening.

[Verse 1]
They thought we broke because we stopped speaking
Like quiet was a kind of failure
But you don’t know the weight of watching
The whole world tilt, and choosing not to kneel

[Verse 2]
No fists, no fire, no anthem screamed
No blood on shirts to make us clean
We stood there—still—unmoved, unheard
Our silence louder than their words

[Chorus]
This is our kind of quiet
No banners raised, no riots
But every breath still fights
Every stillness bites
We won’t perform your rage for you
We’ve got our own kind of truth
This is our kind of quiet
And it’s louder than you think

[Verse 3]
We’ve seen the scripts they hand out freely
How to be broken beautifully
Cry on cue, confess on time
Sell the pain, keep to the line
But grief’s not clean, and rage ain’t pretty
It doesn’t fit your camera frame
We carry ours like winter thunder
Low and shaking through the veins

[Chorus]
This is our kind of quiet
No banners raised, no riots
But every breath still fights
Every stillness bites
We won’t perform your rage for you
We’ve got our own kind of truth
This is our kind of quiet
And it’s louder than you think

[Bridge]
We don’t forget. We don’t forgive
We plant our fury deep and let it live
It grows in the places you never look
Between the lines of every book

[Chorus]
This is our kind of quiet
No headlines, no riots
But every step, a stand
Every silence planned
You don’t get to call it weak
When we’re the ones who chose to speak
By holding still, by holding ground
By not backing down
This is our kind of quiet
And it echoes underground

[Outro]
(steady percussion undercurrent, echoing like distant thunder)
Not broken, not bowed
We were always the storm underground
No spotlight, no scream
Still louder than anything they dreamed
Our kind of quiet
Still here. Still ours.

Chapter Text

Are you really going to wear that?

Jamie emerged from the bedroom tugging on one sleeve of her soft black top, hair still damp from the shower and twisted into a lazy bun.

"Just ducking out to buy some groceries – will be back in a sec."

Chris looked up from the couch. Paused. Frowned. His eyes travelled from her bun to her shoes and back again.

"Babe."

Jamie turned, zipping her crossbody bag. "Yes?"

"Are you really going to wear that?”

She blinked. "...It’s a long-sleeved top and jeans."

He stood. "It’s a tight long-sleeved top and jeans. I can see your - " he made a vague, distressed gesture at her torso. "Everything."

"You can see the shape of my body, Chris. That is typically what happens when clothes are fitted."

He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes at the neckline like it had personally insulted him. "Is this one of those tops that’s secretly see-through under certain light?"

"No." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "It’s entirely opaque. In any case, you do not get veto power over my jumpers."

Chris didn’t budge. "I just don’t understand why you want to look so - " He paused again, struggling visibly. "So adorably hot in public."

Jamie gave him a flat look. "I’m not sure those two adjectives actually go together that well. In any case, you have photoshoots in a sleeveless shirt with your manly arms oiled. It’s disgustingly exploitative and manipulative."

"That’s different. I’m promoting something. And Lydia knows I don’t do sexy shoots with models anymore," he protested.

"I’m going to buy crumpets, not seduce a nation."

Chris scowled but let her pass, hands twitching at his sides like he was resisting the urge to throw a coat over her. "Fine. But I’m coming with you."

Jamie paused at the door, eyebrow raised. "To protect my virtue in the baked goods aisle?"

He leaned in, voice low and rough against her ear. "No. To make sure everyone in that shop knows exactly who’s taking that outfit off you later."

Her cheeks went warm. She tried not to let it show - but Chris grinned, entirely too satisfied.

"You are more prudish than a Calvinistic preacher," she told him witheringly.

"Absolutely," he said, already reaching for his keys. "Let’s go."

Jamie rolled her eyes and headed for the stairs. "You realise this means you’re carrying the shopping."

"Obviously," Chris said, following her with a look that was equal parts amused and smug. "And if I see anyone so much as glance at you sideways, I’m buying the shop and banning them,” he joked.

"You are not buying the shop."

"Try me," he said.

Jamie didn’t look back - but he could hear the quiet laughter in her voice as she muttered, "Thoroughly unhinged."

*

Chris secretly loved going grocery shopping with Jamie. He liked pushing the trolley. He liked putting their favourite snacks in the trolley while she wasn't looking. He liked how domestic it all felt - her reading labels and frowning like she was solving a murder, him sneaking junk food into the cart behind her back like a delinquent child.

The only problem?

Women.

Every time Jamie stepped away - every time - he ended up getting mobbed. Women pretending to look at pasta sauce while giggling into their phones, asking if he was “really him,” leaning a little too close while asking if he had a recipe recommendation for a dinner for two. One had even suggested he join her cooking class - "no pressure,” apart from the fact that she pushed really hard for his phone so she could put her number in there.

Nope.

Jamie came back from the yoghurt section once to find a woman with a yoga mat asking Chris how often he stretched.

Another time, it was a mum from the school run (no kids in sight) showing him how to pick a ripe avocado. She had reached into his space to demonstrate the squeeze-and-sniff method. Jamie had turned on her heel, walked to the bakery section where Chris found her later eating a mini custard tart in meditative silence, the last bit of which he stole and ate, claiming it was the penalty for abandoning him to the thirsty hordes yet again.

Chris never flirted back. He was always very polite, always clearly not interested. But the sheer volume of attention sometimes made Jamie want to throw a baguette at someone.

Today, she saw half a dozen of them staring at Chris as soon as they entered the cereal aisle, their eyes lighting up as they converged towards him unerringly.

“Right,” she muttered, abandoning the cart halfway through produce. “You deal with the yoga swarm. I’m going to get rice.”

Chris blinked. “What? Wait, Jamie - ”

Too late. She had left him to fend for himself, already disappearing down the aisle with the efficiency of someone on a mission.

When Chris finally tracked her down, triumphantly clutching a jar of passata and ducking away from a woman who’d asked if he did private cooking lessons, he skidded to a halt and scowled.

Jamie was standing near the couscous laughing with a tall, bookish looking man.

Handsome in a deliberately underfed, elbow-patch sort of way. Wire-rimmed glasses. A crisp button-down rolled at the sleeves. And he was leaning just slightly closer than necessary while talking with Jamie about the merits of arborio versus carnaroli rice. She was smiling, relaxed and apparently enjoying herself.

Chris approached like a storm cloud in expensive boots.

Jamie looked up and saw him. Her lips twitched. She didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow with the kind of infuriating calm that said don’t be a hypocrite, rock star.

Chris smiled pleasantly at the man, stood very close to Jamie and said in a deliberately friendly manner, “Hi. Sorry to interrupt. Bit of a rice emergency.”

The man blinked. “Oh - I didn’t realise you were - ”

“Oh, very,” Chris said, wrapping an arm around Jamie’s waist and tugging her in so snugly that she bit back a laugh. He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and narrowed his eyes in the man’s direction - not hostile, just territorial.

The man coughed. “Right. Well. Good luck with the arborio.”

“It was lovely to meet you, Colin,” Jamie called after the disappearing Colin.

Jamie looked up at Chris, face composed but eyes sparkling. “A rice emergency?”

Chris bent and kissed the corner of her mouth. “You abandoned me with the avocado whisperers and I come here and find you flirting with … Colin.”

She smirked. “Chatting not flirting. In any case, I see you survived your ordeal.”

“I almost got invited to a tantra workshop.”

Jamie laughed into his chest, smug and victorious.

Chris kissed her properly this time - slow, familiar, claiming her with a kind of theatrical flourish that made an older couple by the barley squint over disapprovingly.

When they finally pulled apart, Jamie murmured, “You’re making a scene.”

“I was defending our honour.”

“Against yoga and arborio rice?”

Chris gave her a solemn nod. “There are many kinds of threats. I take them all seriously. You always bolt when they swarm.”

“I’m afraid they’ll trample me.”

“I would protect you,” he protested.

“I might slip over on their drool and die as they thirst over you,” she countered.

“I wouldn’t have abandoned you to Captain Cardigan over there.”

“His name is Colin and he was very nice.” Jamie gave him a laughing look and nudged him toward the trolley. “Come on, Captain Insecurity. Let’s get the rest of the list before someone else asks for your number.”

He tucked her close against his side as they walked, their steps falling into easy rhythm. “Only number I need is yours.”

Jamie shook her head, looking up at him, clearly unimpressed. “You already have it memorised.”

Chris grinned, nudging her hip with his. “Still nice to hear it’s exclusive.”

Bartender

Jamie had been dragged to the pub by Tamara and Emily, who had said that it was it was half-priced drinks for girls – even non-alcoholic drinks. Jamie had finally been persuaded by the lure of haloumi fries

Chris hadn’t even been invited, but Jamie had pulled on her jeans, French-braided her hair, and buttoned a floaty little lace-trimmed blouse that made her look soft and sunlit, and then had the audacity to smile at him like she wasn’t going to ruin his whole evening just by existing and abandoning him to his own devices.

“You don’t get half-priced drinks,” Tamara told him when he walked through the pub doors behind Jamie.

“I’ll survive,” Chris drawled.

The bartender was in his late twenties, sleeve tattoos, hair in a loose man-bun, and the air of someone who’d definitely been the hot one in a Netflix rom-com. And of course, he had a whole thing.

“Not drinking tonight, sweetheart?” he asked, voice a touch too smooth as he smiled into Jamie’s eyes.

“No, thanks. I don’t drink,” Jamie replied pleasantly. “Lemon, lime and bitters is just fine thanks.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

Instead -

“Then let me make you something special for you. No booze, just vibes.”

Chris - leaning against the wall behind her, nursing a pint and trying to behave - narrowed his eyes. “Just vibes,” he muttered.

The bartender was already reaching for fruit and mint leaves like he was auditioning for MasterChef. “Something tart, or sweet?” he asked, watching her far too closely.

The bartender was a huge fan of the band and had made all of the usual noises when he had originally seen Chris, but upon his solicitousness to Jamie, Chris had immediately snapped into protective mode.

Jamie, ignoring the obvious flirting, tilted her head. “Tart, I think. But not too sour.”

Chris muttered into his pint. “She says that like she’s not a little demon.”

“What was that?” Jamie asked, glancing back.

“Nothing, babe. Just appreciating the vibes.”

The bartender grinned. “I’ll muddle in some blackberry, maybe a touch of lime.”

Chris watched, unimpressed, as he theatrically shook the drink and poured it into a tall glass with edible flowers and a ridiculous metal straw.

Jamie took a sip and brightened. “Oh, wow - that’s really good.” She offered it to Chris who took the glass from her, sipped it, scowled. “It’s all right. For something non-alcoholic.”

The bartender looked smug. “Glad you like it.”

“She’s hard to impress,” Chris said mildly, wrapping an arm around Jamie’s waist and tugging her gently back against his chest. “But I suppose not everyone can make cardamom buns and still fold her socks properly.”

Jamie elbowed him lightly. “You’re being really weird. Also you forget, that I’m non-alcoholic.”

“I’m being supportive. Can’t have you getting stolen by the fancy drinks man.”

The bartender raised a brow, clearly amused. “I make a mean lavender lemonade too - if she’s interested.”

Chris gave him a tight, polite smile. “She’s already hydrated. Thanks.”

Jamie looked up at him, eyes dancing. “First – I’m right here. And second - seriously? You’re pretending to be jealous? I have to endure the hatred of millions of women who want me to drop dead so that they can marry you.”

“You’re exaggerating about the number of women who want you dead. Also, I’m not jealous. I’m just appropriately alert,” Chris said, deadpan. “You’ve got flowers in your drink and braids in your hair and men are looking at you like you’re edible.”

Jamie blinked. “You’re the one who helped me pick out this top when you gatecrashed my last shopping trip to the secondhand store.”

“And I am clearly paying dearly for that misstep.”

She laughed, leaned up, and kissed his jaw lingeringly - just enough to make the bartender glance away politely.

“I’m still going to finish the drink,” she whispered.

Chris sighed. “Fine. But I’m holding your hand the whole time. And we’re making out as soon as we get home.”

“Deal,” Jamie said, smiling into her straw.

They didn’t even make it halfway back to the corner booth before the commentary began.

“Oh my God,” Tamara stage-whispered, loud enough to turn heads. “Jamie has a drink with flowers in it.”

“Non-alcoholic,” Jamie said quickly, holding up the glass like it was evidence in court.

Emily leaned in, inspecting the delicate petals floating on top. “Is that a blackberry-lime reduction? Chris, babe. Did you let her flirt with a mixologist?”

“I did not flirt,” Jamie insisted, clearly feeling wronged.

“She didn’t,” Chris muttered. “She just breathed in his direction and he fell in love.” He slid into the booth beside Jamie.

Seb showed up at that point, sauntering over, eyebrows raised. “I was wondering why you were standing at the bar looking like you were ready to commit murder. This explains everything.”

“Why are you here for Ladies Half Price Drinks Night?” Jamie demanded.

“I got bored and decided to crash, as it appears Chris did, too.”

Jake and Jake also appeared with a bowl of chips, glancing around with amused interest. Clearly the idea of a girl’s night out was completely out the window. “We were just commenting on how pathetic Chris here looked pouting while Jamie was flirting with the bartender.”

“I was not flirting and why doesn’t anyone comment on the girls who were all over him from the time we walked in the bar.”

“I don’t think he even noticed them,” Liam pointed out.

“Whereas you were batting your eyelashes at the bartender,” Jake told her.

Jamie pulled face. “I’m Asian, I barely have eyelashes so this is how I know you’re just making crap up to stir Chris.”

Tamara gave her a nudge. “He was definitely flirting with you, though, sweetie.”

Chris dropped his head to her shoulder with a dramatic groan. “You are never allowed to wear that top again.”

“He helped me pick it out!” Jamie told the group, even as she turned her head to drop a kiss on Chris’ nose, given that Chris still had his head on her shoulder.

“You’re evil,” he told her with a grin in his eyes.

“So are you,” she countered, smiling back at him.

Chris sat back, sipping his beer in defeat, while Jamie happily polished off the last of her drink, straw slurping obnoxiously loud just to make him glare again.

Liam leaned across the table, grinning. “Are you two gonna behave or should we order another round of sexual tension?”

Chris didn’t miss a beat. “We’re taking ours to go.”

*

They barely made it through the door of the flat.

Jamie was halfway through kicking off her shoes when Chris’s hands found her waist and spun her around, her back hitting the inside of the door with a soft thud. His mouth was on hers before she could speak, all heat and hunger and that simmering frustration he’d been swallowing all evening.

She gasped into the kiss, startled, then melted fast, her hands slipping up under his shirt as he pressed into her, crowding her back against the wood.

“You,” he growled between kisses, “have no idea what that top did to me.”

“It’s not even revealing - ”

“Exactly,” he muttered, biting lightly at her jaw. “You were adorable. Innocent. And then he started shaking things and talking about vibes - ”

Jamie laughed breathlessly. “Are you mad I got a mocktail?”

“I’m mad you looked like a dream and every man in that bar wanted to touch my dream.”

She smiled against his mouth. “Sounds like a you problem.”

Chris lifted her, hands gripping the backs of her thighs, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. “It’s a me problem I’m going to solve right now.”

He carried her toward the bedroom, pausing only to kiss her again - deeper this time, possessive and deliberate, like he needed to remind them both she was his. Her fingers curled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

Jamie grinned against his mouth. “Feeling territorial?”

Chris pulled back just enough to look at her - cheeks flushed, eyes dark, braids slightly mussed from his hands.

“Completely,” he said.

And then he kissed her again.

Hard.

Chris dropped her onto the bed with just enough force to make her bounce, his hands already tugging at the hem of her blouse. Jamie arched up, letting him strip it off in one fluid movement, lace whispering over her skin. He stared for half a second - just long enough to make her self-conscious - then knelt on the bed and kissed his way down the centre of her chest, slow and thorough.

“Braids,” he murmured, mouth brushing her collarbone. “This top. That drink. You’re lucky I didn’t start something in the alley.”

She gasped as his hand slid under the waistband of her jeans. “You tried. Tamara was literally right there.”

“Believe me – Seb and Tamara have fucked in way more public places.”

“Must be a weird rock star thing. I’d prefer to keep things private.”

“Agreed,” he confirmed as he undid the button of her jeans, dragging the denim down her hips and tossing them aside. Then he stilled, taking in the matching underwear - simple, soft grey cotton. Nothing fancy. Just Jamie.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re so mine.”

She laughed. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He didn’t answer - just slid a hand between her legs, fingers cupping her through the fabric. She was already ready for him, already shifting under him. He pressed harder.

Jamie let out a soft sound and reached for him, trying to tug his shirt off, but he caught her wrist, kissed the inside of it, and pinned it gently above her head.

“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “Let me have you like this for a second.”

She went still, breath catching.

Chris pushed her underwear aside and slipped two fingers inside, slow and deliberate. Her hips jerked. He curled them just so, watching her fall apart beneath him - cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes dark with want.

“God, you’re everything,” he murmured. “You know that?”

Jamie tried to answer, but all that came out was a broken little whimper as his thumb circled higher, relentless and perfect.

Her whole body tensed.

Chris kissed her again - softer this time - as she came apart beneath his hand, legs trembling, mouth pressed to his shoulder to muffle the sound. There was something in his chest then - hot and full, nearly overwhelming. Sometimes it wrecked him, how much he loved her. How she let him see her like this.

Only then did he pull off his shirt, dragging her higher on the bed with one smooth motion, his mouth never leaving her skin.

“Your turn,” she whispered hoarsely, tugging at his belt.

Chris grinned. “Oh, I’m not done with you yet.”

Jamie barely got his belt undone before Chris was kicking his jeans off and settling between her thighs again, skin on skin now, hot and electric. He pressed against her, just enough to make her feel it - thick and hard and perfectly unrelenting - but didn’t push in yet. Just held there, letting her squirm a little, hands on her hips, thumbs stroking slow circles that did absolutely nothing to calm her down.

“Chris,” she whispered, impatient now, trying to rock up.

“Hmm?” He kissed the underside of her breast, teasing. “Something you want?”

“You’re being mean.”

His eyes darkened. “You wore that top. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“I didn’t! I just - ”

He pushed in with one smooth, deep thrust.

Jamie’s gasp turned into a breathless moan as her back arched, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Chris held himself still for a second, jaw tight, eyes fixed on hers.

“Still want to argue?” he said, voice rough.

She tried to glare. It didn’t work. “Shut up and move.”

That earned a low laugh, and then he did – withdrawing and thrusting his hips again in a slow, devastating rhythm, like he had nowhere else to be for hours. Jamie wrapped her legs around his waist, matching each thrust, every slick drag and grind making her feel like her bones had melted.

He kept her pinned there, every stroke hitting exactly where she needed, pushing her higher again. Her braids were half undone now, falling loose across the pillow, and her mouth fell open on a cry when he shifted his angle, just barely -

“Oh my God - ”

Chris bit gently at her shoulder, then soothed it with his tongue. “That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me hear you.”

She was close - so close - and when he slid a hand between them, thumb brushing where she was already pulsing, it sent her straight over. Her whole body tightened, shuddering around him as he groaned low and deep, thrust once more, and followed her.

They collapsed together in a sweaty, tangled heap, Chris still half on top of her, both of them breathing like they’d just run miles.

Jamie turned her head to the side, voice hoarse. “I’m never wearing that top again.”

Chris exhaled against her neck. “Absolutely not.”

A beat passed. Then -

“…Unless we’re staying in.”

He lifted his head, grinning. “That’s my girl.”

She huffed a tired laugh, her hand drifting over his spine. “Still think I flirted with him?”

Chris nuzzled her cheek. “He asked if you liked things tart. I almost threw a lemon at him.”

Jamie cracked up, her whole body shaking beneath him. “You’re so irrational sometimes.”

“I love you,” he said simply.

She smiled, letting her eyes flutter shut. “I know.”

Later, once she’d finally rolled out of bed to wash her face, she came back to find her drink glass rinsed, her socks folded in a neat little bundle on her pillow.

Chris appeared in the doorway, towel around his hips, damp hair curling at his temples. “Did I fold them wrong?”

Jamie climbed back into bed. “No,” she said softly. “You folded them perfectly.”

Fangirl

They were backstage after the show, the afterglow of adrenaline still clinging to Chris’s skin as he towelled sweat off his hair and neck. The crew was packing up, a few VIP pass holders hovering by the side door, waiting for a photo op. Jamie lingered nearby, sipping a bottle of water, trying not to look as tired as she felt. Her ears were still ringing from the final chord.

Then she appeared.

Tall, very pretty and unmistakably confident. One of those influencer types - camera-ready even in the dark, with perfect eyeliner and a smile engineered to land a brand deal. The VIP pass around her neck was displayed like a badge of conquest.

“Chris?” she asked, breathless. “Oh my God, your solo tonight was absolutely incredible.”

Chris smiled politely at the newcomer. “Thanks.”

She stepped closer - closer than necessary - pressing a hand lightly to his forearm before he realised what she was about to do. “You’re even hotter up close. Do you ever let fans buy you a drink?”

Jamie stared at the young woman. Her bottle lowered fractionally. She wasn’t the jealous type. Not really. But something about the other woman’s posture - that casual lean, the manufactured laugh - prickled like static across her skin. She watched the hand on Chris’s forearm with a flat, assessing look, her jaw tightening just once before she smoothed it away. That was bold.

Chris, to his credit, gently stepped away from her. “Thanks, but not. Also my wife is waiting for me,” he said with an easy going smile.

The blonde blinked. “Oh. I mean I heard that there was a wife on the scene... But don’t rock stars generally have pretty flexible open arrangements?”

“Not me,” Chris told her in a very matter-of-fact tone. No hesitation.

Jamie decided that she’d make her presence known at that point. Not dramatically or possessively. Just deliberately. She walked up without haste, stepping into the empty space beside him like it had always been hers. Chris shifted subtly toward her the moment she arrived, as if his body had been waiting to realign. Jamie smiled pleasantly at the young woman.

“Hi,” she said sweetly. “I’m his wife. Sorry to rain on everyone’s parade...”

Jamie could feel rather than see Chris’s shoulders shaking once with silent laughter.

The young woman offered a tight smile, made a polite excuse, and backed away with all the grace of a retreating pageant queen.

“You all right down there, wife?” Chris asked, turning slightly and looking down at her. She was so much shorter but sometimes the band joked that each of them had their own weather system.

“I was,” she murmured, “until Miss I-Can’t-Respect-Boundaries showed up.”

“You know I only have eyes for one person.”

Jamie wrinkled her nose. “Still. You could’ve blinked a little less slowly. That looked suspiciously like a smoulder. I mean, does your first instinct always have to be to smoulder?”

Chris turned, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her close. “You jealous?” he asked her hopefully before nibbling on her full lower lip.

“Protective.”

“Possessive?”

“Vigilant.”

He grinned. “Sexy.”

Jamie shook her head in exasperation, but she didn’t let go.

*

Later, when they finally made it back to the hotel, Chris shut the door behind them and immediately turned, eyes alight.

“So.”

Jamie kicked off her shoes, not bothering to meet his gaze. “So what.”

“You were jealous.”

“I was appropriate.”

“You staked a claim.”

Jamie shook her head, trying to look exasperated but failing given that her lips were twitching. “Would you prefer I’d let her lick your forearm like a novelty ice block?”

Chris leaned against the door, grinning like a man who’d just discovered a new favourite flavour of chaos. “You called me hot in public.”

Jamie’s cheeks flushed. “I didn’t - ”

“‘That’d be me.’” he mimicked in a high voice, doing a terrible impression. “Hi. I’m the one who gets to climb him like a tree.”

“I did not say anything like that.”

“You implied it heavily.”

Jamie groaned and tried to duck past him, but he caught her by the waist and spun her around, arms caging her in.

“You know what’s funny?” he murmured against her ear. “You always act like I’m the possessive one.”

“You are.”

“And yet here you are. Wild-eyed. Feral.”

Jamie glared at him, half-laughing, half-flustered. “I am not feral.”

Chris kissed the tip of her nose. “I loved it.”

“Of course you did.”

“I’ve never felt so objectified. Ten out of ten. Would provoke again.”

Jamie rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away.

He softened slightly, brushing a thumb along the curve of her jaw. “You know I’d never say yes to that. Any of it. It’s you, Jamie. Always you.”

“I know,” she said quietly, and then added, more lightly, “I just don’t like people thinking they can take liberties. Especially when you’re still flushed from stage and looking like sex and sweat and rock and roll.”

Chris’s eyes darkened. “Is that what I looked like?”

Jamie pressed her palm to his chest. “You always do.”

His mouth found hers again - slow and easy this time. No rush, just the warmth and the press of familiarity. She kissed him back with more intent this time, a lingering drag of lips and fingertips, and when she tugged his shirt up over his head, it was with quiet purpose.

Jamie pushed him back first, playful and sure. Chris laughed under his breath, letting her take the lead until his calves hit the edge of the bed and they both tipped onto the mattress. Then his hands found her hips, guiding her close again, their rhythm already syncing like muscle memory.

“You sure you’re not the jealous one?” she whispered against his mouth.

Chris smiled. “Darling, I’ve been jealous since you let me kiss you the first time.”

Jamie laughed softly, resting her forehead to his. “Still think I was feral?”

“You growled,” he said fondly.

“I made a noise.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You’re lucky I like storms.”

Tabloid Ambush

Chris stepped out of the Ruin House offices into pale afternoon light, the London sky washed out and flat above the row of parked cars. He barely had time to lower his sunglasses before it hit him - the thrum of voices, the camera clicks, the press swarm.

He swore under his breath.

“Chris! Chris, over here - how long have you known?”

“Is it true your wife’s been seeing someone else?”

“What do you make of these photos?”

He was already bracing for something band-related - someone digging up old drama about Liam, maybe, or rehashing one of Jake’s scandals. But then they thrust a phone in his face.

A grainy shot. Jamie. Sitting in a corner café, head bent in conversation with a man in a dark suit. Their faces partly obscured by steam on the window. Laughing.

“Sources say they met more than once - can you confirm?”

“Is the marriage under strain?”

“Chris, any comment?”

He almost didn’t stop. His instincts had been honed by years of touring, dodging headlines, side-stepping scandal. Keep moving. Don’t engage. Let Lydia handle it.

But something in him checked. Not rage - just bone-deep exasperation.

He turned.

The flashes hit instantly. A thicket of lenses. A babble of overlapping questions.

Chris raised a hand, palm out. Then lowered it again. “You lot,” he said, voice level, “really need to learn to do your research.”

They quieted, sensing a quote.

He gave it to them.

“My wife runs one a legal podcast. That man in your blurry little photo is Oswald Kinnison one of the most accomplished criminal barristers in England. Knowing her, they were probably discussing sentencing reform and the merits of jury direction in cross-examination - though I doubt you’d recognise a substantive policy conversation if it walked up and slapped you.”

A pause. Then a tight smile.

"Do you don't think she's having an affair?"

“There is absolutely nothing inappropriate about my wife meeting with whomever she chooses to meet with. But if you’d like to keep speculating, might I suggest learning what a professional looks like first?”

With that, he turned and walked off down the street, letting the silence trail in his wake like a held breath.

*

That evening, Chris was in the kitchen when Jamie came in, the scent of Sichuan spices and simmering beef stock rising from the stovetop.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, wrapped her arms around him from behind, and tucked her chin into the space between his shoulder blades.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Saw you on the news, husband. Defending my honour.”

Chris snorted, stirring the pot with deliberate calm. “Not easy with Oswald making heart eyes at you.”

“Hardly,” Jamie said dryly. “He was talking about all the ways the press misreported his last case. Thoroughly. With footnotes.”

Chris tilted his head slightly, smiling despite himself. “Romantic.”

Jamie tightened her arms around him. “I’d invite you to our next meeting so you can enjoy his ranting first hand, but I fear you’d start smouldering and I'd have to bail you out of jail.”

He laughed. “I’ll stay in the kitchen. Much safer for society.”

Jamie kissed his shoulder, lingering. “You do make a convincing househusband.”

Chris scoffed. “You married me for my arms.”

“And your improving culinary skills.”

He slid the wooden spoon into the sink and turned to face her, hands finding her waist. “You don’t have to explain any of it, you know.”

“I know,” Jamie said, quiet and sure.

He bumped her nose gently with his. “Still annoying though. Watching them talk like you’re not a whole person.”

“They’ll always come for what they think is soft,” she murmured.

Chris set his forehead against hers. “Then they’re in for a surprise.”

Later, they sat down together, plates steaming. Jamie brought the cutlery without being asked; Chris passed her the garlic bread first.

“We’re disgustingly functional,” she observed.

Chris raised a brow. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

“What about if I eat pizza with chopsticks?” she countered.

“That might be a deal breaker.”

She speaks his language

The offsite studio was cool and dimly lit, the kind of deliberately moody ambience that felt more like a lounge than a workspace.

Chris had invited Jamie to come along because he knew she always enjoyed seeing the creative process - watching how the music was made, not just the polished version that reached the stage or the streaming platforms. It wasn’t the business or operations side she handled with Emily. This was something quieter, more elemental. He liked giving her that insight whenever he could. And besides, he just liked having her there.

Jamie stayed out of the way, cross-legged on the old leather couch, a cup of jasmine tea cooling beside her. She watched as Chris worked across the room, headphones half on, leaning in close to the other vocalist - a woman with cropped silver-blonde hair, narrow pale blue eyes and a voice that filled the space like velvet smoke.

Her name was Elin. Swedish-born, London-based, and apparently - according to the very neutral tone Chris had used when mentioning it in passing - a former fling from “a long time ago," when she had travelled with them on a tour.

The morning had started like any other. Jamie had woken up beside him, slept in his arms last night, stolen his socks, for God’s sake.

Elin was warm, polite, absurdly talented—and harmonising with Chris so perfectly it made Jamie’s throat tighten. They looked undeniably good together, with their matching light blond hair and that unstudied composure that came from being fluent in the same world. The same rhythm.

At one point, Jamie found herself beside Elin—waiting near the soundboard as Chris adjusted a take—and caught their reflection side by side in the glass. Elin was nearly a full head taller, lean and composed in a way that felt effortlessly cinematic, her cropped hair catching the light like a halo. Jamie, in her soft jumper and scuffed trainers, looked exactly like what she was: someone who didn’t belong to this world. Not visually. Not musically. The contrast was disorienting. It wasn’t vanity. Just a moment of accidental symmetry that said too much.

Chris looked over. His light eyes flicked across both of them—acknowledging Elin with a nod and a quick smile—but his gaze clearly lingered on Jamie. Settling on her with a quiet warmth, a barely-there grin playing at the edge of his mouth liked a private joke. The kind of smile that wasn’t for anyone else in the room.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. And just like that, something in her unknotted. Not entirely. But enough.

Nonetheless, when Chris stood beside Elin, the effect was striking. When he stood beside Jamie, it sometimes felt faintly absurd—the height gap, the mismatch in presence. At least in photos. In private, it didn’t matter. But here, under studio lights and unspoken comparisons, it lodged like a splinter.

She watched the way Chris smiled and nodded at something Elin said. The way their voices slid together effortlessly. There was a professional shorthand between them that required no explaining - quick glances, unfinished sentences, instinctive sync.

Elin didn't flirt with him. She gave a cheerful thumbs up when they nailed the bridge and appeared on good terms with the rest of the band. She even complimented Jamie on her podcast with what appeared to be great sincerity. Her English had the slightest trace of a Swedish accent but was perfect – like her. She was funny, sexy, low-key, and clearly loved music. The music loved her back.

Jamie didn’t speak the language. Not this one.

Across the room, Liam leaned toward Seb and murmured in a low voice, "Holy shit - why is Jamie at this session? Isn’t it a bit weird? I mean … Chris and Elin used to fuck.”

Seb didn’t look up. “That was a long time ago. I seriously don’t think Chris thinks of her in that way anymore. It’s just about the music now.”

“Still kind of a dick move, though?”

Seb shrugged. “Maybe if this was a one-off. But he always brings Jamie. Studio sessions, rehearsals, writing days - she likes being here, and he likes being with her. That’s all it is.”

Jake, hovering nearby, added quietly, “Still a bit awkward.” He grimaced. “Borderline insensitive. Does Jamie know who Elin is?”

“Chris wouldn’t lie about it,” Seb said flatly. “Jamie’s not an idiot, she knows Chris isn’t a saint and he doesn’t come to her without a chequered past.” He gave his friends a withering look. “In any case, it would be weirder if he told her not to come,” Seb said. “He always includes her if he can."

Liam frowned. “You really don’t think it’s a bit loaded? Like - might feel strange for Jamie?”

Seb finally looked over. “I’ve watched Chris with a lot of people. There’s no one else in the room when Jamie’s there. I’m assuming she knows that by now. In any case, it’s none of your fucking business.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “You say that now, but if Jamie gets upset and pisses off – not only will I miss her, but Chris will become fucking unbearable.”

Jamie, entirely oblivious to the exchange, sipped her tea and tried not to feel out of place in a room full of wildly gifted, gorgeous musicians - probably for the thousandth time since being with Chris.

She wasn’t upset. Not in any way that was easy to name. Elin wasn’t the problem. The problem was the unspoken ease of it all—how Elin could walk into this space and shape it from the inside, while Jamie hovered at the edge, grateful just to be included.

When they played the demo back through the monitors, Jamie closed her eyes.

It was good. It was so good.

And for a single breath, she wished - not that she was Elin - but that she could belong in this world the same way. If she were a fellow musician, no one would ever have questioned her place beside the lead singer of Aesthetic Ruin. There’d be no raised eyebrows. No quiet scrutiny. Just another artist in the room.

But she wasn’t. She didn’t have credits on the album sleeve. She wasn’t in the band. She wasn’t even a model whose beauty might be seen as her currency. Just the wife. Just the outsider who didn’t speak the language. The one who loved him, but didn’t always know how to translate that into this space.

She wasn’t unwelcome. But sometimes - like now - it was hard not to feel peripheral even though the rational part of her knew she was being stupid. People did not need to be the same to be together – being complementary and compatible was what was important. She and Chris loved one another and she could tell even from across the room that even though the two of them had once been intimate – she could also tell that nothing remained except a very amicable professional respect.

And Chris had brought her. Not out of obligation, not by accident—but deliberately, like he always did. Because her presence mattered to him, even if she didn’t always understand why.

Nonetheless, Jamie knew she didn’t understand all of the shorthand in the room—the weight behind a tweak in phrasing, the unspoken reasons for shifting a harmony, the way a small change could ripple through a song’s entire emotional arc.

Later, when they were back home, Chris nudged the door shut with his hip and glanced at her sideways. Jamie was untying her scarf slowly, fingers moving with a distracted rhythm. She hadn’t said much during the walk home, and now she seemed deep in thought.

Chris hung up his coat and wandered into the kitchen. Jamie moved through the flat quietly, setting down her bag, trailing her fingers along the edge of the bookshelf like she was touching base with familiar things.

Only after several minutes, when they were both settled - him leaned against the doorway, her perched on the edge of the bed - did he ask, gently, “What’s on your mind?”

Jamie peeled off her scarf and looked up at him, her expression very thoughtful. “Just thinking about the session.”

"Did you like the music?" he asked her, smiling at her.

She nodded. "Of course. You all sounded amazing together. It's always interesting. And she's clearly brilliant. She walks into a room and just… knows how to make it better. Sonically, structurally, emotionally. You speak the same language.”

He didn't reply, just kept watching her steadily, a careful and watchful expression in his light grey eyes as he waited for her to continue.

She shrugged. “I guess I felt a bit intimidated. When it’s just the band, I kind of quasi forget … but then subconsciously I'm always aware that I'm not a musician but I'm living in a musician's world. Days like today though – it’s much more apparent."

He stepped closer to her, a grin tugging at the corner of his firm mouth. “You are very much part of this world,” he told her.

“I know.” She shrugged. “And I’m not asking for reassurance. Doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes wish I could contribute more. In a way that made sense to you.”

Chris cupped her face and looked down at her with genuine incredulity in his voice. “Jamie. You’re the reason many of our songs even exist.”

“Yeah, well. That’s not the same as writing them," she said with a faint shrug of her shoulders.

“No,” he said, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “It’s bigger. You make the whole life they come from.”

Her eyes flicked to his. “You really believe that?”

“I’d lose the music before I’d lose you.” His voice was quiet. “But I don’t plan to lose either.”

She didn’t say anything - just pressed her forehead to his and let herself breathe him in.

Later, when they were tangled in bed, limbs warm and heavy under the duvet, Jamie’s voice drifted out of the quiet. "Can I ask you something?"

Chris turned his head slightly, brushing his nose against her temple. "Always."

"Why didn’t it work out? With you and Elin?" she asked. "You seemed... I don’t know. In sync. Compatible. She seems really nice."

Chris was quiet for a moment. Not evasive, just weighing his words. "We were on the road. She was touring with us. There was music, and proximity. Some shared momentum."

Jamie didn’t push. She let the silence breathe between them.

Eventually, Jamie reached for her phone. The glow of the screen lit up the darkness as she typed slowly, deliberately: Chris Raines and Elin Andersson. Side by side. There were images. Of course there were.

She’d done this before. Years ago in her dorm room, the morning after. With the early morning light pouring through the window, staring at the laptop, her heart sinking with every new tab. Chris Raines: chaos incarnate. The headlines, the photos, the women. Back then, it had felt like a punch. This time, it was quieter. But some part of her still wanted to see. To understand. To measure the past, maybe, against what she had now.

He leaned over slightly, wordless, letting her show him. His brows drew together at the images of a different him with Elin: laughing together, singing together, kissing, arms wrapped around bare shoulders. The intimacy was unmistakeable. They looked very wild. Very close.

But as Chris looked at them, he felt absolutely nothing except a strange dissonance.

It was like watching someone else’s life. Strange, almost, to see his arms around someone who wasn’t Jamie. He studied the images with the detachment of someone trying to remember a version of himself that no longer made sense or even existed. That version of him had moved through life like it was a stage, not a home.

He grimaced, finally, and looked away.

“That guy,” he said quietly, “had no idea what it meant to be in love.” He glanced at her. “Once the tour was over... aside from the music and the sex, there wasn’t much else. No real desire to be together. No spark for hanging out just to hang out – whether to talk, laugh or be silent together..."

Jamie put her phone away and then turned slightly, cheek brushing against his chest but stayed silent.

“I still respect her professionally… But that’s probably all it ever was once the high of performing and the sex was over... not trying to downplay it - just being honest. There wasn’t anything underneath. Not like what we have.”

His fingers found her hair instead, tangling there gently, slow and rhythmic, like he didn’t even realise he was doing it. “With you, everything feels connected. Music or not. And when you’re not around... the world feels lopsided. You saw what I was like when we were apart during the tour.”

Chris tightened his arm around her. Not much. Just enough to anchor her—to say, without words, that this was where she belonged.

Jamie closed her eyes. She believed him.

A long moment passed, quiet and steady before Jamie shifted slightly, just enough to face him. The movement was small, but deliberate. Chris caught the look in her eyes—something softer now, and not entirely patient. He kissed her once—slow, deliberate—then again, rougher this time, catching the edge of her sigh with his mouth. Jamie answered without hesitation, her fingers already in his hair, pulling him closer.

There was no need for words. Just the urgency that existed between them like a lit fuse, set off by the slow drag of his mouth and the answering heat in hers. Clothes slipped, sheets pulled. They rolled together with a kind of quiet chaos, laughter catching on skin, breath catching on collarbones, everything fast and unrepentant.

"What do you want?" he asked her in a low voice, not quite steady.

"You," she breathed. "Just you."

He gave a low laugh—hoarse now. "You've always had me," he told her, and then neither of them bothered speaking anymore.

Chapter Text

The lights dimmed, and a ripple ran through the crowd - expectant, electric. Chris adjusted the mic stand with a slow, casual precision that said he was in no rush to start. But every part of him - his posture, the set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes as he scanned the crowd - said he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then came the first notes: low, deliberate guitar, just a heartbeat’s delay before the swell of bass underneath. Sparse. Sultry. Very familiar. Jamie’s lips twitched, staring at him, mesmerised.

Chris tilted the mic toward him, lips almost brushing it, and began to sing.

“Tonight I wanna give it all to you…”

His voice was pure velvet - slow, controlled, curling around every line like smoke. The crowd stilled. Then stirred. The backing lifted, subtle at first: warm bassline, shimmer of percussion, the faintest hum of synth just beneath it all. Chris moved like he was made for this - shrugging his shoulders, dragging his hand through his hair, prowling forward until the spotlight kissed the curve of his throat.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t grin. He just let the heat build.

When he hit the second verse, he moved along the stage, pretending to scan for her even though he knew exactly where she was, standing in the wings, caught between disbelief and laughter.

He sang directly to her even though it meant he was turning his head away from the audience.

She shook her head, mouthing, Don’t you dare.

He absolutely dared.

Then with a fierce grin, he turned back to the crowd.

By the time he hit the chorus, the band came in full. Liam was hammering the drums in a controlled frenzy that made the crowd go wild.

Jake and Seb moved in perfect synch on either side of the stage, and Chris - Chris fucking Raines - let loose. Every movement was deliberate - controlled, powerful, and laced with intent. That precision made it hotter, more dangerous than any chaotic flailing ever could be. The slightest suggestion of a hip thrust. A sharp roll of his shoulders. The kind of tight, coiled control that made every motion look obscene. Women screamed. Men shouted. Phones flew into the air.

Jamie didn’t move. She was watching him like she’d forgotten how to blink - pupils dilated, breath catching, a powerful hot throbbing between her thighs. Every part of her was awake and wanting. When he was onstage performing, even when he was being playful and teasing like this – he was thoroughly compelling.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause.

When the final notes faded and the crowd was still reeling, Chris stepped back to the mic, a little breathless. He raked his sweat darkened blond hair back and gave a crooked smile to the audience.

“So Jake and Jen have been writing reply songs lately,” he said. "And I thought, why should they have all the fun? I mean, there’s one song in particular that my wife and I have, let’s say… weaponised against each other on multiple occasions."

He didn’t need to say which song. The audience was already screaming. Chris just laughed and gave a theatrical shrug. "So here’s the reply song I wrote for her."

With a wicked grin he snapped his fingers, and the band launched in.

It was full-on 80s glam rock. Jake leaned into the riff like his life depended on it. Seb was already doing backup vocals and wearing a grin that said I can't believe we're getting away with this. Liam held the whole thing together with thunderous, perfect timing. And Chris? Chris was pure strut. Strut and smirk and heat - moving across the stage like he was born to it, pointing directly at Jamie on the lines that would make her squirm the most.

He hit the final chorus with full force:

Now I’m always loving you, baby / You’re my girl and I’m your man…

And then the outro - slowed, drawn-out, a final curl of smoke and heat.

Jamie didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or crawl under her seat. Her face was in her hands. Her thighs were pressed together. The other girls were laughing their heads off. One of the backup vocalists made a dramatic fanning herself gesture.

As the song ended, the applause was deafening.

Chris barely said goodbye. He jogged offstage, passed off his guitar, and headed straight for her.

Jamie had just enough time to gasp, "Chris - don’t you dare - " before he kissed her, hard and hungry, and lifted her clean off her feet. She clung to his neck as he carried her toward the backstage corridor like a man possessed.

Liam’s voice called faintly behind them. “You know there’s another encore, right?”

Chris didn’t stop. Didn’t even turn.

“That was the encore.”

And then they were gone.

Always Lovin' You, Darling (reply to I Was Made For Loving You)
Lyrics: Chris Raines
Melody: Chris Raines & Seb Vaughn
Arrangement: Chris Raines, Seb Vaughn 

Verse 1
You like your space and your quiet nights
I knock, you sigh and roll your eyes
You say I’m chaos dressed in charm
But still, you let me in your life

Verse 2
You hide your sweet behind the spice
Pretend you're cold, but that’s a lie
Each time I catch that fleeting grin
I swear I feel the world tilt right

Pre-Chorus
You say I'm not your type
But babe, I see the fight
You keep letting me stay
So maybe you're just lying right

Chorus
Never planned on lovin’ you, darlin’
But I damn well learned the part
You weren't built for holding hands
Still, I memorised your heart
I wasn't forged in heaven's fire
Not sculpted just for you
But every day I wake and choose
To love you like I do

Verse 3
You steal my hoodies, tease my rhymes
You test my peace but ease my mind
And when you smile, it clears the room
It knocks the chaos out of time

Verse 4
You never chase, you never plead
You vanish when you feel too seen
But girl, I never liked a game
'Til you made losing feel like need

Pre-Chorus
You say you don’t believe
In soulmates or in fate
But if I call, you answer late
And we both know why you stay

Chorus
Never planned on lovin’ you, darlin’
But hell, I learned it well
You weren't made to need someone
But babe, I know you fell
No lightning strike, no ancient vow
Just me and you and truth
Never planned on lovin’ you, darlin’
But I'm doing it on cue

Bridge
No prophecy, no fairytale
No strings of fate that tip the scale
Just two dumb hearts who tripped and stayed
You cursed, I laughed, and here we lay

Now I’m always loving you, baby
You’re my girl and I’m your man
And I’ll be loving you forever
If you keep moving next to me
And when the lights go down each night
I still turn back to you
Wasn't made for love - but we made it ours

Always with you, with you, with you

Chapter Text

Chris saw the email while clearing out his inbox between takes. Just a routine five-minute break during an overdub session, alone in the vocal booth with the door cracked open, a thermos of lukewarm tea by his side. Most of it was junk—promo requests, calendar pings, a string of poorly formatted festival invites he’d already forwarded to Lydia. But one subject line made him still.

You might want to see this.

No signature. No context. Just an embedded image and a promise: "There’s more where this came from.  Message me if you want to keep the video private."

He clicked.

The image was low-res, a pixelated still frame that looked like it had been taken from a video. It showed a young man on a hotel bed, his naked body barely covered by the sheets, sprawled back against the headboard. His face was turned to the side, caught mid-laugh. The lighting was murky. But it was him.

Chris froze instantly, staring at the image in dawning horror and revulsion.

The woman’s face wasn’t visible and Chris realised he had no idea who it was. It was a night he barely remembered except in blur and fragments: sex, champagne, some hazy aftermath of a gig. He’d probably been high, too. At some point, along the way, he’d realised that drugs dulled the edges of everything—interfered with his creative process and his judgment generally - but this photo was from when he’d been much younger and certainly much stupider. The days before Seb’s overdose. Back when the nights blurred together and no one was watching too closely.

He’d slept with a lot of women during that stretch. All of them had. The years before things had levelled out had been a haze of casual hookups - hotel rooms, backstage corridors, green rooms, vans, alleys behind venues, sometimes barely past the exit curtain. He didn’t remember most of their faces, let alone their names.

As an unfortunate consequence of the actions of his idiotic past self, there had certainly been many women who had come forward over the years - old hook-ups, some genuine, others questionable, a few just trying to stretch a blurry memory into a story. Half-true anecdotes twisted for clout. It happened. They got used to it. There had been compromising photos, sure - grainy telephoto shots, fan-captured moments blown out of context. But none of them had ever had a sex tape scandal. Even in their stupidest years, none of them had ever been stupid enough to film their hook-ups.

Chris hadn’t known that this encounter had been filmed.

He closed the image. Then reopened it. Stared at it again. His hand was cold against the side of the thermos. There was a strange dissonance in seeing himself like that - naked, laughing, lying beside a woman who wasn't Jamie. It felt like watching a residual shadow from another life. He knew it was real, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore.

Outside the booth, he could hear Seb playing something half-formed on the guitar, looping the same six bars with that absent focus he got when he was chewing on a problem. Jake was somewhere in the other room, arguing with Marcus about compression settings. Life was continuing. Chris felt frozen in place.

He blinked, pulled the headphones off. The email hadn’t gone to Lydia. Not the band account. Just him. Just his personal inbox. Which meant she knew how to find him. Had probably been sitting on this for a while, waiting for the right time to make a move.

He could already see it detonating across every screen and scroll: lead singer of Aesthetic Ruin caught in leaked sex video. Anonymous woman. Murky footage. Chris Raines and nudity. The speculation would be instant. It wouldn’t matter that it was ten years old. It wouldn’t matter that he hadn’t known he was being filmed. It would reignite every rumour they’d ever managed to tamp down. The tabloids would scream infidelity. Fans would dig for proof. And the thinkpieces would line up behind them, full of faux-concern about power dynamics, privacy, morality but really all they’d care about was the salacious imagery of his naked body.

And Jamie –

Jamie.

His throat tightened. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

He stood quickly. Left the booth, wordless, brushing past the others without explanation. Down the hall, past the kitchen, up the stairs to the quietest room in the building - the writing room, barely ever used now. He shut the door and locked it. Then sat down.

He stared down at the desk almost unseeingly.

His phone sat on the desk, screen gone dark. He turned it over in his hand. Chris had two stickers on the back of his phone case. One was the glossy kiss-face version of Jamie from that photo booth printout she'd slipped into a care package years ago when he was on the road without her. The other was a taken from a photograph of them posing cheek to cheek of the camera. It was unironically sappy. The stickers peeled off constantly. He always put them back – on his phone, on the inside of his guitar case, on his water bottle...

Seeing them now made something twist in his chest and he touched them both with a fingertip, swallowing hard.

He logged into the laptop on the desk and studied the email again, trying to clear his head as he debated whether to forward it or do a verbal brief first.

A moment later, there was a knock at the door.

"Hey. You all right?" he heard Jake ask from the other side.

Chris didn’t answer.

A pause. Then another knock.

"Chris, what's going on?"

Still nothing.

Normally there’d be a snide joking remake from one of the others at this point. “Find somewhere else to jerk off” or “the song wasn’t that bad – we can salvage it despite you” but today there was just silence as they waited.

Finally, Chris stood. Walked slowly to the door. He unlocked it and walked away back to the desk, dropping back into the seat and stared at the screen.

A frowning Jake stepped inside, followed by Seb and Liam, who exchanged a quick glance before closing the door behind them. All three looked at him - Jake with quiet concern, Seb with his assessing stillness of his and Liam, blue eyes hypervigilant. Their silent and automatic support was comforting despite his rising feeling of dread.

The others stared at him. Chris looked pale - ashen, really. Not like he was sick, but like something inside him had dropped out without warning. The room felt even quieter now - like the air had gone still.

“Mate?” Jake said, his voice low. “You’re scaring us a bit.”

Chris didn’t move. Just looked at them, the weight of the image heavy behind his eyes.

He tapped twice on the track pad and then turned the laptop toward them. The moment the image loaded, all three reacted.

"What the fuck?" Jake muttered.

"Is this - ?" Liam started, then trailed off, brow furrowing.

Seb leaned in slightly, expression darkening as he studied the image. "This is from years ago."

Chris gave a short nod.

Jake was frowning, still blinking at the screen, not even able to place when it might have been.

"First concert in Berlin," Chris explained.

"That was over ten fucking years ago," Liam said, half-laughing in disbelief. "Jesus. Why are we even stressing? It’s ancient. Who gives a crap?"

Jake nodded slowly. "Yeah. I mean, it’s not great, but... it’s just another old photo, right? We’ve had way worse."

Chris didn’t answer.

He just kept staring at them. Then said, voice low: "It’s not just an image."

That made them pause.

Chris’s jaw tightened. "She says she has video."

The shift in the room was instant. Like air being sucked out of it.

Jake looked aghast. They all did.

Chris gave a short, grim nod.

He let out a breath, shaky now, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if he could scrub the image from his memory. "I didn’t even know she was filming,” he told them unnecessarily, his voice harsh and shaking slightly.

There was a beat of silence.

"Wow," Liam said eventually, still staring. "Didn’t think we’d ever actually have a sex tape scandal."

Jake made a face. "Probably not a tape. More like a digital video file. Video tapes are old school. Chris would have probably noticed a big honking video camera."

"Not helping," Seb muttered, eyes fixed on Chris' face.

The others avoided his gaze. If Chris couldn't remember, they certainly couldn't - with the exception of Seb, they'd all been promiscuous manwhores when they hit the big time. Money, fame, celebrity had been intoxicating. Everything felt easy until it wasn’t.

Chris buried his face in his hands. His voice came muffled. "What the fuck am I going to do?"

"Come on - this was so long before you met Jamie - she’s not going to blame you for that," Liam tried to point out.

Seb and Jake exchanged glances. It wasn’t about blame. It was the attention. The scrutiny. Jamie hated the spotlight at the best of times - avoided it where she could. And this wasn’t just another old photo or sleazy rumour. This was footage - actual video - of Chris having sex, with a stranger, filmed without his knowledge. If it got out, it wouldn’t just be a scandal. It would be a public spectacle. A humiliation. A violation. And Jamie would be at the centre of the fallout, whether she liked it or not.

And given that all three of them knew just how much something like this would upset their own wives, they did understand Chris' reaction even if they knew that Jamie was reasonable.

"You’ve got to tell Graham and Emily and Lydia of course," Seb said at last, his voice low but firm. "This can’t be handled quietly. It has to be managed."

Chris rubbed his hands hard across his eyes, then down his face. When he spoke, his voice was rough.

"I have to tell Jamie first."

He didn’t look up, but the tone in his voice left no room for debate. "Then the others. And then the police."

The house smelled like cinnamon. Cinnamon buns had clearly been baked that day.

Jamie was at the dining table, legs tucked under her, headphones on as she wrapped up the last few lines of the podcast. The recording software on her laptop blinked softly, levels rising and falling with her voice.

" - and that’s it for this week. Thanks again to everyone who wrote in. Maintain your outrage about misreporting of these cases. Send your thoughts through. Until next time - take care."

Her podcast voice always made him smile. Very serious and calm, a little deeper than her usual speaking tone—measured, deliberate, with that trace of lurking amusement that always let him know when she was holding back a smile. Sometimes she used that exact tone in bed to tease him, narrating absurd things—his haircare routine, the grocery list, the washing machine cycle. 

Other times she’d read product packaging aloud with perfect legal cadence, dissecting the language of a cereal box like it was precedent-setting case law. It always made him laugh.

In retaliation, he’d sing legislative clauses in that sultry, gravel-edged tone she called his 'sexy rock god voice,' adding bluesy riffs to phrases like 'statutory interpretation' and 'subsection C' or he'd turn contractual clauses into a rhythmic rock anthem. It was all ridiculous, and they both knew it, but he loved it all—loved her most in these small, stupid moments that no one else ever saw.

She pulled the headphones off. They were expensive, top of the line headphones that he’d bought for her not long after they met. He still remembered the feeling of genuine horror, years ago, when he’d seen the battered pair she'd been using  - bright orange foam, twisted cord, one side held together with sticky tape. She’d admitted cheerfully they were an impulse buy from the supermarket clearance bin. "They still work, mostly," she’d said with a shrug. "Left side cuts out if I breathe too hard, but I just hold my head very still."

She normally protested his attempts to buy her costly gifts—had, in fact, protested quite a bit about everything from a new laptop stand to ergonomic wrist rests—but he’d insisted, very emphatically, that this was a point of professional pride. She’d agreed to accept second-hand gear from Ruin House where possible, even relished the idea of salvaged kit being put to good use.

But when it came to the headphones, Chris had drawn the line. "Only the best," he’d told her, kissing her hard. "You’re going to be listening to my voice most of the time. That requires proper clarity."

These days, Jamie’s podcast debunking distorted legal reporting had become more sporadic as a result of her work with Ruin House. Still popular, still respected, but no longer her centre of gravity given how busy things were getting with her "other job".

Chris paused when he walked in, the warmth of the air a contrast to the colder air outside. He noticed the quiet—the music paused, the stillness in their home—and then saw her. She was sitting in her usual spot at the table, hair loosely pulled back, sleeves pushed up, her laptop still open in front of her. She looked up the moment she sensed him, a welcoming smile on her face.

He stared at her for a moment. The huge brown eyes with their lively intelligence, the slightly pouting mouth that always looked like it was asking to be kissed. The paleness of her skin against the navy jumper she was wearing—one of his, worn soft with time, the collar just a little loose from her tugging it over her head so often. She looked like home.

Objectively, critically - he knew she wasn’t beautiful—not in the way magazines and beauty lists defined it. Over the years, her face had been fed through enough symmetry-rating apps, dissected on countless fora, listed feature by feature against some mythical ideal to make it clear that she wasn't ever going to win any beauty awards. There had been entire threads devoted to brutally parsing her appearance: her bone structure, the angles of her face, what she did or didn’t wear. Standing beside him in photographs, the height disparity alone made them look comically mismatched. People were quick to point it out.

She wore no makeup. No jewellery. Her clothes were plain and practical, designed for comfort. She didn’t polish herself up for the cameras, didn’t try to match the high-gloss aesthetic that followed Chris everywhere. And she didn’t care.

If she had, he would have given her anything—designer labels, diamonds, couture. And more than one stylist over the years—even Lydia until she knew better, had suggested he might nudge Jamie toward a more polished image for public events. Chris had always shut it down flat. Brutally, if necessary. "What Jamie wears, puts on her face is her call - the rest of you can just fuck right off."

She was tiny beside him, often half-swallowed by his hoodies, curled into spaces he barely fit. Hair always coming loose. Feet tucked under her. She was just Jamie that was more than enough for Chris.

He could stare at her for hours: the curve of her mouth, the light in her eyes, the way she looked at him like she saw everything and chose him anyway.

He didn’t give two flying fucks what anyone else thought. She was his. And she was the most precious person in his world—even ahead of his own bandmates and that was saying a lot.

The welcoming smile on her face faltered immediately at his expression, concern in her voice. "What’s wrong?"

He didn’t answer immediately.

Jamie frowned as she stared at him. He was standing just inside the room, jeans low on his lean hips, an old band tee hanging loose over the long lines of his torso. His hair was tousled, he'd clearly been running his hands through it. Tension radiated from every line of his body. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw tight, his hands clenched loosely at his sides like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

He looked gorgeous. God, he looked gorgeous. Even wrecked, even silent and obviously upset, he looked like a being that she'd imagined into being. Part of her wanted to walk over and touch him—kiss his mouth, slid her hands down his chest, pull him towards her and take some of that tension apart piece by piece.

But instead she just waited.

He shifted his gaze from hers. On the other side of the table from Jamie, contracts sat in neat piles, annotated and clipped, legal pads stacked beside them. She’d been handling more of the operational side lately, working with Emily on compliance, draft reviews, Ruin House legal infrastructure.

He took it in with a pang, the quiet industry of her work, the steadiness. The fact that she did all this for them, for Ruin House, for him. He didn’t deserve it. Not today.

Chris walked over and handed her his phone, then moved away from the table without waiting for her reaction. He sank onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, fingers shaking as he raked them through his hair again. His hands stayed buried there for a moment before he dropped them to his lap, staring down at the floor like it might give him answers.

Jamie glanced at the phone. Read the message. Saw the image. She made a small sound - soft, involuntary of faint distress which made him flinch. He heard her put his phone down on the table.

Chris didn’t look up, bracing himself for whatever was to come. He knew how much she'd struggled in the past with dealing with the notoriety and fame that surrounded him. It was invasive, intrusive, dehumanising and sometimes it was just plain nasty.

But instead, she climbed into his lap without a word and folded herself close to him. Her arms slid around his neck and she pressed her cheek against his, holding him like he was something precious – breakable, even.

"Hey - it's ok," she whispered softly. She turned her head so that her lips were against his cheek. "It's ok and it's going to be ok."

Chris wasn’t entirely sure if she meant from a legal perspective or in relation to their relationship. Maybe both. Maybe it didn’t matter. She sounded so certain and he closed his eyes, allowing the tiniest bit of tension to drain out of him at her words.

Then he lowered his head and breathed deeply of her scent. Soap. Shampoo. Jamie.

"I’m sorry," he said hoarsely. "I didn’t know she was filming. I don’t … fuck … Jamie, I don’t even remember most of it. I swear - "

She kissed him then, firmly, quietly. His lips clung to hers as she tangled her fingers in his hair, her mouth opening against his.

When he would have deepened the kiss, she pulled back, mouth damp like his was. His breathing was ragged.

"Chris," she murmured, her face one of mock seriousness, head back just enough to see his face. "I know that it’s going to come as a shock to you..." she dropped her eyes to his mouth, tracing a fingertip down his cheek. "But breaking news … it's just possible that..." her voice became a low, conspiratorial whisper. "I knew that you weren’t a virgin when we met..." Her eyes widened in mock astonishment and she put her mouth in a rounded moue of shock that would have put an anime character to shame.

Chris gave a rough laugh, more breath than sound. His long, dark lashes were damp and he turned his head and bit her fingertip lightly, smiling when she pretended to wince.

"I actually wish I had been," he told her in a low voice, and he wasn't actually joking.

Jamie laughed in genuine amusement. "It's probably for the best that one of us knew what to do - I know I didn't.." she teased him drolly, wrinkling her nose at him and he laughed despite himself.

"I am pretty sure we could have figured it out ... as it was, I think you said I stuck myself into you?"

"It's an accurate description," she countered and he pushed her hair from her face and stared into her eyes, still shaken but feeling himself settle a little in response to her calm reaction.

"I can tell the photo is from ages ago... Look how long that pretty blond hair of yours was. You look like you're trying to be in a hair band."

"Hey ... I thought it was cool." He tried to smile. Didn’t quite manage it.

"She’s not very smart," Jamie added, her tone cool, tracing her fingers through the stubble shadowing his lean jaw, leaning back in to brush her lips against his, smiling and pulling back again when he again tried to deepen the kiss, mild frustration darkening his light eyes, one of his hands slid beneath her t-shirt to touch her warm skin.

"If she filmed you without your consent - that’s not only ten kinds of fucked up … and I'm so sorry it happened to you .. but it's also a crime. Even if the original crime is time-barred - trying to extort you with it? That’s still blackmail. We’ll go to the police. I'll go with you," she promised him.

He let out a breath and buried his face in her neck. His voice came out slightly muffled. "How do you know I didn't know? That I wasn’t into it - filming, I mean."

Jamie pulled back just far enough to look at him. Her brow lifted slightly.

"If you were someone who liked filming yourself having sex," she murmured, "I suspect I would know that by now." She paused, tilting her head. "I mean - what do people even do with those videos afterwards? Do they just sit there, masturbating and thinking about the good old days" She made a face. "It's such a weird impulse. You’d think if something was worth experiencing, you’d want to be present for it - not watching it through a screen. It's a bit like those people who are constantly filming at concerts, museums and art galleries. I mean are they really going to sit down and rewatch it all later?"

She looked genuinely puzzled as she pondered her own question, looking as if she actually expected a response from him.

Chris choked with laughter - real laughter, sudden and unfiltered. He pulled her tighter against him, still laughing into her hair.

"God, I love you so fucking much," he managed. "And yeah, no - I'd much rather be having sex with you than watching it back later."

"Angles would be really unflattering, too," Jamie mused. "I mean, it’s not like a professional shoot - you’d probably just get a bunch of awkward shots of your butt and bits ... it's a very nice butt, of course," she clarified quickly.  "Bits, too," and he gave another choke of laughter.

"Your ass and bits are even better," he corrected, his hands sliding down to cup her butt as it to reinforce the point. Then in a quiet rueful voice,"Although now I kind of regret ever joking about you sending me photos and videos when I was on the road."

She grinned. "All good. You were never going to get any anyway."

He shook his head, mildly exasperated but amused. "I have saved all the toe pics that you were kind enough to send me."

Jamie leaned back in and kissed him, lingering this time, her hips rocking against his and she could feel his hardness and heat of his erection pressing against her through the denim of his jeans and her own clothing. "I'm sorry if the way I've reacted before made you think this would cause a problem between us," she said, her voice soft.

He looked genuinely shocked by the apology, drawing back slightly, eyes searching hers.

“You have nothing to apologise for, babe…”

But she could see it in his face—the memory of that moment she’d left before. How it had lodged deep. How it coloured everything now, even when she was right here, in his arms. The blackmail didn’t matter to him for his own sake. She could see that clearly. What gutted him was the idea that she would be dragged into it. That she’d be hurt. That she'd be humiliated again because of him.

And maybe, just maybe, that she’d run.

She kissed him again, slower this time, her fingers threading into his hair, her mouth coaxing rather than urgent. It was reassurance, not seduction. Or maybe it was both. He groaned low in his throat, hands tightening on her waist like he couldn’t help it.

Jamie shifted in his lap again and felt the way he responded instantly, even now. Especially now. His breath caught. Her hand slid up under his t-shirt and he shivered slightly at her touch. She didn’t press for more. Just stayed there, skin against skin. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promised him. “I'm here - with you.."

He didn’t speak. Just closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in.

“I know,” he whispered. “I just hate that you’ll be dragged into it."

“Let them. I'm a lot stronger than I used to be.”

His eyes opened at that, and what she saw there made her ache. She touched his cheek lightly, brushing the edge of his mouth with her thumb.

"You've always been strong, babe," he told her, leaning his forehead against hers before cupping her face and kissing her, his desire for urgent and raw.

She responded immediately. "We can brief the others - after."

His laugh was soft and startled, and this time when he kissed her, there was no hesitation at all.

He shifted, lifting her easily, and guided them both down onto the sofa. She went willingly, mouth still on his, arms still looped around his shoulders. The kiss turned deeper as they sank into the cushions—his hands already under her shirt, hers tugging at the hem of his. He pulled it off in one smooth motion and tossed it aside, then helped her out of hers too, pausing just long enough to look at her like he always did, like he was memorising her all over again.

She rolled him beneath her with a grin, straddling him without breaking contact. Her fingers slid into his hair and he groaned into her mouth, hands moving up to grip her bare hips. He looked wrecked, tense and still devastatingly attractive. She wanted to ease every bit of that tension from him, to remind him just how much she loved him, just how much she wanted him.

"Are you trying to distract me, Jamie?" he murmured against her throat.

She nipped his jaw in answer. "No .. I just want this - and you," she said with a smile.

He laughed again, low and warm, and pulled her closer.

*

The meeting had been called within the hour, after they’d cleaned up and pulled themselves together — Jamie smoothing her hair, Chris throwing on a shirt, both trying not to look recently fucked. It wasn’t exactly a mystery what they’d been up to—Jamie’s cheeks still had a faint flush, a stubborn patch of beard rash on her throat, and her lips slightly swollen from kissing. Chris’ hair was tousled in a way that suggested fingers, not styling product. There was a softness in his usually cool grey eyes whenever he looked at her, quickly shuttered when others might notice. His shirt clung a little at the collar, and he hadn’t bothered to button it properly. No one said anything, but the signs were there.

Chris hadn’t sent the image through - just a brief message to Emily, Graham and Lydia: We have a problem. Keep this quiet for now. I’ll explain in person.

Now they were gathered around the long glass table on the second floor, coffee cups untouched, tension rising like steam.

Chris had kept his voice steady as he explained - what had been sent, what the message said, why it mattered. He didn’t embellish. Just facts: an image from years ago, pulled from video, sent to his personal inbox with a threat attached. He told them he didn’t know the woman’s name. Didn’t remember the night. Didn’t know how the footage had been taken.

No one interrupted.

Lydia started pacing in low-heeled boots, flicking through images and social feeds on her phone.

“No public leak yet,” she said tightly, “but if that email came to you, it can go to a journalist just as easily. And we have zero control over context.”

Chris sat in his chair, expression tense but his posture ostensibly relaxed and careless. Jamie was next to him, angled toward him, one hand resting very lightly on his leg. From time to time, he let his hand wander to touch hers before moving away again.

Graham stood at the window, back partially turned to the group, arms folded. “What do we know about the sender?”

“Nothing concrete,” Chris said. “Throwaway Gmail. No name. Just the message and the image.”

“Show us,” Lydia said.

Chris hesitated, then slid the phone across the table.

Emily reached for it first. She looked at the image, her eyes widened – whether at the threat or the image, it wasn’t clear. She swallowed hard, and handed it silently to Lydia. Then she picked up her pen and started making notes.

No doubt she was wondering at the skeletons that might be hiding out in Liam’s past, but she kept her face impassive when she returned her calm gaze on Chris. Emily had a talent for looking composed even with a maelstrom flying around within her.

Lydia was less circumspect. “Oh fuck.”

Graham said nothing when it was his turn to look, although his left eye started twitching uncontrollably as he pressed his lips together. “We can’t control the narrative, but we can document the timeline,” he said, voice curt. “The sooner we make the report, the better our footing if it escalates.”

Jamie didn’t speak. She just kept her eyes on him, tracing slow circles across the back of his hand — her fingertip gliding up and down in a rhythm meant more for him than anyone else. He didn’t look at her, but she saw the tension in his jaw abate infinitesimally.

“We need to escalate,” Lydia said. “Police, immediately. We have to show we took this seriously the second it crossed into blackmail.”

“It already did,” Jamie said, not looking away from Chris. “There was a threat in the message. That’s blackmail under UK law.”

“I’ll contact the station and set up a time for a statement,” Graham said. “You don’t have to go alone.”

“He’s not. I’m going with him,” Jamie said quietly and Graham nodded in relief. He’d hoped as much, knowing that it would make things easier for Chris - but hadn’t wanted to assume.

Chris didn’t speak. He barely seemed aware of the others anymore, his focus narrowed to Jamie’s hand on his. Everything else — the table, the room, the tension — was kept at distance. His face remained unreadable, cold and remote.

“Yes, we want to stop the video going out if we can. But let’s be clear - there’s nothing to spin here. Chris didn’t do anything wrong. He had sex with a woman. It was consensual. He didn’t know he was being filmed.” Her tone was cool, deliberate. “If someone’s trying to blow this up to cause problems in our relationship, then they’re wasting their time. I’m not going to get mad at Chris for sleeping with other women before he even met me.”

"That's a relief," Chris muttered and Jamie gave him a gentle elbow in the ribs.

“Behave or you sleep on the couch,” she teased him.

“You’d be curled up with me before midnight,” he retorted, grinning despite himself when she pulled a face at him.

Lydia gave them both an admonishing look. “You might not be mad, Jamie - but others will be full of manufactured rage. The public doesn’t care about timelines, they care about perception. Once it’s out there, people start projecting - was he cheating? Who is she? Why is it just surfacing now? They’ll drag you into it whether you like it or not.”

Although Chris looked pained, Jamie didn’t flinch. “They’ve done that before. I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t our first rodeo and I think we can all agree it’s not going to be the only scandal that comes out of my horndog husband’s scandalous past.”

Everyone choked with laughter except Chris who gave Jamie a look of profound reproach. “Wow – talk about kicking me when I’m down, babe.”

She leaned over and kissed him. “Truth hurts. You’ll live.”

Emily looked up from her notes. “So what’s the actual next step?”

"I'm going to the police station with Jamie," Chris told them all. "Report it formally. I'm not responding directly. Not yet."

"Agreed," Graham said. "The police might want to monitor the blackmailer’s next move. See if she replies, escalates, sends anything else."

No one argued.

The flat was quiet when they returned.

Chris dropped his keys into the dish by the door and then, without bothering to take off his coat, walked into the middle of the living room and lowered himself straight to the floor. No flourish. No dramatic collapse. Just folded down, cross-legged, as if his limbs had nothing left to give.

Jamie watched him for a moment, then kicked off her boots and padded to the speaker. She scrolled through a few playlists on her phone, landed on one, and let it roll. Something soft. Familiar. The kind of music that didn’t demand anything of them.

Then she flopped down beside him on the floor, stretching out on her back until their shoulders touched.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The music played. The ceiling stayed still. Chris closed his eyes.

Eventually, Jamie said, “They were decent.”

Chris didn’t open his eyes. His jaw worked for a second, almost like he was chewing down a thought. "Yeah."

Jamie hadn’t actually said much at the station - just exchanged pleasantries when Chris introduced her as his wife. But that had appeared to have been enough. Her presence alone had steadied him in a way nothing else could and he was his usual cool, assured self at the station.

The police had been professional. Calm. Maybe even a little starstruck - one of the constables had definitely clocked him, and the detective’s voice had wobbled just slightly in fanboy awe when she said his name. Chris had recounted what he remembered unflinchingly, laying out the facts in the same cool, deliberate cadence he used in interviews—no sign of hesitation, no visible crack in the armour. Just the poised frontman, calm and contained.

They’d shown the email. Given a copy of the image. Chris had offered to hand over his phone, but they’d just taken screen captures and backed up the files. It was too early to open a formal investigation, they’d said, but the report was logged. If the sender made another move, they’d act. At the detective’s suggestion, Chris had sent a brief reply before they left the station - neutral in tone, just enough to acknowledge receipt and invite a response. They were hoping the sender would show their hand.

“Do you think they took it seriously?” he asked quietly.

Jamie turned her head toward him. “Yeah. I think they did. They didn’t dismiss it, they logged the report, and they were the ones who told you to reply. That’s not nothing.”

He gave a low laugh and reached blindly for her hand. She found his and twined their fingers together.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

“Where else would I be?” she asked him, rolling closer to him on the floor. She laced their fingers together again, then turned his hand palm-up in hers and began tracing gentle circles in the centre with her fingertip.

For a while, he let her. Then he cracked an eye open and looked at her with a faint, puzzled smile. “What are you doing with my hand?”

Jamie didn’t answer. She just began reciting softly, “Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear…”

Chris laughed. “Come on - we’ve established on multiple occasions that—unlike you—I am not ticklish.”

She shrugged carelessly. “Don’t underestimate me, Chris — I’ve got an entire arsenal.”

“I never underestimate you, babe.” He gave a helpless little laugh and happily surrendered to his fate.

*

The email came through two days later.

Chris was in the studio at home working on a track. Jamie was at the small desk he'd set up just for her in the corner - proper chair, monitor, keyboard, ergonomic everything. She was reviewing edits to a contract and singing along to the music, which always made Chris smile.

When his phone pinged, the subject line was bland - Following up - but his entire body tensed the moment he saw it. She looked up the instant she sensed his tension.

"It's her," he said.

Jamie closed over to him and Chris opened the message.

It was short.

I'm sure you don't want your wife - and the world - to see the video. £50,000. I'll send instructions. Don't wait too long.

He didn’t reply.

They forwarded it to the police, who responded with brisk efficiency. Jamie and Chris went in again the next morning to review the case. By the afternoon, officers had traced the email to a known IP address and raided the flat linked to the account.

It was her. And her boyfriend.

The equipment was seized. Both were arrested and charged under the Sexual Offences Act and the Theft Act - voyeurism and blackmail. The footage was recovered - videos and images, all confirmed by the couple during interview. They’d claimed there were no other copies. Whether that was true or not, no one could say for sure. Unless they pled out, the case would go to trial - and be public, something that Chris and Jamie had acknowledged with resignation.

Chris sat in the car outside the station after the second visit, watching the rain hit the windscreen. Jamie didn’t say anything. Just handed him the thermos of jasmine tea that she’d remembered to bring this time.

He looked over at her.

"You know what’s wild?" he said. "I’m not even angry. I thought I would be. But I’m not."

Jamie took a sip from the thermos and handed it back. "Why not?"

He shrugged. "Honestly I don't care if the world gets to see my 20 year old bare ass .. All I care about is that it doesn't affect what's between us."

She leaned in and kissed him. "It doesn't." She held out her pinkie, crooked, and he smiled and linked his own.

They stayed like that for a while, fingers linked, the windows misting up around them. No need to say anything else. The worst of it had passed. The rest - they’d face it together.

Years ago, this might have sent everything spiralling. He hadn’t protected her from everything. But he’d helped hold the line. And she’d helped him hold it too.

Jamie tapped the lid of the thermos. “Ready?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

And that was it.

Chapter Text

Set during the latter stages of Do Not Engage before the band went on the road for their world tour

Liam greeted Jamie, grinning as she opened the door into the studio at Ruin House. “Great timing, guys. We were about to watch the final cuts of a couple of new videos.”

Chris, standing behind Jamie with his hands in his pockets, stiffened slightly. He glanced at the large screen, over at everyone in the room and then back at Jamie. For Chris, it passed as visible tension.

Jamie was already heading for one of the sofa chairs in front of the wide screen. “Which videos? Should I have brought snacks with us?”

Lydia glanced over at her. “Two versions of one a song Chris wrote a while back. The label just sent us the final cuts – it will be the first time we’ve seen it.”

“All good on the snacks front, we came prepared – help yourself,” Jake told her, gesturing at the coffee table that was groaning with snacks.

Graham looked as tense as Chris, glancing between the screen and Jamie but saying nothing.

Chris sat down next to Jamie but leaned forward, elbows on knees, gaze fixed on the television and avoiding eye contact.

Jamie barely had time to register the opening visual - Chris, alone on a blacked-out stage, lit as if he’d been carved out of absence, with the faintest outlines of the band in silhouette behind him - before an unsettlingly familiar first line hit.

Take my hand, come with me...

He hadn’t warned her. And now everyone in the room was watching her watch him - watching something that had never been meant to be shared.

Her lungs stalled and she glanced back at Chris who was still avoiding her gaze. With growing horror and incredulity she turned her attention back to the widescreen.

Chris' voice was low, measured and intimate as he sang words and a melody that she vaguely remembered from a snippet that he’d sung to her before. The arrangement, however was unrecognisable.

The instrumentation shimmered with warm reverb and a sultry, syncopated beat - almost a brush of Latin rhythm in the undertow - making it feel languid, hypnotic, and bodily. The drums began to pulse beneath the melody, not driving, but steady - like a heartbeat pressed against someone else's, amplified and pristine through the flat's sound system. The low end throbbed through the floor, physical as breath, while the melody hovered above it like a secret on the verge of breaking.

Jamie’s breath caught. The lyrics hadn’t changed, but the weight of them certainly had. They'd been shockingly intimate enough when it was only Chris and a guitar .. but there was absolutely no filter for the deep and raw want in this rock ballad version.

Let the dark keep all the rules
I'll break them slow with every kiss
All the lines you never missed -
I never knew it could feel like this

A slow shimmer of ambient light moved across his features, and then the camera began to shift - slow at first, gliding in from his right, catching the shape of his mouth, the flex of his fingers at the mic stand, the stillness of his stance. As the melody swelled into the first chorus, the camera pulled back and circled around Chris - deliberate, watchful, intimate. The light struck the edge of his chiselled jaw, the hollow of his throat, the faint crease between his brows. He stood there, singing like he meant every word, and let the emotion radiate outward like heat from coals – voice smooth, hoarse and harsh by turn …

The label had clearly gone for full smoulder, ramping up the full female gaze for this video and the guys, at first, didn’t fully note the shift in atmosphere. They were exchanging easy, joking banter loudly and offhandedly.

“Great,” Liam complained sourly, “we’re going to get another round of headlines screaming that fans have been impregnated by Chris staring at them.”

Seb gave a mock shudder. “To be fair, I need a cigarette and he hasn't even made eye contact with me. Also – I don’t smoke anymore.”

Owen, from the corner, deadpanned, “How is this the same band that wrote Dust and Wire?”

There were a few laughs which trailed off into an awkward silence.

Chris wasn’t smiling. Graham wasn’t either. And Jamie hadn’t moved a muscle.

The song and video were romantic. The song was sensual and erotic. And it was - undeniably - for her. It was also supposed to be fucking private.

She felt it in her stomach before she could name it. The ache, the familiarity, the way her body leaned forward slightly of its own accord.

Onscreen, Chris’ hands flexed against the mic. The light caught the slope of his jaw, the concentration in his brow.

Jamie barely noticed that she’d stopped breathing and was staring blankly at the screen.

Lydia stared at her with a frown. “Jamie - are you ok?”

Jamie exhaled slowly. “You said there were two versions of this song?”

Chris winced.

"Yes," Lydia said slowly. "The label filmed two versions because Chris had two different melodies and … " her voice trailed off at the stiffness in Jamie's body and the matching tension being exuded by Chris.

"I'd like to see the second one now, if that's ok," she said very politely even though there was a definite coolness in her voice.

The screen faded in slowly - no stage, no sense of space, only Chris in partial silhouette against a backdrop of molten amber and black. He didn’t move. The vocals began almost immediately, low and breathy, threading through the speakers like smoke.

Take my hand, come with me...
Heat rising, skin like sin...
Drunk on you, drowning slow...
Nothing left, just taste and touch...

The same words. But this wasn’t the same song. The first version had been erotic, sensual .. full of almost romantic entreaty.

But this version? Oh God.

Chris' mouth moved deliberately, drawing out the syllables like a secret. The lighting was cinematic, shadows sliding across the column of his throat, catching on the ridge of his cheekbone. The camera circled him at a crawl, wide shots framing him in diffuse golden haze, then sliding close again - too close. The lens caught the sheen of his lips, the tension in his jaw, the soft line where collarbone met shirt.

This song felt even more visceral - raw as it enticed.

Every motion felt slow, deliberate. The camera didn’t look away, and neither could Jamie.

She could feel the heat rising through her chest. The vocal in this version was more restrained than in the first version, but somehow even more intimate if that was even possible - like he wasn’t singing at all, but speaking directly into her skin.

You move like smoke across my skin
A spark, a pull, a breath drawn in
We're gravity, we're flame, we're whole
A quiet ache grown wild and full.

There was something almost unbearable in the restraint. The camera didn’t give her release. It kept watching. Chris exhaled between lines, and the mic caught it. Jamie could feel it on the back of her neck and she could feel his unrestrained desire. The first song yearned and entreated. The second song craved and enticed...

As soon as the second version finished, Jamie stood up abruptly. “I - sorry. I just need - ” Her voice caught, and she was already moving, out of the room before anyone could speak.

Chris didn’t move at first. He sat frozen, jaw tight, eyes still fixed on the black screen. Then, as if dragged by something inevitable, he stood and followed her.

Graham, watching them go, grimaced and glared at everyone in the room. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. For fuck’s sake. There was a reason I fucking vetoed the song the first time,” he muttered in irritation.

Lydia didn’t look up from her laptop. “The label hasn’t done anything wrong. Chris looks good on camera - they all do. We’ve always used that. It’s not exactly new.”

“I’m not just talking about the video. I said it wasn’t a good idea to release the song.”

“No one likes people who say I told you so,” Lydia told Graham.

“Well I told you so,” he said gruffly, glaring at them all as if it was their fault.

“The song’s good,” Seb pointed out. “Both versions are bangers.”

“Literally,” Liam muttered beneath his breath and everyone glared at him. “What?” he demanded. “Chris is the one who wrote it – why am I the bad guy here?”

“Jamie - wait!” Chris called out as Jamie walked ahead of him. With his legs he caught up to her easily, reaching out to take her arm. She shook his hand off her arm and walked into one of the smaller rooms they used for recording.

Exhaling, he closed the door behind them. He hadn’t known whether to follow at first. But the thought of letting her walk away again was worse. Jamie walked away from him to stand by the window, one hand braced against the frame, her back to the room. There was tension in her shoulders.

He waited, expression tense and wary.

Jamie didn’t turn around. Her voice was low, measured. “You told me that that song had been vetoed by Graham."

Chris exhaled. “He did. It’s not included on the album … "

She turned then, slow and deliberate. Her expression wasn’t angry. It was something quieter. “Our sex life isn't supposed to be for anyone else’s entertainment."

"Jamie - it's not like that."

“How is it? Unlike Nothing Between Us or You Alone, I don't think anyone's going to be under any illusions about what this song is about."

Chris’ hands flexed at his sides. “We won’t sing it as part of the main show – it’ll be an encore song, maybe..." His voice was slightly defensive.

She stared at him incredulously. “That’s your excuse?”

He paused before answering. "Most people will think it's just a love song - which it is."

"Oh come on, Chris - do you really think people won’t know?”

Chris hesitated. “Most of them won’t.”

“Chris. Please don’t treat me like an idiot.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, holding her eyes steadily. “I’m not,” he protested. “Also, it’s actually not only about sex. Or intimacy. It’s about... that feeling. When everything else falls away. It's about closeness and love ... ”

Jamie was silent.

He stepped closer. “I thought I could let the song go. But it kept coming back. It didn’t feel finished until it was sung.”

Jamie’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s beautiful. Both versions are. You know that. But it feels like we're exposing ourselves all over again – and this time I didn’t even know it was happening.”

Chris looked pained but said quietly, “Well, that’s what we do every time we perform - we rip ourselves open a bit and let people see what's in our heads, hearts and souls. Every one of us puts something real about ourselves into our music. That’s the cost of it. But for me - ” his voice lowered, shaking slightly, “for me, there's a lot of you in so much of what I think and feel about the world ...”

Jamie’s voice was flat. "You didn’t only record them. You filmed the songs. Built an entire performance around them. And I wasn’t even part of the conversation. I didn’t even know about it until the videos were finished.”

Chris stared at her. He reached for her hand but didn’t close the distance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have any involvement in the video – the label already fights with us because we refused to record proper music videos – but usually they just film us singing…” he hesitated. “I’ll tell them pull it, if that’s what you want.”

Jamie let out a breath - not a sigh so much as air. “No. Don't.”

He froze.

She looked away, then back again. “It’s already recorded. The label will scream at you about contractual obligations.”

“I don’t give a fuck about that.”

“You’ve already filmed it. It's already done. You’d come to resent me if you pulled it.”

Chris looked stunned at her damning words. “Of course I wouldn’t - ”

“Yes, you would. Maybe not loudly. But a little," she said in a small voice. “And not because you’re cruel. But because it mattered to you.” She gave a short laugh that broke a little at the end. “I know that this is what is to be expected when one is with Chris Raines, prolific and emotionally sincere songwriter … emotional sincerity and accidental exhibitionism, all in one tidy little rock ballad.”

He reached for her - instinctive, urgent - but she stepped back, enough to keep space between them stopping him in his tracks abruptly.

"Jamie." His voice was stricken. It wasn’t like her to pull away from him. Not like this. Not when they were raw and exposed. Not when what he wanted most was to hold her steady and feel her warmth against him.

The realisation hit him hard - how rarely she did this. How she always went to him, leaned into him, even when she was upset. How much that closeness had become a kind of home. And now she was standing slightly beyond reach, not to punish him but because she was hurt and wanted a boundary.

She stared at him, her face calm and unflinching. “I understand that you’re creative. I’ve seen what you’re like when something grips you - how you can’t sleep, can’t think of anything else until you’ve got it out. I’ve watched you chase songs like they’re the only thing keeping you breathing. And I admire that. I love that about you - I really do... But you write these songs like you’re alone in them. I’m in them too. It wasn’t only your voice in that performance, Chris. It was us. It’s been turned into something other people will watch and feel and - consume. I don’t get to choose what gets shared. I don’t even get a warning. That’s what’s hard sometimes.”

Chris' face was like stone - still, set, composed - but it was the kind of composure that cost something keep in place. Anyone else might have read it as indifference. But Jamie knew better. She saw the way his light grey eyes wouldn’t quite settle, the dilation of his pupils, the way his breath caught and held like he didn’t quite trust it to leave his lungs.

He moved toward her again - slowly, cautiously - and reached out to try to put his hand on he arm. She moved away from him again, it wasn't a rejection so much as a reminder.

“Please don’t do that..” he said urgently, his voice low and rough. The expression in his eyes was raw, as if even that small distance between them was something he couldn’t bear.

She looked up at him, still wary and uncertain. Then finally she let him close the gap between them, pulling her into his arms and holding her against his chest. “I can’t not write you into my music.... ” he said, his voice shaking.

Jamie didn’t pull away but she remained unmoving in his arms, not hugging back. “I know and I get it. I really do …” she whispered. “But don’t forget I’m in the room when you do.”

He nodded. “I'll do better, I promise.” But even as he said it, something in his expression fractured. Not from defensiveness or shame, but from the ache of realising what he’d done.

In the heady urgency of creation, he’d convinced himself it was about the music, about the honesty of the feeling. And once the song had been recorded - once it existed - filming the performance had been the next logical step. A part of the process and something that needed doing. Until now, he hadn’t stopped to think about what that process might have cost her.

But watching Jamie now - hurting, dignified, still letting him hold her - he felt the edge of that conviction falter.

Not because the performance hadn’t been true. But because he’d shared something without asking if it belonged to someone else, too.

His hand pressed lightly against the small of her back, anchoring her to him. She didn’t speak again, but her fingers curled softly into the fabric of his shirt.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was still a kind of grace.

They returned to the studio just in time to hear a frazzled Graham saying, “Chris has written so many songs about Jamie... what the fuck is he going to do if they ever break up? Never sing those songs again?”

Everyone except Lydia flinched. “Graham’s asked a valid question – I know it sounds brutal but you don’t want a situation where half your catalogue can’t be sung because it’s too triggering for - ” She stopped abruptly when she realised that Chris and Jamie were standing in the doorway.

Chris stiffened and cleared his throat. "Jamie’s not happy with me - but thankfully not that unhappy." He tried for levity. "And she seems to have forgiven me." His voice was light, but his eyes didn’t quite meet theirs.

Everyone stared at Jamie. She gave a tight smile, waving it off with a small smile. “Not breaking up with him over this,” she said lightly - then winced at her own phrasing.

Chris’ throat tightened at even the thought of it, tensing at the words over this. Jamie reached out her hand to touch his arm lightly. He gave a twisted smile and sat down on the sofa and drew Jamie down onto his lap.

“He says he’s sorry,” Jamie told them. “Also it’s not his fault he’s so pretty in the video.” Her smile was a little forced as she looked up and saw the Entice version still frozen onscreen, mid-close-up. "I guess I can’t blame the label for using whatever they’ve got to appeal to the female gaze and a portion of the male gaze..."

Chris’ gaze was cool. "I've apologised. I've offered to have both the songs and the videos pulled."

Lydia looked horrified but before she could protest, Jamie shook her head and leaned against Chris, her fingers slipping into his blond hair. "I’ve said that would be a shame. They’re both beautiful songs. And the videos are gorgeous." She shrugged. "It’s not the first time Chris has seduced millions with his voice and that face..."

Chris pulled a face with That Face but didn’t resist when Jamie turned her head and brushed her mouth against his.

The kiss was light, playful. Her smile, both rueful and affectionate, dissipated the last of the tension in the room.

Jake let out a breath. "All right. Let’s workshop it, then. What’s the least suggestive interpretation of 'Take my hand, come with me'?"

"Obviously," Seb said, "It’s about... going to the shops."

"Oh yeah," Jamie said evenly. "Big IKEA energy."

Chris looked skyward. "It’s not just about sex, okay? It’s about intimacy … emotional surrender... love … "

"With a gentle crescendo of metaphor," Jake muttered.

Chris glared at him. "Thanks for kicking me while I’m down, mate."

"Hey, you wrote it," Jamie reminded him, smiling slightly now. "We’re helping you develop a plausible backstory for the press."

"So if someone asks what 'Drunk on you, drowning slow' means - ?"

"Obviously," Liam said, without missing a beat, "They went swimming after consuming alcohol. Deeply irresponsible. Life-threatening. Don’t drink and dive."

Chris slumped back. "Someone save me."

Jamie leaned in close. "You’re the one who started this."

Jake announced with exaggerated solemnity. “Right, we need to make a reference table. For media safety – I’m not having a repeat of the cluster we had when trying to answer questions about Nothing Between Us.”

Jamie rested her head on Chris’ shoulder, clearly trying not to laugh. The teasing helped - lightened something tight in her chest. They weren’t tiptoeing around her. They were teasing Chris. That mattered.

Lyric Table for Press Interpretations

Jamie rested her head on Chris’ shoulder, clearly trying not to laugh as they compiled the list. Chris’ arm tightened around Jamie, his hands resting lightly on her arm.

They walked home hand in hand. From a distance, they looked like any couple, the occasional conversation and laughter soft between them as they passed a pub spilling out onto the pavement, the glow of warm streetlights dappling the road. Jamie was delighted by an adorable dog in a ridiculous jumper and Chris made a comment that made her laugh again.

To anyone watching, Jamie looked fine. Relaxed. Affectionate.

But Chris knew better. He always did these days now that he knew her so well.

Although she hadn’t let go of his hand or pulled away from him again and had smiled and laughed at all the right times, there was something quieter and thoughtful as if she was still processing something - which she probably was. It wasn’t distance so much as restraint. Composure. As if she'd carefully sorted herself into place.

Chris didn’t comment on it but continued walking beside her, listening to the patterns of her silence.

He had always considered the way music spilled out of him to not only be a fundamental part of his job - but at its heart, the core of what made him who he was as a person. When something moved him, it manifested itself entirely unbidden in lyrics, melody, built up by words and chords. It usually wasn't a choice, it was instinct and compulsion.

He’d never thought about the way he expressed his creativity as being something potentially selfish.

Art demanded honesty. Songs asked for truth. His truth.

But maybe that was the problem. As Jamie had pointed out - his truth wasn’t the only one in the room anymore.

He knew that Jamie didn’t object to being loved in his music. But when he put her and their life together in his music, she wasn’t merely being loved, she was being interpreted, refracted and mythologised even though he would never deliberately objectify her.

The thing was, even when the songs were beautiful and written as they were with the deepest of love and reverence - they turned her into something else. A version of her that was stylised, idealised and permanent.

Even when she said nothing, she was being interpreted. Even as she avoided the spotlight assiduously, a version of her always remained visible for parsing and dissection by strangers as she and their relationship was embodied in lyrics and interpreted by music videos and grainy fan-captured performances.

He genuinely hadn’t meant to do that.

He loved her. Absolutely. Wholeheartedly.

But love didn’t always equal consideration. And his kind of art was reflexive, almost survivalist. It was a way of getting his emotions and feelings out before they crushed him.

He squeezed her hand a little tighter.

Jamie glanced up at him, a swift smile in askance as she nudged him gently with her shoulder as if to say she was fine.

He smiled back, but Chris found himself wondered how many times he’d made her feel dissected and on display when all she had wanted and chosen was to be with the man she loved.

That night they moved through their usual bedtime routine without issue—the soft tread of bare feet on polished floors, the quiet clink of toothbrushes in mugs. The flat was large enough that they could have lived parallel lives if they'd wanted to. It had multiple bathrooms, each sleek and oversized, with marble counters and rainfall showers. But they’d always shared one. Not out of necessity, but preference. The others were used only occasionally—if one of them was in the loo, or if guests were over. Otherwise, it was this space. The shared sink. The rhythm of shoulders bumping gently as they reached for towels or leaned in to spit and rinse.

Even with all that room, they tended to gather in the same few square metres. She always said it made the place feel lived in. Not a showpiece. A home.

They moved easily through the familiar rituals—cleansing, rinsing, moisturising, the tug of a hair tie, the muted thunk of drawers closed and lights dimmed.

But Chris could still feel it—a slight shift in her rhythm, a fractional lag in her movements. As if she was still holding a piece of the evening apart, somewhere quiet, somewhere private. Not angry. Not distant. Just... elsewhere.

She slid into bed beside him, pulling the duvet up to her chest. He switched off the bedside light and settled in, arm brushing hers. For a moment, there was only the hush of the flat, the muted city hum beyond the windows.

Chris lay still, eyes open to the dark. The unease hadn’t lifted and he waited, listening to the sounds outside on the street, to the sound of their breathing. He wanted to reach out to touch her arm, to pull her against him, hold her close ... but he knew he had to wait.

Time passed and then finally Jamie spoke very quietly. “I know how incredibly hard you always work to protect me.”

He turned his head toward her but said nothing. “You’ve never pressured me to be part of the press stuff. Never pushed me to do interviews or come to events I didn't want too... I know you always let me choose what I'm comfortable going to ... I know how much you've had to manage Lydia .. to head off certain pressure to do certain things before it even got to me. And I’m... so grateful to you for that.”

Her use of the word made him flinch. It landed wrong - cold, remote, too formal for the intimacy they shared. “Fuck. You don’t have to be grateful to me.”

She shifted slightly, so they were facing each other. “I don't want you to think that I don't know what you do for me - how much you care. You work hard to make space for me and our relationship to be private because you know that matters to me.”

He reached for her hand under the covers, held it lightly, conscious that she didn't grip it back but lay there and he could see, even in the darkness, that her expression was a little distant.

“But,” she went on, “even with all that, I've come to realise that I’m very much still in the public eye – but not... as myself.”

His throat tightened. “Because of my songs?”

“Only some of them. Some of them put a version of me ... of us out there that's romanticised and projected for them to dissect and analyse. I know we can't control what they say or think about us - they'll do what they want but there are certain sorts of songs that they will assume reflect me .. our relationship .. what we do or feel or think ... I'm definitely not asking you to stop. Like I said, nothing will stop them making up crap about us and despite Lydia thinking we can - we can't ever control the narrative. I'm letting you know why sometimes things that provide fuel or the fire make me feel... uncomfortable."

Chris was very still. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, like it had hollowed out. “I swear didn’t know that’s how it felt for you.”

“I know you didn’t. And I know you love me and would never deliberately do anything that hurt me."

He flinched.

He'd hurt her. The realisation landed hard and shame curled cold within him. He turned fully onto his side, hand still in hers. “I see you, Jamie. I don’t want to distort that.”

“But you see me in a particular way,” she told him. “And that version gets captured. Not only by you, but by everyone who hears it. Sometimes it feels like I’m being flattened into one angle. One moment. Even when the songs are beautiful - especially then. Because they’re not wrong. They’re only... partial. And when they’re intimate, it feels worse - more exposing. Like something that should have stayed between us is suddenly visible to everyone.”

Chris didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he said, very quietly, “I always thought I was being honest. Pouring what I felt into the music.”

“And you are," she assured him. "But like I said earlier - your honesty doesn’t always leave room for mine.” She was quiet for a beat, then added, “And I get that even if you write something completely unrelated - if it’s sad or bitter or furious - there will still be those people who are going to assume it’s about me. That’s not your fault. That’s how it works. I don't really have a solution for this - I don't want to stifle your creativity - I guess I have to figure out how to deal with it better...”

He felt the weight of that. Sat with it. Then finally said, “No. It shouldn't all be on you. I want to learn how to make space for both of us ... ” He gave a faint, helpless laugh. "I haven't got a fix for it yet, though."

She smiled. “I am not sure you can actually fix it, Chris. I’ll try to find a way to deal with it given that it doesn't take much for the internet to decide that we're on the point of breaking up .. that you're unfaithful .. that our relationship is on the rocks.... It's still weird for me that even when I say nothing, I’m still part of a public spectacle somehow.”

Chris threaded their fingers together and told her firmly. “You’re the person I love. I’ll do better.”

Her fingers tightened around his and they lay in the dark like that for a while.

Jamie was pottering around the flat—straightening things, shuffling objects from one surface to another without real purpose. Chris had been in the studio all morning, the door left open. He wasn’t recording, just idly picking through phrases—circling something unspoken.

She’d offered him tea. Snacks. Coffee. He’d thanked her each time, politely, distractedly but declined. He was clearly somewhere else.

Eventually, she returned with a fresh pot of tea and placed it down on the low table beside the old studio sofa. The teapot was unmistakable—deep green with bulbous sides, a porcelain waistcoat painted on in gold filigree and a faintly horrified expression. Sir Croaksley. They’d found it at the Notting Hill markets a little while back and mocked it before buying it out of sheer pity. Chris had dubbed it Sir Croaksley on the spot, claiming that anything that ugly had to be a knight of some kind. Now, it poured every cup like it was announcing the arrival of nobility.

Sir Croaksley's appearance made Chris smile faintly, the slightest quirk at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t stop playing on his guitar.

Jamie sank down onto the sofa in the studio and didn’t say anything, merely sat and listened.

Eventually, she realised he wasn’t only noodling. He was working through something. Melodies looped and shifted. Some turned into songs… sometimes there were fragments of lyrics that he sang in a low, harsh whisper. A few she recognised, a few she almost recognised.

She could hear herself in them. Not directly. But in the feeling. The phrasing. The way his voice softened or roughened. There were so many. Intimate. Devoted. Vulnerable. Songs he’d never performed, let alone recorded. There were many songs that she’d never heard before, which surprised her greatly. She had thought he'd shared almost all of his songs with her...

He’d filtered so much more than she realised. His tousled blond hair fell into his face as he played, lashes low against his cheeks, the long sweep of them shadowing his skin. He looked heartbreakingly young in that moment—completely caught up in the music, his mouth moving around half-sung words, intent and far away from her even as every note circled back to her. There was something raw in it. Unreachable. Beautiful and so very vulnerable.

Quietly, she got up, crossed the room, and took the guitar from him.

“Hey,” he protested mildly, looking up at her. “That’s my guitar. I was still playing that!”

She ignored him, putting it carefully back on the stand. Then she stepped in, moving between his knees where he sat on the stool. Her hands lifted, brushing his blond hair back from his face, fingertips tracing the familiar angles of his cheekbones, his strong jaw, the line of his mouth, his chin...

She studied him a moment. Then, casually—“You know Tamara has nude photos of Seb?”

Used to her random non sequiturs, Chris didn't seem surprised by her statement and merely grimaced. “I know. One of them was taken right after the overdose. It’s really not easy to look at even now ...”

Jamie nodded. “It's probably lucky I’m not an artist—if I were, I’d find it impossible not to draw you, or paint you, or photograph you constantly. You’re... a very beautiful subject.”

Chris gave her a look, pretending to be offended. “You only like me because you think I’m pretty?”

“You are extremely pretty,” she agreed, leaning in to kiss his nose. He tried to draw her closer, deepen the kiss, but she pulled back and smiled at his frustrated expression.

“But I also love the pilgrim soul in you,” she added, brushing her fingers lightly along his jaw, smiling when he turned his head to nibble on her fingertips.

Chris grimaced. “Fucking Yeats again. Am I doomed to be haunted by him all the time? Do you also love the sorrows of my changing face?” he asked her witheringly, his expression very sardonic.

Jamie nodded solemnly, kissed him lightly on the lips, pulling back again when he tried to deepen it again, laughing despite herself at his theatrically wounded expression at being denied a proper kiss.

“Of course. I love all the things you are, Chris Raines.” She touched his face as she spoke, slower now. “Your pilgrim soul. Your incredible mind. Your heart. Your voice. Your hands. The way you fall into music like it’s gravity.”

He stared at her, grey eyes wide and devastatingly vulnerable.

She paused. “And yes, before you say it—I love the orgasms you give me,” she teased him, pre-empting his inevitable comment.

To her surprise, he didn’t try to make a joke. He didn't even smile. He leaned forward and pressed his face into the curve of her neck, holding her close, his breath warm against her skin.

“If I loved you any more than I do, I’d collapse into a singularity. Full emotional gravitational failure.”

Jamie closed her eyes and held him there, one hand in his hair, steady. After a long moment she finally spoke. “The tea’s getting cold.”

“Is that a metaphor? Want me to put it in a song?” he mumbled into her neck.

“It’s literally cold tea, and that teapot is crap.”

“Blasphemy. Sir Croaksley deserves your respect. Apologise to him now.”

Jamie smiled and turned her head so that her lips were against Chris'. “I love you so much. I know I don't say it as much as I should... but I really do.”

He rested his forehead against hers for a beat, then scooped her up without ceremony and carried her across the room. When they fell into the sofa cushions, he kissed her hard and hungrily, open-mouthed and greedy, his hand beneath her t-shirt as though he couldn’t get close enough fast enough.

She reached up and pulled the t-shirt over his head, hands pressed against the warm skin of his bare chest. “You wrote all those songs about me?”

He nodded. “And some...” he murmured, already working her shirt up and off, tugging it over her arms and tossing it aside before unsnapping her bra expertly and also throwing it to the floor.

She grinned. “You never played them for me.”

“They were private,” he said, already kissing her throat, his mouth moving lower, closing over one sensitive nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. “But I’ll share with you. Only you.”

Jamie arched beneath him, fingers catching in his waistband. “Soulmate secrets,” she said, breath catching.

He unbuckled his belt, unsnapped his jeans, and shucked the rest of his clothing with impatient efficiency. Then he was back over her—skin on skin, heat meeting heat. Her thighs opened for him without hesitation. His hands moved with a rough kind of care, palms gliding over her ribs, her hips, thumbs hooking into the edge of her underwear and dragging them down in one smooth, determined motion. His mouth trailed open-mouthed, nibbling kisses down her body as he went, his breath unsteady but deliberate, wanting to taste her before he did anything else.

His mouth found hers again, rougher this time, breath short. Her hands moved fast—over his back, down to his hips, pulling him in. There was nothing careful about it. Just hunger and heat and the kind of urgency that came from knowing exactly what they wanted from one another.

He sank deep into her with a low groan, head dropping to her shoulder as she clutched at his back, legs wrapping around his waist. Jamie bit down on his shoulder and he swore under his breath, hips thrusting deeper and harder.

She met every thrust like she’d been waiting all morning for this. Their rhythm turned chaotic, tangled, and perfect. Pure want and need.

When she came, it tore through her—sharp and complete—and he followed seconds later, buried deep, mouth open against her neck, arms locked tight around her like if he let go, the whole world might shake apart.

For a long moment they just lay there, tangled, sweat-slicked and breathless. His hair stuck damply to his forehead.

“Those were very convincing soulmate secrets,” she said eventually, voice rough.

Chris laughed quietly against her throat. “I’ve got more,” he murmured.

In the weeks following the performance video fallout, Jamie gradually talked Chris out of binning the songs and the videos. She was calm and pragmatic about it. Said she’d reconciled herself to their existence. Said the songs were beautiful, and it would be a shame to destroy something that might have the capacity to move people.

Chris had looked at her closely. “I don’t want you to be reconciled to it. That’s not good enough for me.”

She’d shrugged. “They deserve to be shared. It's not only about me ... as you said, the songs speak to intimacy .. love ... They'll probably mean things to other people, too.”

Chris looked uncomfortable. "I don't want you to feel like you have to agree."

"I don't," she told him seriously. "I've thought about it and this is what I want. I don't want to be the one who denies the fans access to the music you create ..."

The songs and the videos were quietly released. Both versions. No press interviews. No behind-the-scenes content. The songs were dropped on the band’s official channel with no announcement and only a minimal caption. They were made available for purchase as singles, but without any formal promotion or marketing push.

Nonetheless, they still exploded.

The reception was wild - millions of views, glowing comments, a flood of covers and reaction videos. The label was over the moon and tried almost immediately to pressure Chris to write more in the same vein. More rock ballads. More yearning. More sex.

Chris refused. Flatly. The rest of the band supported him, though Lydia - ever the strategist - privately regretted losing the momentum.

From that point on, the big aching rock ballads disappeared. Although Chris still wrote intimate and romantic ballads, most were shared only with Jamie. Sometimes, though, if she agreed, released quietly on the band’s YouTube channel. No fanfare or press, only a title, a thumbnail and Chris’ voice laid bare.

They were still wildly popular. Maybe even more so because of the mystery. Fans speculated endlessly. Some guessed they were old tracks. Others insisted they were fresh, raw. Theories multiplied. Both versions of Take My Hand remained incredibly popular - more so because, as it turned out, they were the band’s only officially released rock ballads. Naturally, this triggered intense debate online: did Ache count? It had a driving chorus, electric instrumentation, and aching vocals. Plenty of fans made the case. Others pushed back, arguing it was too atmospheric, too haunting - alt-rock at best. The thread went viral more than once. Jake eventually decided to enliven the debate by trolling in an interview: "It's not a rock ballad. It's a cry into a hotel pillow. Big difference."

Time passed. Other songs came and went. The drama died down.

And then, one afternoon, Chris came into the kitchen where Jamie was reading a book and said, almost diffidently, “So. A24 reached out.”

Jamie looked up. “What?”

He glanced away, rubbing his jaw with a faint grimace. “They’re making a new film. The director and the composer want to use both versions of Take My Hand.”

Jamie blinked. “Wait - the Entreat and the Entice versions?”

Chris nodded. “I’ve had a lot of approaches about the two songs. I’ve always said no. But this one felt different. The director and the composer asked if we’d be open to meeting. They didn’t send a full pitch—they said they’d rather explain it in person. I ran it by the others—technically, we’d all need to sign off if it goes ahead—but everyone agreed. If you’re okay with it, we move forward. If you’re not, we pass. I thought you might want to come with me.”

They met with the director and composer later that week in a quiet room at the production studio. Jamie was nervous, but the tone of the meeting was warm, creative, and full of reverence for the songs. It turned out the scenes in question had already been written but Take My Hand had inspired them to rewrite them completely. The filmmakers walked them through early storyboards of the rewritten scenes, shared snippets of the score, and spoke with glowing admiration about how the songs had shaped the emotional arc of the story. It wasn’t merely placement. The songs were foundational.

Jamie glanced over at Chris as they left the meeting room, still processing.

"You OK?"

"Mind blown," she murmured. "On a bunch of different levels."

He smiled. “They’re not pressuring us. They made it very clear - if it’s not right, they’ll find something else. They’re huge fans of the band and the songs. But I want it to be your decision.”

Chris told them he’d wait for Jamie's answer. And he did.

In the end, Jamie said yes.

When the movie finally came out - Refracted Versions of Self - it was aesthetically devastating. Critically acclaimed. Beautiful, strange, entirely inexplicable and almost unbearably devastating. The two Take My Hand scenes were a centrepiece.

The first came during a crowded late-night party sequence. The two leads moved through the space separately, talking to others, helping the host, drifting through conversations and noise. But their focus was always on each other. Their eyes met across doorways. They passed close, their shoulders brushing, their breath catching. No one else seemed to notice, but the tension between them was unbearable.

As Entreat played - low and reverent - the camera tracked every near miss. Her gaze lingered on his mouth. His followed the slope of her neck. He reached past her to pour a drink. She turned as he did. They barely touched, but it felt like a confession.

Finally, they found themselves alone in the kitchen. She reached for a glass. He stood behind her, almost trembling. She turned to face him and, without a word, took his hand and kissed his knuckles. Only once but it was enough. Then someone called her name, and she was gone.

The second scene - Entice - came near the end of the film. It opened with a fragile tension - haunting, stripped back, like something unravelling in real time. Chris’ voice cut in immediately, hushed and dissonant against the ambient thrum.

The male lead, gravely wounded, slumped in a chair, breath shallow. The room was quiet - too quiet - lamplit and eerie, with a disjointed air, like time had fractured. As the camera tracked a slow pan across his body, flickers of memory and longing began to emerge. The woman's voice in laughter. Her mouth on his shoulder. The back of her neck as she stepped into sunlight. Her hand, reaching.

The chorus hit like a wound. Chris’ voice rasped with ache and urgency — You move like smoke across my skin / A spark, a pull, a breath drawn in — and in the hallucination or memory, she appeared before him. She stepped close. He caught her wrist, drew it to his mouth, kissed the inside of her forearm and then rested his cheek there for a moment, eyes closed. She cupped his face. Their foreheads touched. A breath shared. Nothing more — but it pulsed with everything that had been unsaid.

Then she stepped away, and the camera pulled back—revealing that he was alone. That there had never been anyone there with him. That this had been the last flicker before the end. That he was already gone.

Both versions of the song shot up the charts all over again.

Countless fan edits exploded across the internet. Essay-length breakdowns on YouTube. Thousands of videos analysing the lighting, the lyrics, the acting. Heartbroken fans created their own music videos tracing the love story that couldn’t be. Dozens of articles insisted that those two scenes outshone the rest of the film.

Fans immediately began speculating about Oscars. Both versions of the song were declared 'Oscar bait' in viral threads, with impassioned demands for nominations. When it emerged that the songs weren't eligible - because they’d been released earlier and not written specifically for the film - the outrage was immediate and fierce. Liam made things worse by trolling in an interview: 'I mean, if the Academy had taste, they'd give both versions Best Original Song. But alas.' Chris, meanwhile, was quietly relieved to avoid a full Oscar media circus.

Startled and slightly overwhelmed by everything, Jamie barely said anything at first. Chris was almost afraid to ask, but although there were definitely many fans who pretty much knew or guessed that the songs had been inspired by Jamie and written about her, the film had recontextualised the songs and attention was redirected elsewhere.

But one night, she slid into bed next to him, curled up against him, and said very quietly, “I’m glad you shared them.”

Chris wrapped his arms around her. “Yeah?”

She nodded against his collarbone. “Because they became part of something bigger. I don’t only mean the film. All of it. People made new things because of them. Beautiful things. It’s very humbling.” She paused. “I’ll never write songs or make movies or change the world. But maybe this was my way of contributing. A tiny, sideways part of something good.”

Chris looked down at her, his hand trailing lightly along her back.

“You say sideways like it’s not the only reason anything ever gets made.”

She smiled into his tshirt. “Is that a metaphor? Should I write it down?”

“It’s a song,” he murmured, “but you already knew that.”

Take My Hand (Entreat)

Take My Hand (Entice)

[Verse 1]

Take my hand, come with me...
Heat rising, skin like sin...
Drunk on you, drowning slow...
Nothing left, just taste and touch...
[Verse 2]

Let the dark keep all the rules
I'll break them slow with every kiss
All the lines you never missed - 
I never knew it could feel like this
[Pre-Chorus]

Velvet hush and shadows lean
Breathless in the in-between
No map, no guide, no rush, no shame
Just whispered words and half your name
[Chorus]

You move like smoke across my skin
A spark, a pull, a breath drawn in
We're gravity, we're flame, we're whole
A quiet ache grown wild and full
[Verse 3]

So close your eyes, don’t think too much
It’s not a sin to need this hush
The room is dark, the night won’t tell
What heaven means when time stands still
[Bridge]

Let it burn, let it blaze
Let it thrum beneath the haze
No script, no roles, no need to feign - 
Just your skin, and mine, again
[Chorus]

You move like smoke across my skin
A spark, a pull, a breath drawn in
We're gravity, we're flame, we're whole
A quiet ache grown wild and full
[Outro]

Take my hand, come with me
Beneath the hush, beyond the plea
Your kiss, your sigh, the hush, the hush - 
Just taste and touch, just us, just us

Chapter Text

"So, Chris," the first journalist began, smiling like he was about to ask something clever. "You’ve written so many songs about or inspired by Jamie. Beautiful stuff. So vulnerable."

Chris didn’t answer, just waited.

The journalist leaned in. "Do you ever worry it’s a bit like Clapton and the song Layla? You know, pouring all that emotion into a song—and then if the relationship ends, that’s all that’s left?"

Silence.

Chris’s expression didn’t change immediately, but the atmosphere did. Something in it went very still.

Too still.

Seb clocked it first and straightened. Liam stopped breathing. Jake winced like he’d heard the starter pistol of a bar fight.

And the journalist—though clearly not someone who followed the band closely—looked uneasy now. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the stillness. Or maybe it was the fact that in that one moment, even the newer crew members remembered stories from the early years. The fights. The headlines. The allegations. The journalist who got too close. The pap who wouldn’t back off.

Those days were long gone.

But somehow, in that moment, the furious, dangerous version of Chris—the one no one had seen in years—was suddenly there again. Not shouting. Not moving. Just coiled and watching.

"Strange comparison," Chris said flatly.

The journalist gave an awkward laugh. "I mean—legendary song, right? And obviously you and Jamie—it's not the same—"

"No," Chris said. "It really isn’t."

The journo pressed on, nervous now. "I just meant the idea of turning love and emotion into art—"

Chris leaned forward, voice low. "Clapton admitted he raped his wife. Literally said it in an interview. Thought he was entitled to it. Bragged about hitting her too. He chased his best mate’s wife, wrote a song about it, married her, cheated on her, and treated her like shit. And you’re seriously asking me if I relate to that?"

The colour drained from the journalist’s face.

Jake cleared his throat. "What Chris means—"

"No," Chris said coldly, anger lacing his words, still looking at the journalist. "Don’t clean it up. He brought it up. Let him sit in it."

Liam intervened. "Look, mate, Jamie’s not some tragic inspiration or backstory. Your comparison is pretty shit."

"Exactly," Seb said, calm but pointed. "She’s not a character in a song."

The journalist nodded too quickly. "Of course. Totally. I didn’t mean—"

"Interview's over, mate," Chris told him and walked off set.

When Chris reached the green room, Jamie was on the couch, scrolling slowly on her phone. Her brow was slightly furrowed, looking slightly revolted.

Chris stopped in the doorway, faintly amused despite himself. "Please tell me you’re not Googling the song. Everyone knows Layla."

Jamie didn’t look up. "I vaguely knew the song - didn't know the full context, though. Now I do."

He winced. A quiet, visceral flinch. "I’m sorry."

"There's nothing for you to apologise for."

Chris crossed the room and sat beside her, close but not quite touching. "I should’ve shut it down earlier. Before he even finished the question."

"You did," she said. Then, after a pause: "You scared the hell out of him."

Chris let out a breath. "Good."

Jamie made a face, still tapping through tabs. "Also, the song? Kinda whiny. A bit of a mess. I listened to both versions—he sounds like he’s pleading and pouting at the same time."

Chris choked. "It's considered a classic." Jamie looked dubious.

Chris laughed before adding, "Musically. The riff’s iconic. But the energy’s all wrong. Sounds like someone trying to convince himself it’s love while torching everyone in his orbit." He paused, kissed the tip of her nose. "Let’s go home, babe."

They ended up on the living room floor with the lights off and music playing low, the warm amber of the hallway lamp spilling faintly through the door. The city hummed outside the windows, muffled and distant. Jamie had curled onto her side, her bare feet brushing against Chris’s leg. He was stretched out beside her, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loosely across his stomach, his face as still as sculpture—hard-set, unmoving, like he hadn’t yet come back into his body.

Their phones were face down on the table. The laptop, abandoned. The record played something wistful and low, something Jamie had picked out at random.

“It’s still bothering you.”

He nodded. “Yeah," but didn't elaborate, just kept staring at the ceiling.

Jamie studied his profile for a long moment. “I think what unsettled me most was reading it in his words. He didn’t even sound sorry. Just… observational. Like abuse was an anecdote.”

Chris exhaled. “Same guy who stood onstage in ’76 and told immigrants to get out of Britain. Said England was for white people. Blamed it all on the booze later, like that’s a get-out-of-racism-free card.”

Jamie frowned. “And people bought it. Because he was tortured. Because he made music they liked. I was reading about it in some of the articles. In the 60s–80s rock scene, there was a mythology of the tortured male artist—especially the white, heterosexual, self-destructive man. They saw his addictions, infidelities, and violence as symptoms of genius rather than acts of harm."

Chris looked grim and nodded. “It's gross. It was easier to say ‘he was sick’ than ‘he meant it.’”

Jamie nodded slowly. “This is clearly one of those times where people need to separate the art from the artist.”

Chris gave a low, choked laugh and finally turned his head to look at her. His light grey eyes had lost some of their earlier steel, now drowsy with warmth and something quieter, steadier as he looked at Jamie’s face, which was soft and open, a faint crease between her brows like she was still sorting through the edges of thought.

“Trust you to make it philosophical, babe,” he murmured.

He wanted to touch her. Wanted the familiar press of her against him, the anchoring heat of her skin. But more than that—strangely, insistently—he wanted to keep listening. To stay in this strange, low-lit bubble with her and turn the thing over until the shape of it made sense.

That was the part no one had prepared him for. That he could crave her body with every breath and still feel utterly wrapped up in the way her mind worked. That sometimes the most intimate thing was this: lying on the floor trading thoughts like they were secrets.

“Well - am I wrong? Wouldn't you say that this is the classic artist vs art scenario, Mr Raines?” she demanded in a mockingly in a very plummy highbrow tone. 

Chris grinned and shook his head. “No. Usually I can do that. But lucky for me, I don’t have to, because I’ve never been a Clapton fan anyway. Even if he’s technically one of the guitar greats.”

“Technically,” Jamie echoed. “So you don't owe him your reverence?”

He looked at her then, something softer replacing the earlier fury. “Definitely not.”

Jamie was quiet for a long moment, then said, "That journalist thought he was being clever. But it wasn’t clever. It was lazy. He thought he’d made this literary, deep comparison—and he didn’t stop to think how deeply fucked it was. There’s no similarity between the so-called guitar god and my beautiful rock god who would never hurt a hair on my head."

Chris flinched, clearly affected even by the implication of violence against her. “I could never hurt you. Men who beat their wives belong in a special part of hell as far as I’m concerned.”

Jamie shifted slightly, her voice gentler now. “Maybe the alcohol and drugs made it worse. Maybe they made him someone he wouldn’t have been otherwise.”

Chris nodded. “Yeah. Probably. But it’s still no excuse. You choose who you are, even when you’re off your face.”

Chapter Text

The air in the studio wasn't great. Something was off.

They’d been hammering the same bridge section for over an hour - maybe more, and the patience had drained out of the room long ago. Chris was pacing in tight little loops, muttering to himself. Jake had played the same four bars sixteen different ways and now looked ready to throw his bass into the wall. Seb, eyebrows drawn, muttered, "It’s not a formula, it’s a fucking song."

Jake shot back, "Then maybe write something that doesn’t sound like elevator music."

Chris turned on him. "You were the one who wanted the synth line doubled."

"I said try it, not lock it in like gospel."

"Children, children, children…" Liam cut in, dropping his sticks onto the snare with a thud. "I swear to god, if I hear that loop one more time, I’m putting my head through a wall."

"Go ahead," Seb muttered. "Might improve the acoustics."

Liam stood. "We’re breaking. Before I ram this snare through the glass or Chris murders Jake with a mic stand."

They scattered without argument, fuck yous floating in the air as they left the room.

Chris moved through Ruin House purposefully, his long stride absorbing distance in quick, determined bursts. He headed upstairs to the large, open area where Jamie, Emily, and Priya usually worked. Emily and Priya were out at meetings, and only Jamie was there, typing so intently she didn’t even notice him come in.

"Hey," she greeted him absently, still in work mode.

When he didn't reply immediately she looked up, and her smile faltered. She recognised that look immediately - stormy, frustrated, a twitch of something grim around his mouth. Her beautiful lover in full creative fury: storm-grey eyes, restless limbs, that prowling need she knew too well.

She locked her screen and rose to her feet, already walking towards him. Before she could say anything, he grabbed her hand and tugged her with him, fast and wordless, across the corridor into one of the deserted offices.

The door slammed behind them. Chris locked it.

He turned to her with a look that was somewhere between fury and desperation. Jamie stepped into him, hands sliding through his tousled blond hair, kissing him hungrily. He shoved her backwards until her back hit the wall with a thud. Before she could laugh at him for his clumsy impatience, his mouth was back on hers, hot and consuming.

Clothes were pushed aside impatiently, not removed – she was wearing a soft pinafore and thigh-high socks which made things a lot easier, although when he was in this kind of mood, there was always a risk of torn clothing.

He’d once ripped one of her favourite vintage pieces and declared with heartfelt contrition and misplaced confidence, “I’ll buy you a dozen fucking more.”

Which was ridiculous, because he’d been with her in enough charity shops to know: it wasn’t about price, it was about finding the right one. At the time, she’d looked at him like he’d offered to replace a rescued dog with a pedigree clone. The overalls had been irreplaceable like all of her secondhand purchases. He’d been stubborn and taken them to a tailor, insisted that they could be fixed. The tailor had done their best - but the damage was so extensive that the repair had veered into full reconstruction, ship-of-Theseus style, for a price that vastly exceeded the original cost many, many times over. He’d never told Jamie how much he had paid but had returned in triumph with a new old pair of overalls.

Back in the moment, Jamie's hands found his belt. His fingers slid under her waistband and got rid of her boybriefs swiftly, breath catching hard in his throat when her thighs flexed around him. She was still laughing when he bent to bite her shoulder—not hard, but enough to steal the sound from her throat. Her thighs flexed again, socked calves dragging against his waist, and he swore aloud, voice rough and wrecked. He lifted her in one smooth, urgent motion, her back hitting the wall as her legs locked tight around his waist. He buried his face in her neck with a low, ragged sound and drove into her hard enough to knock the framed print askew.

It wasn’t quick. He needed all of it - her breathy gasps, her fingers digging into his shoulders, the scrape of his jeans against her thighs. She climaxed hard, her forehead against his, breath caught in a gasp. He followed soon after with his mouth on her collarbone, holding her desperately like she was the last stable thing in the world.

When they came down, she stayed wrapped around him for a moment longer before he eased her down the wall, both of them still half-dressed and breathless. He kissed her cheek, then rested his forehead against hers. Then with a quiet groan, he eased back and reached for the paper towels stacked by the whiteboard - gentle as he wiped them both down, then tucked himself away and zipped up.

"Wait here," he said, voice still husky. He ducked into the nearest bathroom down the hall to bin the evidence and splash water on his face.

When he returned, he leaned against the doorframe and met her eyes - rueful now, calmer. Jamie's face was flushed, lips swollen, hair tousled and eyes a bit dazed still and he wanted her all over again but resisted.

“You all good now?” she murmured, voice hoarse.

He smiled faintly, light eyes still dark with emotion. “No,” he said. “But better. Much better.”

He drew her into his arms and held her close. Her hand slid under his t-shirt, palm warm against his chest, stroking slow and steady. He kissed her lingeringly, much slower this time, but still deep and hungry. It took all of his self control to hold back so that they didn't escalate again.

She tugged him after her into the kitchen, nudged him down onto one of the benches, waved off his attempt to help and made them tea.

Chris watched her in silence.

“They’re being annoying,” he said eventually, voice flat.

“Not doing what you want?” she asked, light but not mocking.

He shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s - ” He stopped, mouth tightening. “We can't seem to land the right feel today. Seb’s getting defensive. Jake’s throwing out these - fucking detours. And Liam’s bored. They’re all brilliant, they’re not wrong, I just - ”

He broke off. “It’s like trying to conduct gravity.”

Jamie placed the mugs on the table. “You’re all trying to make the same song,” she said gently. “You just haven’t agreed on what it’s about yet.”

He gave a short laugh. “You say that like it’s obvious.”

“It kind of is.”

She was about to sit down when he reached out to pull her into his lap, arms winding tight around her waist, so that he could bury his face in her shoulder. Smiling, she slid her fingers through his thick blond hair, tousling it.

“You know,” he said against her neck, nuzzling and nibbling, “George Martin once gave someone a cup of tea and sent him back across a valley with instructions to behave.”

Jamie stroked his hair and leaned down to kiss him. “And this was your version?”

“Less tea. More wall sex," he said provocatively.

"Did it help?" she asked him quizzically, but she already knew the answer, because she could feel that the earlier frustration and tension had drained away, leaving only playful amusement and arousal.

"It would help more if you were naked," he teased he, kissing her again.

"That would be very unprofessional in a workplace."

"More unprofessional than me nailing you against the wall just then?"

He didn’t give her a chance to answer before kissing her again.

This time, it wasn’t brief. He pulled her tighter into his lap, mouth hungry and insistent, hands sliding under her pinafore to grip the curve of her hips. She answered in kind - arms looped around his neck, breath catching, knees tightening at his sides. The kiss turned messy and hot: tongues tangled, his hands pushing under the hem of the skirt to find bare skin.

He groaned low in his throat, dragging his mouth down her jaw to them nuzzle her throat.

“Chris - ” she gasped, laughing breathlessly as he kissed her again, all heat and frustration and the aftershock of earlier release not quite burned out. Her hands slid under his t-shirt, fingers roaming his back, enjoying the feel of his skin.

He whispered something filthy into her ear, making her laugh, then bit her neck just hard enough to make her shiver. They were both breathing hard now, tangled in limbs and desire, the tea on the bench long forgotten.

This time, she let him deepen the kiss - slow and filthy, heat spiralling between them again. His tongue stroked into her mouth, hands firm at her hips, one sliding up under her dress to palm her breast through the soft cotton. She moaned into him, hips shifting in his lap, and he groaned in answer, grinding up against her with an unmistakable hardness.

She pulled back on a gasp, only to be caught again. He kissed her jaw, her neck, whispered filth into her ear that made her laugh breathlessly and then whimper.

Finally - laughing, flushed, struggling to breathe - Jamie pressed both hands to his chest and leaned back.

"You have to get back to work," she managed, still panting. "And so do I."

"I can have a word to the boss," he murmured teasingly, trailing kisses along her throat.

She laughed and moved to stand - but he caught her wrist and reeled her back between his thighs, guiding her down for one more kiss. Then another, deeper. Hungrier. She let him for a moment, curling her fingers in the hem of his shirt.

"Chris," she warned, but he only groaned and dropped his head to her chest, face pressed between her breasts with theatrical despair.

She laughed, stroking his hair. “I'm leaving. Before you wreck my outfit again.”

He didn’t move.

"I'm leaving now," she told him with a kiss that was both a promise and a push.

He let her go at last, reluctantly but smiling. He watched her walk away with an expression that was part triumph, part regret. She paused in the doorway. "I love you. Be creative. Be conciliatory."

After she left, with a muttered curse and a grin he didn’t bother to hide, he stood. He drained the last of the tea, rinsed their mugs at the sink, then adjusted his jeans with a wince and rolled his shoulders back.

And then - finally - he headed downstairs.

He came back in quietly - shirt wrinkled, mouth kiss-bruised, hair a tousled mess. Picked up his guitar without looking at anyone, but he looked fucked-out and freshly kissed, but lighter too - like the frustration had been wrung from his system. Slower to settle, easier in his skin. Centred. A man who’d got what he needed, and then some.

“Let’s try it wrong,” he said.

It was like a pressure valve loosening. Jake gave a snort of laughter. Seb said, “We’ve been doing that all morning.” But Liam was already behind the kit.

Jake started with something off-kilter and obnoxiously jazzy. Chris followed with a run that sounded half-drunken. Seb leaned into the dissonance.

It was awful. Then funny. Then strangely promising.

They played it wrong. Then worse. Then almost right. And somewhere in the mess, they found the edge they’d been missing.

That night, playing back the take, someone swore audibly in the second chorus. Someone else cracked up. No one muted it.

They kept the take.

Later, when the others had gone, Chris lingered to export stems. The room was quiet now—still holding the echo of earlier music, low hum of electronics, the faint scent of worn leather and something spiced lingering in the air.

He looked up and Jamie was there, leaning against the doorframe, smiling at him. He smiled back immediately, his light eyes warm with affection.

“You found it,” Jamie said quietly.

He looked up, his fingers pausing on the keyboard, and returned her smile. “You knew we would.”

She stepped in slowly, not speaking, letting the quiet settle. Then she met his eyes, gaze steady and warm, and tilted her head toward the door.

"Want to walk me home, rock star? I’ll buy you an ice cream on the way."

He stood and crossed to her in three strides, took her hand and raised it to his lips, then pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

“Hell yeah,” he said, voice low but pleased. He didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

The brunch had started out civilised. Fruit platters, sourdough, those weird little mini frittatas Priya always brought. But then Jamie, eyes dancing, leaned back in her chair and said, "All right. Let's do: Can You Separate the Art from the Artist?"

A low groan rippled around the table from everyone except Chris who smiled indulgently, having engaged in a version of the activity with her before.

"No," Lydia said instantly. "I came here to drink elderflower spritzers and judge your curtain choices, not be morally compromised."

"Too late," Jamie said sweetly, already scrolling on her phone. "Okay, round one: Michael Jackson."

"Oh, come on," Owen groaned. "We're starting there?"

"Essential question," Graham said, wiping his glasses. "The man revolutionised music. But—"

"Yeah," Chris said, grimacing. "But it's complicated."

Jake reached for a croissant. "You know Theo kicks whenever Billie Jean comes on. That’s his opinion."

Seb grinned. "Foetal ethics. Bold stance."

They spiralled from there. Morrissey was universally condemned. Dr. Seuss sparked a tangent about green eggs and colonialism. Jamie scrolled, made a face, then visibly winced when she reached the next name.

"Oh no. No, no, no." She pushed her phone away like it had betrayed her. "Herbert von Karajan."

Jen looked up. "That’s the Nazi one, right?"

Jamie nodded miserably. "But his Beethoven—"

"Jamie," Jen said again, gently but with finality.

Jamie buried her face in her hands. "I know. I know. But have you heard his version of the Ninth? It's like being struck by lightning."

Chris didn’t even pretend to be neutral. He placed a hand over his heart. "I’ve heard it. Many times. Against my will. Repeatedly. Annotated footnotes. Track comparisons."

She peeked at him through her fingers. "You told me you liked the fourth movement," she said reproachfully.

"I endure it out of love for you despite my moral conflict," he teased her.

Emily offered helpfully, "We can pretend it was a ghost conductor."

Graham grinned. "Can we pretend Wagner had a good personality, too?"

"Absolutely not," Chris said. "You’re on your own with that one."

Jen leaned toward Jamie. "Maybe we should skip the Third Reich section of the playlist for a bit."

Jamie pulled a face. "Wait till we get to all your problematic faves."

Then Seb leaned back with an exaggerated stretch, clearly aiming for maximum provocation.  "What about Clapton? I mean—Layla. Iconic, right, Chris?" He slanted a look at Chris.

Chris recoiled visibly. "No. Fucking. Way."

Liam reached too fast for the water jug and nearly knocked over the mimosa pitcher. Jake caught it just in time, despite having one arm still cradling Theo like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Despite his legendary status - Clapton's a prick," Liam agreed cheerfully. "And not even in a sexy way."

Jake added, "The racist rant, the vaccine nonsense, the anti-immigration shit, the way he treated his wife — he’s practically auditioning for a Daily Mail column."

"But Layla is so good," Seb insisted. "The guitar tone alone—"

"The guitar tone is good because Duane Allman is on it," Chris retorted. "Not because Clapton’s a tortured genius with a God complex."

Jamie stared at him in feigned concern. "Are you all right?"

Chris took a sip of coffee. "I just think there are better guitar solos."

Priya said delicately, "Okay, but surely we’ve all loved a song by a dirtbag."

Emily offered helpfully, "More frittata?" like they hadn’t just condemned half of 20th century music.

That opened the floodgates.

Bob Dylan. John Lennon. Chuck Berry. Johnny Cash. Gene Simmons. Axl Rose. Half of them had underage girlfriends, the other half had hit someone. Or both. By the time someone brought up Jerry Lee Lewis, Jake made a face and muttered, "Married his thirteen-year-old cousin. I don't care how catchy the piano riff is."

Then Seb, smiling that wicked little smile of his, said, "River Phoenix. Died of an overdose on Sunset. Beautiful, brilliant, tragic. But: addict. Isn't that a bad example for the young?"

Jen sat up straighter. "No. Absolutely not."

Seb turned to her, clearly fascinated by the emphatic nature of her reaction. He shrugged, all wide-eyed faux innocence. "Really."

Jake was already frowning.

Emily looked up from buttering a scone. "She watched all of his films multiple times in high school. Dogfight was practically on constant repeat."

"He was incredible in that," Jen said. "And Running on Empty. Stand by Me. Even Indiana Jones. He wasn't a dirtbag. He was a poor, beautiful angel who got eaten alive by life. That’s not the same."

Jake muttered. "Don't mind me, I’ll just be over here in a jealous spiral about your dead celebrity crush." He held Theo closer as if to stop their child from being contaminated by Jen's irrational crush.

Jamie sighed. "See, this is why the game’s addictive. You can’t stop. One minute you're talking about whether Clapton is allowed on a playlist, next thing you're defending River Phoenix like your life depends on it."

Graham shrugged, "It’s easier when they’re dead."

Priya nodded. "At least they’re not profiting anymore."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "So we can stream Wagner, but not Kanye?"

Owen muttered, "We probably shouldn't stream either."

Tamara reached for her mimosa. "Can we do painters next? Or does that lead to Picasso and I have to burn all my scarves?"

Jamie grinned. "You knew what this was."

Lydia reached for her glass. "Can we do someone not morally bankrupt next?"

Emily didn’t look up. "Oscar Wilde."

Jamie nodded solemnly. "Sainted. Canonised. Untouchable."

Jake raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t he sleep with half of Victorian England?"

"Consensually," Jamie said. "And poetically."

Chris, without looking up: "He’s fine. Next."

Liam clinked his glass with Jamie's. "To art. And the deeply flawed bastards who made it."

Chapter Text

It started as a joke. Or maybe not even that—just a riff, sliding out of Chris’s long fingers as he stood half-slouched in the corner of the studio, Les Paul cradled against his torso like a familiar sin. He played it low, almost lazy, muting the strings between each phrase. That unmistakable, swaggering hook.

Jake looked up. "OK. Random."

Chris didn’t answer. He just played it again, slower this time, a little grimier, a smile of pleasure on his face.

Liam, half-reclined behind his kit and spinning a drumstick lazily between his fingers, gave a low whistle. “That’s not the song you want stuck in your head all day.”

“You’ve definitely played it before,” Jamie said, looking toward the amp. “On tour, maybe?”

“Soundcheck in Berlin,” Liam confirmed. “Chris had it stuck on the brain for more than a week. The rest of us were infected, too”

Jamie and Jen were sitting on the cosy studio sofa, half-buried under mismatched blankets and sipping hot tea. Jamie’s blanket was one of those old tour survivors—soft in some places, knotted in others, with a stitched repair near the edge that she was absently rubbing between two fingers. Jen’s as much fancier – something very plush, soft and warm that Jake had insisted on buying for her – for the baby, he’d claimed.

The air in the studio smelled faintly of old wood and clean strings. Jamie watched Chris with quiet attention—not just listening, but taking in the tilt of his head, the unconscious way his fingers curled over the strings like they already knew what was coming next.

"I definitely know the song .. ummm.” She frowned trying to call it to mind.

Seb grinned. "Dire Straits. 'Money for Nothing.' Mid-80s. One of the nastiest guitar sounds ever recorded."

Chris added the opening fill, the whole room suddenly thick with attitude.

"That sound," Jake said, nudging his bass on, "is thanks to a Gibson Les Paul Junior through a Laney amp, mic'd in a weird corner of the room. Knopfler thought it sounded awful at first. It was a total accident. He was just messing around trying to record a demo—trying to mimic a ZZ Top tone, but ended up with this weirdly compressed, phasey growl."

He glanced at Jen and smiled at her, gaze lingering on the sweetness of her face. His rôle as bass player meant that his decision to marry hadn’t been met with the outpouring of outraged grief and fury that had confronted Chris and Jamie when they had married – but there had been the fair share of critics who had been scathing about what they considered Jen’s unsuitability to be the wife of a member of Aesthetic Ruin. Her face was serious as usual but her lips were slightly curved in that tiny smile he loved and if he’d been closer, he’d have leaned over to kiss the corner of her mouth. As it was, he simply winked at her playfully.

"Also," Chris added, pointing a finger toward the fretboard, "the riff itself is played using a fingerpicking style that’s basically a banjo roll. Knopfler was a fingerstyle player, and that repetitive pattern gave it that twitchy, circular drive."

"Right," Seb nodded. "Sounds nothing like a banjo, but the technique under it is straight out of bluegrass. Like, 'this ain’t working' meets Kentucky porch pickin'." And then Sting walks in, hears the groove, and ends up writing that whole 'I want my MTV' hook—gets a co-writing credit too courtesy of his label who insisted on it."

"Didn’t Knopfler get the lyrics from eavesdropping on some appliance store guy ranting about rock stars on the telly?" Liam asked from behind the drum kit, twirling a stick idly between his fingers.

"Yeah," Chris said, eyes narrowing like he was still listening to the shape of the chords. "They were watching MTV on the in-store TVs. Some guy was grumbling about 'that ain’t working, that’s the way you do it.'"

"Ironic as hell," Jake added. "A song about resenting fame becoming a megahit. Perfect little ouroboros.

Liam added, “They walked away from it, too. All that money, all that madness—and Knopfler still bailed. Said it was too big. Too much.”

Seb nodded. “Didn’t help that the whole touring machine wrecked his marriage, either. Just wasn’t worth it in the end.”

Chris gave a slow nod, something rueful in his expression. “Yeah. Didn’t want to spend the rest of his life being the ‘MTV guy.’ Respect.”"

Seb, perched near the mixing desk with his usual air of dry detachment, chimed in without looking up: "People hated the video too. Thought it was ugly. But it made them MTV darlings."

Chris turned to Jamie, gesturing with the guitar neck. "Wanna hear it?"

"Only if Seb does the riff," Jake said quickly, before Jamie could reply.

Chris groaned. "Come on - I was doing it first." Jamie laughed at how petulant he sounded and Jen and Jamie exchanged glances.

Seb stretched with theatrical slowness. "Yes, but I'm the one who can actually make it sound like Knopfler instead of a wannabe rocking out on Guitar Hero."

“Oooh, shots fired,” Jake murmured as Chris’ reply to Seb was what you would expect it would be.

Reluctantly, Chris handed over the lead. Seb adjusted the strap, flicked the toggle, and grinned.

Jake performed the signature falsetto introduction playfully. “I want my MTV…”

Although he couldn’t do a whole song in falsetto like Chris could, this was well within his abilities and Liam and Seb glanced at one another and began the lead in before Seb started with precision: the riff, perfectly dirty and bending in all the right ways.

Liam with a light four-count on the snare, easing into that minimalist groove from the original track—steady, unfussy, right in the pocket.

Chris shifted his stance, rolled his shoulders, and dropped into that gruff, laconic growl:

"Now look at them yo-yos, that’s the way you do it..."

Jake joined in for the harmony, bassline rolling in beneath him.

"Play the guitar on the MTV..."

Jamie and Jen were watching intently, both enthralled and entertained. Jamie in particular loved this. Not the music, exactly – although she certainly did - but the ease. The unguarded rhythm between them all. Chris always looked so much lighter in these moments—less myth, more man. The kind who cracked jokes mid-riff and scrunched his face when he hit a note wrong and tried to pretend he meant it. The kind who could still play for joy.

They didn’t make it through the full song before Chris started improvising.

"We got to install microwave ovens—and maybe some overpriced scented candles..."

Jake followed up, deadpan: "Custom kitchen deliveries, but only if the backsplash has hand-painted koi fish."

Seb sighed. “This is not the way to appreciate my artistry, you fuckers.”

Chris looked at him both, mock-offended. "Excuse you. This is cultural commentary."

"This," Liam agreed, finally glancing up, "is a misuse of instruments and I’m calling Amnesty International."

But Seb was already back into the riff, Jake looping the bassline. Jamie and Jen were absolutely delighted, though. This was joy. This was memory. This was four musicians fucking around on a weekday, playing a song older than any of them, and making it theirs for a few minutes.

Money for nothing, and your chicks for free.

Later that night, the flat was quiet except for the faint rush of traffic along the wet street outside. The stereo played low—some gentle instrumental loop that had long since faded into the background. Jamie was on the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, a blanket wrapped loosely around her waist. A forgotten stack of legal memos sat on the windowsill beside her.

Chris wandered in from the kitchen with two mugs of tea. He handed hers over without ceremony and dropped down on the other end of the sofa, sitting sideways to face her, one arm slung over the back cushion. His jaw worked, like he had something on his mind and no easy way to start.

“You’ve gone awfully quiet,” Jamie said eventually.

He gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I got thinking about Knopfler. He didn’t even go to the Hall of Fame. Just stepped away. No speech. No fanfare. Just… left it. Wanted to keep making music, but without the machinery.”

Jamie studied him. Chris had never chased celebrity status—not before they met, and certainly not after. He wore it easily enough, when required, but as far as she could tell, had never craved it even when he and the others had first started the band.

After a few rocky moments in the early days of their acquaintance, he’d been extremely careful about how he managed publicity - not withdrawn, not exactly—but very measured and deliberate. She saw it in the way he navigated interviews now, the way he handled photo ops, the way he redirected conversations or left space around them when cameras came too close. He was so very careful to keep his private life - their private life – as private as he could.

"I get it," he said with a shrug. "There can be a massive cost. Knopfler’s marriage cracked under the weight. Other band members’ marriages strained, too. It got too big, too fast. Admittedly, they had other issues as well - in that band, there wasn’t room for anyone else’s voice—not even his brother’s."

She didn’t reply straight away. He didn’t rush her, watching her thoughtful expression as she processed what he’d just told her.

“That imbalance,” she said at last, “it’s the thing you’ve always avoided.”

Chris nodded slowly. “I write more than most of them, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I’m in charge. Not the way he was. We argue everything. Setlists. Arrangements. Merch. If one of us says no, we all hear it. We would’ve fallen apart years ago if we didn’t listen to each other. We’ve got something precious. It’s not just the music—it’s the people. We’ve always supported each other. Solo stuff, side projects, breaks when someone needs it. No one panics. No one gets territorial. We’ve always known the industry is brutal on relationships - touring especially. That strain isn’t new. It doesn’t go away. We just manage it now instead of pretending it won’t hurt us.”

He rubbed his palm against his jaw, thinking. “I remember reading that Knopfler had so many roadies he didn’t know their names. That they were leapfrogging stages across continents - one team setting up while the other tore down. Multiple rigs. Different hotels.” Jamie looked pained at the description and Chris nodded. “You let it get that bad and you lose track of each other. You stop being a band and start being an operation. That kind of scale - it doesn't just wear down your body, it wears down your connection. No shared meals. No downtime. Just motion. And noise.”

He paused, expression contemplative. "That’s why we’re so strategic about it now. We don’t grind ourselves down, and we don’t pretend it’s normal to be gone nine months straight. We plan the routes carefully, keep the stretches manageable. And it helps - hell, it makes all the difference - that everyone’s willing to come with us.. He looked at her. "You. Emily. Tamara. Jen. You didn’t have to. But you did. So we’re not leaving our lives behind every time we go. We’re bringing them with us. That’s what saves it. That’s what saves us. Although at some point, it will be harder for Jen to travel - when Theo's older and they're thinking about schooling. We’ll have to figure something out."

“And people always want you to do more… and more ..." She’d seen first hand the demands upon him… the rapacious demands made on the whole band, but especially Chris.

He nodded. “They always try to demand it,” he said. “Global sponsors. Stadium series. Brands wanting our names on alcohol or crypto or clothing lines. Full corporate campaigns. We’ve said no more times than I can count.”

She tucked her toes under the edge of the blanket. “You make them listen to you, though.”

He met her eyes and nodded. “Because we all agreed. Sometimes, we chose to play smaller rooms rather than the big venues. And we didn’t want to become a brand. We wanted to stay a band.”

Jamie studied him. She saw the way his fingers shifted, restless, even now. The little silence before he answered, the weight of memory behind his calm. She knew he carried it - what he’d seen, what he’d promised never to repeat. “Still gets loud, though,” she said quietly.

Chris smiled faintly. "We manage." He hesitated. "But if it became a problem for us - for you - I'd give it all up."

She didn’t speak for a long moment. Moved. Then, without a word, put her cup down on the coffee table and crawled across the sofa towards him, climbing into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, arms looping round his neck.

Chris stilled. His hands came to rest lightly on her back.

“You’re so good at what you do,” she said, voice soft but unwavering. “And I know it’s not easy to hold the line the way you do. I would never want you to give it up - especially not for me.”

“I’d still do it,” he said. “In a heartbeat - for you.”

“You won’t have to,” she murmured. “We’re not them.”

He didn’t answer. Just held her, forehead resting against hers, the quiet folding around them like shelter.

And when she kissed him - slow, certain, and fiercely grateful - it tasted of all the things they’d protected by staying small enough to stay close.

Chapter Text

Chris tried really hard to pretend he wasn’t sick. He gripped the mic stand through soundcheck with white-knuckled determination, ignoring the churn in his stomach, the fine tremor in his hands, the heat crawling up the back of his neck. Sweat clung to his hairline despite the cool of the venue, and by the time he lurched sideways mid-song—hand slipping briefly from the mic stand—Jamie was already there. Already moving.

“I’m fine,” he muttered hoarsely, doubled over, one hand braced on his knee, the other trying to wave her off.

“Definitely not,” she said, stepping in.

The others circled quickly—Seb already at his side, Liam and Owen throwing each other a look. Chris looked as if he might protest, guilt flickering behind the pallor, but Seb clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Don’t worry about it," he said. "We’ll postpone for a few days. Dino’ll understand."

It was supposed to be a low-key promo set—a long, rowdy evening at one of the pubs they'd played before they got famous. The kind of gig where the regulars still remembered their old songs and shouted for them by name. But it wasn’t the end of the world to delay it.

Jamie took control without hesitation. "It’s fine – please help me get him into a car," she requested, already guiding Chris down the steps.

He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. His legs were shaking beneath him.

Kenji was waiting with the car, already pulled to the side entrance. As they got Chris into the back, Kenji looked over his shoulder, eyes dark with concern, then met Jamie’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

“He’ll be fine,” Jamie said lightly, trying to ease the tension as she settled Chris in beside her. “I’m more worried about your upholstery.”

Kenji cracked a grin. “Please. I’ve seen worse. I keep emergency cleaning supplies and sick bags in the boot. Occupational hazard.”

Chris gave a weak, slurred groan at that, which only made Kenji chuckle. “Don’t worry, mate. Nothing I haven’t handled before.”

The drive home was short, but quiet. Chris slumped heavily against Jamie, eyes closed, breath uneven. One hand rested limp on her thigh, the other curled against his stomach. Jamie ran a hand lightly through his hair, watching the streetlights blur past the windows. Kenji didn’t speak, but kept glancing in the mirror—calm, focused, and alert to every shift in Chris’s body. The heater hummed low. Outside, the streets were slick with rain.

When they finally pulled up outside the flat, Kenji flicked on the hazard lights. At the building entrance, he stepped forward to assist, but Jamie waved him off. “Thanks Kenj—I’ve got him,” she said evenly, sliding an arm around Chris’s waist as his weight sagged into her.

He muttered something about the stairs—vague, apologetic—but she didn’t reply. Normally they took the stairs, but not today. Today they took the lift. Chris leaned into her the entire way up, eyes half-closed, barely holding himself upright.

By the time they reached the flat, he was pale and shivering, breath short, one hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

On their floor, Chris paused to brace one hand against the wall, his skin clammy and pale, breath short. Once inside, he staggered forward. "Where are you going?" she asked in perplexity when he didn't head towards the bedroom.

“Using one of the guest rooms,” he managed. “Don’t want you to—”

“Chris,” Jamie said flatly. “Shut up. Bedroom. Now.”

He allowed her to push him towards their bedroom and their large ensuite. “I’ll clean everything later,” he said. “I don’t want you to have to—”

“Chris.” Jamie’s voice was low but firm. “Please stop being noble.”

He hesitated in the hallway, as if unsure which direction to go.

“The ensuite,” she said. “Obviously.”

He gave her a miserable look, lips pale and hands trembling, then doubled over again with another wave of nausea. She caught his arm, steadied him. When he could breathe, he nodded once, barely, and let her guide him there.

She slipped out and, a moment later, he heard her phone connect to the speakers—music kicked in, louder than usual. Not soft background ambience, but something with drums and low bass and he was relieved at her actions when he was violently and noisily sick into the toilet.

While he was being extremely unwell in the ensuite, Jamie was working busily in the kitchen: boiling the kettle, prepping electrolytes, slicing ginger and preparing some congee.

When he finally emerged from the ensuite, pale and shaken, she was back at his side helping him undress and got him into bed and put a bin near the bed in case he couldn't make it to the ensuite. He was feeling too ill to even joke about the indignity.

"Be right back," she promised him, touching his cheek lightly and disappeared momentarily. When she returned, it was with a tray: a steaming mug of peppermint tea, a bottle of electrolytes, dry crackers and promised there would be soup or congee later.

"I'm not sure I ever want to eat again, babe," he mumbled, looking quite nauseated.

"Not now, later," she told him.

Chris shifted under the blanket, eyes heavy. “Don’t use the ensuite tonight,” he rasped. “Seriously. It's a mess. I’ll clean and disinfect everything when I can stand up.”

Jamie sat on the edge of the bed and gave him a look. “You do remember that I looked after my mum through cancer, right?”

He stared at her. Of course he remembered.

“Trust me,” she said. “It's not easy to gross me out."

He gave a weak laugh and finally let himself lean back. Within minutes, he was asleep.

When he woke, the light was muted and the room smelled faintly like ginger and soap. He blinked blearily and sat up, his body aching. The bed was warm. Music—something soft and instrumental—drifted in through the speakers.

He moved carefully into the ensuite, steadying himself on the wall.

It was spotless.

Fresh towels. A clean bin. The floor scrubbed. No trace of anything he remembered from that blur of a morning. The disinfectant scent was faint but present. Jamie had opened the window.

“Chris.”

He turned.

Jamie was standing in the doorway, holding another mug of tea and a cool cloth. Her expression softened when she saw him upright, but her tone didn’t waver.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

He opened his mouth to object—he felt marginally better, he could—

She was already crossing the room, setting down the tea and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.

“You’ve got half a fever still,” she muttered. “Don’t get heroic.”

He leaned into her touch without meaning to. She steered him back toward the bedroom like he weighed nothing, and this time, he didn’t resist.

He let her and stagged back into bed.

Graham had offered to send a private GP, but she'd told him to wait a day.

“Tell him to cancel the priest while you’re at it,” Chris had croaked at her from the ensuite, which meant he’d definitely been well enough to eavesdrop.

He was unwell a few more times that afternoon—less violently, but still rough around the edges. His skin felt hot then clammy, his whole body aching like it had been wrung out. But eventually the worst of it passed. His stomach stopped twisting, the headache eased, and he stopped bracing for the next wave.

Jamie returned quietly with a fresh tray and set it down on the nightstand. This time, she brought congee—warm, plain, and gently fragrant. She brought his favourite hoodie from the laundry basket—the soft, old one he always reached for after tour—draping it across the foot of the bed, ready for when the chills kicked in again.

Chris stared at the bowl, then at her. “I’m not hungry,” he rasped.

“You don’t have to be. Try a little,” she urged him.

He did. Just a few spoonfuls, but it settled gently, and he was able to keep it down. “You’re allowed to need looking after too, you know,” she murmured softly.

He hated this. He didn’t get sick often, so wasn’t used to this feeling of helplessness. He closed his eyes, jaw tight. But her hand was warm on his chest, and he didn’t want it gone.

She texted the group chat to assure the others that he was still alive before putting their phones away and climbing into the bed beside him without a word, curling herself carefully along his side.

Chris shifted, half-propped on the pillows, and tried to lift a hand. "You shouldn’t get so close," he murmured a half-hearted protest, even as he leaned into her "You’ll catch it."

“Sleep.”

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. Rain tapped lightly against the window. Jamie was lying next to him, watching over him, and he smiled as she wielded the contactless thermometer like a laser gun.

She just lowered her head and kissed his forehead, brushing his blond hair back from his face and stayed where she was, steady and warm beside him.

“I’ll switch sides if you get cold again," she told him and he shook his head.

"No need for that. This is good," he told her and held her close, the warmth of her soft, pliant body against his making him feel immeasurably better.

The next morning, sunlight pushed gently through the curtains, bright enough to stir him but soft enough not to hurt. Chris blinked awake slowly, and for the first time in nearly two days, he didn’t feel like the floor was tilting beneath him.

His body ached, but in the manageable, post-illness way. Muscles tired, not trembling. Stomach empty, not twisting. Jamie was still asleep beside him, curled against his side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

He watched her for a moment. Her hair was tousled, her expression peaceful. She’d stayed up longer than she’d admitted because had had memories of her helping him to the ensuite again and he was pretty sure she'd been cleaning up in there, too. The thought was mortifying, but it was what it was.

When he finally shifted to sit up, she stirred immediately, her dark eyes studying him closely. “You okay?” she murmured, voice scratchy with sleep.

Something flickered in his chest at the sight of her—hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep, but full of concern for him. Real and uncomplicated concern. The emotions he felt at the way she cared so deeply startled him.

He nodded. “Better. Still gross, but… alive.”

Jamie squinted at him. “Colour’s back. Still a bit tragic-looking, but improving.”

He let out a soft laugh. “That’s rich, coming from someone who hasn’t brushed her hair.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled as she sat up. “Want to try toast?”

He hesitated. “If you make that ginger tea again.”

She was already swinging her legs out of bed. “Done.”

He watched her go, then leaned back and closed his eyes for a few minutes. By the time Jamie returned, he’d washed his face, brushed his teeth, and changed into clean pyjama bottoms. Still pale, but not clammy. The worst had passed. To his guilt, as expected, the ensuite was spotless again as she'd clearly cleaned up again.

Jamie came in carrying a tray—toast and tea. She looked freshly washed, radiant in one of his old band T-shirts, her damp hair plaited into two loose braids that gave her the sweet and innocent look of a schoolgirl.

"Digging the pigtails, babe," he remarked.

She raised a brow. “You going to eat or flirt?”

He nodded. “You joining me?”

She settled cross-legged beside him on the bed and passed him the tray.

“Any word on the gig?” he asked, picking up a slice of toast.

“Pushed a couple days,” she said. “Dino sent a bottle of whisky and three kinds of artisan tea to wish you a speedy recovery.”

Chris gave a low laugh and looked down at the toast in his hand. He took a careful bite and waited. No nausea. No twist. Just… food. Basic, satisfying.

He reached out, stroking her bare leg lightly. “Thanks for looking after me.”

Jamie wrinkled her nose. “You don’t have to thank me. You look after me all the time.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “And anyway, we look after one another.”

Chapter Text

Chris was watching the news again. Not the pundits or the panel debates, but the raw coverage—footage of missile strikes, aggressive and posturing statements by political leaders, grainy aerial clips of craters and smoking buildings. The anchor's voice was calm, measured. The images were not.

Jamie paused in the hallway when she saw the set of his shoulders. He wasn’t moving. Just sitting, remote loosely in one hand, gaze fixed and jaw tight. His pale eyes had a very bleak expression in them.

She came in quietly and stood behind the sofa, not speaking at first. She knew that look. He’d written the lyrics to Fault Line with that look. Dulce Et Decorum Est. Nothing Else to Hold. He'd been filled with tense static when he'd written the melody to An Apostrophe to Man. She could feel it in the air—that unsettled, restless pressure building in him, trying to find form.

Jamie stepped close and leaned over the back of the sofa, her arms slipping around his chest as she pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. He didn’t flinch - somehow, he always seem to know when she was near. A quiet exhale left him, and his hand came up to cover hers where they lay lightly against his collarbone.

She kissed his jaw, then the curve of his cheek—warm skin, held taut with tension.

He turned toward her, catching her hand to kiss her fingers before finding her mouth. She met him there, holding the kiss, steady and slow, giving him something to steady against.

"What do you need from me?" she asked quietly against his lips. "To help. For the process. Coffee? Tea? Endless snacks?"

He smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. He shook his head, brushing his thumb lightly across the back of her hand in a slow caress. "No food needed. Maybe just make out with me for a bit?"

She laughed softly, low in her throat and gave him a playfully teasing look. "As much as I'm committed to helping support you in your creative endeavours, I am not making out with a man who's currently mentally preoccupied with the spectre of nuclear escalation and global collapse."

He gave a short laugh and reached around to slide his arm around her waist, shifting his weight as he pulled her over the back of the sofa towards him and down into his lap in one smooth, practiced motion. "You wrong me, babe. When we’re fucking, I’m not thinking about anything else. Not even the end of the world."

His mouth found hers again—this time slower, deeper and more deliberate. His hands slid up under her shirt, cupping her breasts through the soft cotton of her bra, his thumbs teasing over sensitive skin as he deepened the kiss. His mouth was hungry now, focused only on her.

She shifted in his lap with slow, deliberate friction, her thighs tightening around his hips, her arms locked behind his neck as she kissed him back, smiling at his response.

"Mmmm," she murmured against his mouth, lips lingering on his as she moved against him again, deliberately and teasingly. "So are you relegating me to a useful distraction now?"

He didn’t bother with a reply. Just yanked his T-shirt over his head, their mouths still clinging, her breath catching as the muscles of his torso came into view. Her hands moved instinctively, greedy for skin—fingertips dragging down over his chest, lingering at the deep lines of muscle and that faint trail of hair leading lower. She pressed her hands flat against him, gliding over the heat and tension coiled beneath his skin. When her thumbs dipped into the hollows above his hips, he let out a raw, guttural sound that sent a bolt of want straight through her.

Her mouth dropped to his jaw, then lower, teeth scraping his neck before her tongue soothed the mark. He let out a broken sound and pulled her tighter, one hand sliding up under her skirt to palm the back of her thigh, the other popping the button of his jeans with swift, practiced ease.

The breath between them was shallow now, shared, their rhythm already syncing. There was nothing hesitant in the way she moved against him, nothing polite in the way he clutched at her hips.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing. "You better be thinking about something now."

"I am," his voice rough. "You. Right here."

"Good," she said, and rocked against him again until he swore aloud, grip tightening as the urgency between them intensified.

Much later, they lay tangled on the rug in the living room, legs hooked and torsos pressed close, the soft weight of the throw Chris had pulled over them barely disguising the intimacy of bare skin against bare skin. The television had long since gone silent, the screen casting a faint ambient glow into the otherwise quiet room. Chris’s chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, breath still uneven, but the knot of tension that had gripped his body earlier had finally begun to dissolve.

His grey eyes were open, unfocused, as though watching something only he could see. There was an ease to his posture now—a stillness she recognised from only the most intimate moments. After love, after music. Quiet calmness suffused his whole body, low and heavy, dulling the static that had been buzzing behind his eyes. One of his hands rested low on her back, warm against her skin, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles as if anchoring himself to the present.

Jamie didn’t speak. She watched him for a long moment, brushing his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead and leaning in to kiss the space between his brows. His long, thick lashes fluttered slightly but he didn’t move. Just breathed. She tucked her face against his neck and stayed there, breathing with him, matching his rhythm until it felt like her own.

Sometimes she felt dizzy with the depth of it—with the fact that this man, so known to the world, so fiercely and overwhelmingly talented and creative was hers. That he was so open and unguarded with her while knowing for being so enigmatic was a little terrifying sometimes.

"Ready to write?" she murmured eventually, her voice gentle, affectionate.

Chris shook his head, eyes closing again as he exhaled slowly. He pulled her more tightly against him and buried his face in her hair.

"Not yet," he murmured. "I want more of this."

She felt his arms tighten as he said it, felt the shift of his breath when he inhaled her scent like it steadied him. There were times—rare, fleeting—when he let himself imagine what his life might have looked like if she hadn’t walked into that dressing room all those years ago. Most of the time, he tried not to. It didn’t bear thinking about.

"Chris?" she asked, questioningly and he shook his head.

"I remain grateful every day for the fact that Cassie brought you to our concert," he told her.

That night he sent the lyrics of Break the World to the others.

Jake replied first, within minutes. Thank fuck.

Then Liam: Been trying to write something all week. Nothing would come.

Seb’s reply was the longest. I’ve had this half-looped riff stuck in my head since the last round of footage aired. Haven’t been able to shape it into anything. This gives me a direction.

Chris read their messages and dropped his phone beside him on the sofa, scrubbing a hand over his face. They were all wound up. Unsettled in the same way. He hadn’t said much about it in the group thread—hadn’t needed to. They all knew the feeling.

A few minutes later Jake sent another message to the chat. Got time to jam tomorrow?

Chris typed, Yeah. Studio at ten.

We’ll bring coffee and rage, Liam added.

Still restless, Seb said. Let’s see if we can turn that into something useful.

The next morning, Jamie paused briefly at the threshold of one of the studios at Ruin House. She didn’t step inside, just leaned against the frame, arms folded as she watched the four of them play.

The music was loud but not chaotic—built on the bones of Chris’s lyrics and driven by something deeper than cohesion. Seb was working a searing, minimalist lead over Jake’s steady, grounded bassline. Liam’s rhythm held everything together with tight precision, and Chris—head bowed, fingers taut on the fretboard—wasn’t singing yet. Just playing.

Jamie didn’t interrupt, just stood there quietly, the corners of her mouth lifted, watching the sound take shape. Her gaze lingered on Chris—on the set of his shoulders, the way his whole body moved with the music now. That tight, coiled energy had shifted into something steadier. Focused. He didn’t look peaceful, exactly, but she could see the pressure inside him easing by degrees, smoothed out by the rhythm and the sound.

Something about it caught at her—the way his head was bent, the curve of his mouth, the furrow in his brow relaxing note by note. It wasn’t the first time she’d watched him like this. But it never stopped affecting her. And today, especially, she could see that he was better. Not fixed, not fine. But better. The tension from the night before was gone—or rather, transmuted. What had festered unspoken was finding its way out.

After a few minutes, she turned and slipped back down the corridor to her desk. There was work waiting. But something within her felt lighter—uncoiled. The music was still faintly audible through the studio walls, not words yet, just structure and noise and feeling. But she could already hear the shape of it forming.

Emily looked up as Jamie entered, her eyes sharp despite the gentleness of her smile. "Better?"

"Yes. Looks like it's coming together now."

"I was glad when Liam said Chris had sent something through," Emily said, setting down her pen. "He's been pacing the kitchen like a man possessed."

Jamie gave a small huff of agreement, sitting at her desk. "I think we’ve all been a little on edge this week. These are heavy days."

Emily reached across the desk and closed her fingers lightly over Jamie’s. "All the more reason I’m grateful we’ve got one another. My family group chat is currently full of declarations that World War III has started and the end is nigh. It’s nice to have you lot to be—if not calm exactly—then at least... constructive in your dread."

Jamie squeezed her hand back, then smiled. "Ruin House: mildly less hysterical than your relatives."

Emily laughed softly. "It’s going on the sign."

Jamie didn’t laugh, but she held onto Emily’s hand a moment longer.

From down the hall, the faint sound of Seb’s guitar filtered through the walls — a raw, building loop that would become the foundation of something real.

She let herself listen for a moment. Then she sat down at her computer and returned to work.

Break the World (haunting)

Vocals: Chris Raines
Lyrics: Chris Raines & Jake Harrington
Melody: Seb Vaughn & Liam O'Connell
Electric Guitar: Seb Vaughn
Acoustic Guitar: Jake Harrington
Bass: Jake Harrington
Drums & Percussion: Liam O'Connell
Piano & Synth Textures: Seb Vaughn
Arrangement: Chris Raines & Seb Vaughn

Recorded at: Ruin House Studio, London

Break the World (rhythmic build)

Vocals: Chris Raines
Lyrics: Chris Raines & Jake Harrington
Melody: Seb Vaughn & Liam O'Connell
Electric Guitar: Seb Vaughn
Acoustic Guitar: Jake Harrington
Bass: Jake Harrington
Drums & Percussion: Liam O'Connell
Synth & Programming: Seb Vaughn
Arrangement: Chris Raines & Seb Vaughn

Recorded at: Ruin House Studio, London

[Verse 1]
You said we were brothers, once upon a time
Shared the same battlelines, drew the same sign
But the maps keep shifting, red turns into blue
Now I don't know what I am to you

[Verse 2]
You claim you're the wounded, the bruised, the betrayed
But I watched you strike first, watched cities get razed
The flags still flutter like it's something divine
While children dig graves in assembly lines

This fury wrapped in justice,
This silence dressed as peace
Who decides the weight of history
And when debts have been released?

[Chorus]
Tell me, do you get to call it love
When your hands are stained and shaking?
Do you get to cry out mercy
When it's mercy you've been faking?
Every saint was once a soldier,
Every home can turn to dust
So who are we to draw the line,
And call it righteous, call it just?

Today you’re my ally, tomorrow my foe
Your memory’s short, but the dead still know
You rewrite the rules when they don’t suit your name
Then say it’s regret, not a hunger for flame

I see flags stitched from old regrets
I see gods made from marionettes
I see grief turned to loaded guns
And still we march, every one

[Chorus]
Do you get to call it justice
When you silence every scream?
Do you get to claim the story
When you only sell the dream?
Every border's just a moment,
Every truth comes wrapped in rust
Who are we to draw the line,
And call it righteous, call it just?

[Outro]
I won’t sing your anthem
Not while the smoke still climbs
Not while the echoes ring
From all your fucking lies
Keep your banners, keep your songs
I’ll stand where right feels wrong
I don’t trust a word you say
You break the world then walk away

Chapter Text

Jamie moved across the living room, phone in hand, laughter slipping out before she could stop it. Her screen had lit up with a notification—an old article had resurfaced in the group chat, shared by a mischievous Liam  - and she’d opened it out of idle curiosity. A second later, she was chortling with glee, fingers already scrolling.

"Oh my God, Chris—listen to this," she said.

Chris glanced up from the kitchen bench where he was making coffee. "OK, that tone means trouble."

She cleared her throat. "'Chris Raines: rock star, heartbreaker, walking scandal. Depending on who you ask, he’s either a musical genius or the world’s most reckless man-child.'"

"Oh fuck. Who the hell wrote that? Tanya Barnes?" he guessed grimly.

Jamie grinned. "Yes - who else?" she continued reading. "'At 27, Raines is the face of Aesthetic Ruin, the band that once made headlines for more arrests than hit singles.'"

Chris lunged over the back of the sofa. "Give me that. That is a gross exaggeration. Do you know how many hit singles we have?"

Jamie stepped back, holding the phone high. "'Alcohol-fuelled destruction? Check. Romantic entanglements longer than the queue at the O2? Double check. At least three PR disasters this year alone?'"

He chased her toward the hallway. "For the record - that was all years ago."

"'And yet, despite the drug scandals, the infamous backstage fights, and that one incident involving a hotel chandelier and a bottle of Jack Daniels—'"

"The chandelier was already broken. I paid for it anyway. And I apologised."

"'Chris Raines remains untouchable. His ability to turn a trainwreck of a reputation into pure rock-and-roll mythology? Practically a superpower.'"

He caught her around the waist, spun her once with a low, theatrical growl, and wrested the phone from her hand. It arced through the air and landed among the cushions with a muted thump. Jamie ducked under his arm, already reaching for it again, but he reeled her back with ease—one arm wrapped firmly around her middle, the other splayed over her stomach as he pulled her tight against his body.

"That’s it. No more of that," he murmured at her ear, his voice low and heated. "You’ve had your fun."

She twisted in his hold, her breath catching a little when he pulled her body close to his, though she was still laughing. "It’s public record! I’m merely reading aloud, with academic interest."

"Sadistic interest," he corrected, brushing his nose along her jaw. "Sexy, yes. But still sadistic."

"You’re reading it aloud with malicious glee."

"Academic interest," she assured him with mock innocence.

"Sadistic," he muttered. "Definitely sexy, but very sadistic," he countered. "That woman is unbelievable. Trying to make me sound like fucking Axl Rose or something. Like I was out there smashing guitars, setting fire to hotel curtains, throwing punches mid-set—"

"You kind of wish you were."

"No way. He punched fans. Jim Morrison got arrested mid-show for flashing the crowd. Vedder used to climb lighting rigs like a lemur. Gallagher once allegedly tried to headbutt someone while holding a tambourine. I’m a fucking saint in comparison."

"A saint who got banned from a hotel chain."

"That was Seb’s fault. I took the blame."

She moved closer. "You were a wild rock demon."

"I'm reformed," he protested.

"You just tackled me."

He arched an eyebrow. "Wasn’t tackling. That was foreplay. And anyway, I never pissed on a plane aisle, snorted ants, or got arrested for swinging at airport staff. I never bit the head off a bat. I never jumped into a pool in a Rolls Royce or blew up a hotel toilet with dynamite. Compared to some of those guys—Keith Moon, Ozzy, Sid Vicious—I’m practically celibate and teetotal."

Jamie looked at him incredulous. "Celibate? Teetotal? I seem to remember someone getting smashed a few weeks back with his mates..."

Chris waved his hand dismissively. "A few weeks back? We used to get drunk multiple times a day. This is peak choir boy, Jamie."

Jamie choked back a laugh as Chris continued piously. "I’ve also never even simulated masturbation on stage. Unlike Madonna."

Jamie scoffed. "Please. You don’t need to simulate anything. You just exist—scowling and pouting like you’re brooding through a cologne ad, and half the front row looks like they’re about to combust. I watched you once kick over a mic stand like it was choreographed angst and half the internet wrote fanfic about it."

Chris looked genuinely affronted. "How is that my fault? Also - I do not pout. That is very unmanly."

She arched an eyebrow. "Says the man who ripped his shirt open mid-set in Milan so that everyone could admire his impressive abs."

"That was heatstroke. I was hot.”

Jamie laughed. “That whole set trended under #ThirststrokeMilan, if you recall."

“Not my fault. It just happened.”

She pulled back and patted his chest, fingers trailing lightly across the line of muscle beneath his shirt. "Sure it did..."

"Glad that you think my abs are impressive, though—I do work hard," he told her smugly, wrapping an arm around her waist again and pulling her close against him. His voice dropped. "Want to feel them?"

She let her palm drift a little lower, to the edge of his waistband, and gave a slow, teasing smile. "Not now. Later. If you’re good."

He groaned faintly. "Cruel."

"What about the time you kept going after falling off the stage?"

"That was not a stunt," he protested. "I fell, broke my arm, the crew helped me back up."

"Yeah but you kept singing until the doctor came on."

"Couldn’t let the fans down. I just couldn’t play guitar for the rest of the set."

She tilted her head, eyes alight. "Poor baby. So you were trying to do a Dave Grohl."

"More like Dave Grohl’s clumsier cousin. But yes. Commitment to the bit." He gave her a plaintive look, lower lip caught theatrically between his teeth. "Don’t be so mean to me, babe. You’re hurting my feelings."

Jamie’s smile sharpened. "Should we wrap you in bubble wrap for the next tour? Or maybe get you one of those toddler helmets. Protect the precious goods."

His arms tightened, voice low against her cheek. "I’d rather you unwrap me. Slowly. Thoroughly. Maybe with your teeth."

She hummed, amused, and ran her fingers teasingly under the hem of his shirt. "That depends. Will you behave?"

"Absolutely not. But I’ll beg nicely."

Her breath caught slightly—his mouth was close now, brushing just under her jaw, hands roaming lazily over her hips.

"Earn it," she said, soft but smug.

"Always."

He pulled a face at her—a ridiculous expression of mock anguish—and she mirrored it before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"'Sexy man whore'?" she asked, blinking up at him innocently.

He groaned. "That one’s never going away, is it."

"Probably not. Is it wrong that I kind of want it on a mug. Maybe a tea towel."

"You’re not funny at all."

"Yes I am."

He scooped her up with a husky laugh, hands gripping the backs of her thighs. She laughed into his neck.

Chris didn’t reply. He already had the best part of the story tangled up in his arms.

Chapter Text

The crowd was a pulsing wall of heat and noise, packed shoulder to shoulder as the first guitar riff sliced through the air. Stage lights bathed everything in molten gold. Jamie had never been down here before—not really. Not as one of them. Not pressed into the crush of bodies, her boots in the churned grass, her heart thudding like a second drumline.

She thought back—there’d only been one other time she’d stood in the midst of a crowd like this. Years ago. The night she first met Chris. Cassie had dragged her along, and Jamie had gone to the concert against her will. She hadn’t been a fan then. Hadn’t known the music. Definitely hadn’t known the man.

Now she was a fan.

Now she knew the man.

Intimately.

Nonetheless, nothing could have prepared her for this.

Usually she was side-stage, half-shadowed, watching Chris from an angle only she got to see: the way he adjusted his stance before he was about to sing, the smirk he gave the others when a note landed exactly right, the way his hands moved when he wasn’t thinking. But today, with backstage access briefly snarled and traffic rerouted, Owen had nudged her toward the front—just temporarily, he’d said, while they cleared a jam near the wings.

She’d ended up in the front row, in the cordoned VIP section with a clear view of everything. And Chris—busy holding the audience captive with his performance naturally had no idea that any of this was going on behind the scenes.

From this new vantage point, she could see everything: the wild energy, the fans losing their minds, the way people around her were screaming his name, crying, clutching signs that read I LOVE YOU CHRIS in glitter pen. It was dizzying, thoroughly disorienting—and for a moment, she almost didn’t recognise him.

Chris, her husband—who cuddled up against her in bed, who tickled her until she was breathless and who lay on the floor listening to music with her —was gone. In his place stood a figure lit from all angles, impossibly magnetic, utterly unreachable. He moved like he owned the stage, like he was the music, the crowd, the fire. It was intoxicating. Surreal.

Halfway through the set, Chris looked stage left, where Jamie normally stood or sat. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. Then again, longer. A slight frown. He didn’t miss a beat, but continued to look around. His bandmates who knew what he was looking for and gave him equally perplexed "beats me" expressions when they also couldn't find Jamie in the wings.

Jamie felt a moment of sympathy for Owen, who was probably going to cop it from Chris later for having relocated her from the wings to down here without letting him know. But she was safe—very safe. The security team had recognised her instantly, radios buzzing with quiet confirmation as she was ushered into the cordoned VIP section.

There’d been a flicker when she appeared—guards straightening, a subtle shifting of presence around her.

Nonetheless, still, she wasn’t where she normally was. She wasn't in the half-shadowed calm of side-stage, the corner of his eye and where he’d instinctively expect her.

Then the edge of the crowd, in a flash of strobes, he caught a glimpse of her face—bright and unmistakable, wide-eyed and transfixed, staring up at him like she was just another fan. It took him a few moments to truly register it was her—flushed and looking up at him from below.

His whole expression changed.

He grinned. Broad, delighted, and incredulous all at once. Then narrowed his eyes, clearly perplexed as though he couldn’t believe she was real.

He didn’t say anything at first, just walked back toward the mic stand, grabbed a towel to mop his face, then turned slightly toward the others. As he dabbed sweat from his jaw, he muttered under the noise, "No idea how or why, but Jamie’s down there. Let’s Boss it - slow to begin with ...."

Seb gave a choke of laughter. As Chris made it back to the mic, Seb immediately shifted his grip and began to play. Liam caught on just as fast—light, sparse percussion underneath. Jake adjusted smoothly too, laying down a subtle bassline that gave the slow start its groove. Just enough to carry it.

Chris’s voice dropped low, slow and sultry, teasing the lyrics of Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark as though they were meant for Jamie alone. It was absurd and brilliant. He moved toward the edge of the stage and the crowd went absolutely insane, having no idea what he was intending.

I get up in the evenin'
And I ain't got nothin' to say
I come home in the mornin'
I go to bed feelin' the same way
I ain't nothin' but tired
Man, I'm just tired and bored with myself
Hey there, baby, I could use just a little help

He was looking directly down into her eyes as he sang, the lights haloing his hair, sweat gleaming on his face, his smile slow and extremely sensual. The cameras caught Jamie’s face—wide-eyed, flushed, an unmistakable do not do this expression in her eyes as her face was suddenly on the massive screens and all focus shifted to her.

Suddenly, Chris paused. Held up a hand to stall the band. “I’ve just spotted someone very distracting in the audience tonight,” he said, eyes still locked on her.

The crowd screamed. Screamed. People turned and gasped and pointed at Jamie’s face on the screens as the realisation hit.

Chris turned then, lifted one arm in a dramatic cue—and the band exploded into the full tempo. Lights strobed. Bass surged. The beat kicked in like a pulse.

Jamie laughed despite herself. When she looked up, he was at the edge of the stage, arm extended - hand reaching out for her.

She shook her head emphatically. No. Absolutely not.

He raised an eyebrow. Tilted his head at her, palm still outstretched as his grin widened. The crowd went feral. And then—because there was no way out—she reached up her hands and let him pull her up onto the stage.

Her hand slipped in his, warm and sure, and he hauled her up like she weighed nothing.

The stage was a wall of heat and light and deafening sound, overwhelming in every direction. Jamie was dazed, momentarily frozen as the roar of the crowd pressed in. She’d never been up here before—not under the lights, not in front of tens of thousands, not with the full force of the band’s sound vibrating through her bones and thousands of people screaming around her. Lights in her eyes. Heat rising from the boards. The crowd screaming like a living wave. Her skin prickled, nerves jangling.

But Chris was holding her.

His hand rested firm at her waist, his other still laced with hers. He smiled down at her like nothing else in the world existed, and for a moment, everything else did fade away.

Then she heard it—the pulse of the music still going, the crowd screaming in rhythm. Chris gave her a subtle nod, and with a laugh she couldn’t hold back, she let herself be spun gently out and pulled back in, moving with him to the beat as the crowd roared around them.

Chris never danced on stage. Ever. He moved, sure—he stalked, prowled, commanded space with that easy physicality of someone born to perform. But he didn’t dance. Not the way pop singers did. Hard rock didn’t call for it. Their shows weren’t choreographed—they were raw, physical, relentless. Motion came through muscle memory and instinct, not footwork.

But just this once, he did. Jamie was here with him on stage, laughing and stunned and he wanted her close. 

He gave in to the moment, the grin, the groove. He was moving with her, cocky and gorgeous, deliberately stupid with it, doing his best Springsteen two-step with exaggerated flourish. Jamie was flushed, breathless, laughing too hard to be embarrassed.

He leaned in, forehead to hers, grinning like he’d just won something. Then he kissed her with obscene intimacy and positively triumphant as the song crashed to its close.

“I’m going to murder you,” she whispered against his mouth.

“Worth it,” he responded unrepentantly, his voice thick with adrenaline, smug as hell.

Backstage, later, she was still flushed and slightly stunned. Chris watched her warily as she downed half a bottle of water.

“Mad?” he asked.

Jamie shook her head. “No. I get it now.”

He stepped closer, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Get what?” he asked curiously.

In that moment—when he’d called her up, when she’d seen him lit from every angle, watched by thousands—she hadn’t been his wife or his critic or his calm in the storm.

She’d just been another member of the crowd... a fan completely under his spell.

And she hadn’t minded one bit.

Social media detonated. Clips were everywhere—fans filming from the crowd, side-stage angles, even drone footage catching the kiss from above. It went viral within hours, with headlines like 'Rock God pulls his own wife on Stage in Springsteen-Style Serenade' and 'Chris Raines’ Dazzling Dancefloor Moment?'

Online fora exploded. Comment sections ran thousands deep.

Intense debates broke out over whether the moment had been staged. Some were adamant it was clearly a planned performance, claiming the band had rehearsed the shift, the lighting cues were too precise, the camera switch too smooth. Others—especially the diehards—argued with encyclopaedic fury that it had to be spontaneous.

"Jamie is always side-stage," one fan insisted in a now-pinned Reddit thread. "Chris glances over every show. He always looks for her. There's an entire Tumblr dedicated to it."

Someone posted a sequence of freeze-frames: first, Chris glancing toward stage left with an expectant look—captioned simply: where the fuck is Jamie? Then the exact moment his expression shifted when he realised she wasn't there. Next, the frame when he spotted her in the crowd: brows drawn, expression clearly startled. Another clip zoomed in on Jamie’s expression when he started singing to her—flushed, bewildered, laughing.

“They’re not acting,” a top comment read. “All of that is genuine!”

Part of the frenzy came from the fact that Jamie was known for being intensely private—ever-present, yes, but always just out of the spotlight. Everyone knew she was there, but she didn’t do press, didn’t seek attention, and never inserted herself into the band’s public moments. Which only fuelled the diehard fans’ certainty that the on-stage moment couldn’t possibly have been planned. If it had been staged, Jamie would never have agreed to it. That was the argument repeated in tweets, posts, and breakdown threads "That was a candid moment!"

Every tabloid had its own angle—was this his way of going public, or just another layer of the band’s mystique? One music blogger wrote a breakdown titled 'Springsteen, Subtext, and the Woman in the Crowd: Aesthetic Ruin’s Soft Power Play', calling it 'the most intimate moment caught on camera this year.'

In the band group chat, Seb dropped a freeze-frame of Chris’s face the moment he spotted Jamie. His brows lifted, jaw slack, every bit the stunned, lovesick idiot.

Look at this absolute sap, Seb wrote.

Liam replied with a string of heart emojis and a cigarette gif. Jake added, We doing slow Springsteen now? Need to rehearse the Carlton next?

Overall, Chris was amused by the incident, but he still pulled Owen aside afterwards—half exasperated, half overprotective—while Jamie hovered in the background, red-faced and muttering that she was perfectly fine.

"Don't do that again," Chris said, low but firm. "I know you said she was safe, and I know she was safe—but I don’t want her anywhere near a crush like that. Not without telling me."

Jamie rolled her eyes behind them, mouthing oh my God at Liam, who snorted and promptly texted a frog emoji to the group chat.

Chris glanced back at her, caught the look, and smirked—but didn’t take it back.

A moment later, Jen chimed into the group chat from back at the flat.

Was watching with Theo asleep on me. Caught that live while Theo was asleep on me. You two are ridiculous—in the best way.

Emily: I had to step away to take a call and missed the whole thing. Luckily the internet’s got play-by-plays from seven angles.

Tamara simply replied: Springsteen would be proud.

Chapter Text

[Camera opens on the Ruin House studio. Sunlight slants in from a high window. Multiple camera angles are set up—two fixed wide shots, one roving. A boom mic hovers overhead. Jamie is poised, notes in hand; Chris sits beside her, one arm draped loosely over the back of his chair, eyes on her like he already knows he’s doomed. There’s a red tally light blinking gently on the main camera.]

[On-screen graphic: Legal Fiction with Jamie Nguyen-Raines]

JAMIE: Welcome back to Legal Fiction—your occasional dose of truth, myth busting, and very biased opinions about the intersection of law, art, and the internet. I’m Jamie Nguyen-Raines, and today’s episode is a little different. We’re recording from Ruin House HQ, which means yes – the audio quality might be better than usual and I’m actually wearing shoes during the podcast for once.

[A pause as she smiles.]

JAMIE: Joining me today is musician, producer, composer: Chris Raines. For full disclosure—not only is he the leader singer of the highly acclaimed and popular rock group Aesthetic Ruin - he’s also my husband - which is why I was able to persuade him to agree to this interview in the first place.

CHRIS: Good morning. Afternoon? Time has no meaning here.

JAMIE: We’re talking today about a topic that’s become increasingly important for anyone working in music, especially post-2023: authorship, song structure, and the legal implications of similarity. You might remember a certain court case involving Ed Sheeran and Marvin Gaye’s estate—

CHRIS: Let’s get litigious.

[He leans back slightly in his chair, one eyebrow raised like he’s waiting for her to call him out. The camera angle catches the way he’s smiling at her and the chat goes wild.]

JAMIE: Chris.

CHRIS: Sorry.

[He doesn't actually look the slightest bit sorry].

JAMIE: To recap for those who don’t live on music law blogs: Sheeran was accused of copying Let’s Get It On in his song Thinking Out Loud—specifically, the four-chord progression and harmonic rhythm. He won. But the case sparked debate across the industry about what counts as theft versus influence. And that brings us here.

CHRIS: To the bit where I get interrogated by my gorgeous wife on mic.

JAMIE: This is not an interrogation. You're sharing your wisdom and experience with my listeners.

[Jamie taps her notes against the desk absently. Chris watches the motion for a moment too long, then looks up like nothing happened. A mic shuffle follows. The tone shifts slightly more serious.]

JAMIE: Let’s talk about Ruin House’s traceability protocol. Why did you bring that in? And maybe linked to that—how have you dealt with past claims? I know there must have been a few back in the early days.

CHRIS: The protocol exists because we'd rather avoid unnecessary and preventable issues. In the early days, we did get the odd claim yeah. Nothing that ever stuck, but things that could've turned into a headache. Someone hears a hook and says it was theirs. Or try to claim that a lyric was something that they wrote. It stopped pretty fast once people realised we could trace everything we create—every chord, every line—right back to the source.

Even before we had a formal system, we used to document things. We’d save our noodlings, record rough ideas, scribble notes on post-its. Not to protect ourselves legally—just to remember how we got there. So we could share with one another for collaboration purposes. We kept everything. It’s how we worked.

[Jamie’s phone buzzed once. She glanced at it, sighed, and turned the screen toward Chris.]

JAMIE: That’s the group chat reacting to the stream.

CHRIS: God. What are they saying?

JAMIE (scrolling): ‘Tell him to stop looking at you like that. Some of us are trying to focus on metadata protocols.’

[Chris pauses before continuing.]

CHRIS: OK. Good to know. Anyway, it turns out that our early habits were useful now. Now it’s part of the structure of how we do things. Time-stamped demos. Session logs. Archived stems. Visual references where it helps. Marcus watching us like a hawk. And yes—my personal purgatory—file naming conventions. 'SadElephantLullaby_FINAL_final_USETHISONE_mix5.wav.' That was mine.

JAMIE: And it’s not just about proving you didn’t steal something.

CHRIS: No. It’s about showing the work. If there ever is a dispute, we don’t litigate out of ego. But we won’t get steamrolled either. If we made a mistake, we fix it. If we didn’t, we’ll stand our ground. It’s about integrity. Same as the music.

JAMIE: And filming?

CHRIS: Sometimes. If we’re building something from scratch or improvising in the room. We keep it internal. It’s not content. It’s record-keeping.

JAMIE: Do you think it affects the creative process?

CHRIS: Honestly? Not really. If anything, it helps. You stop worrying about proving you wrote something because it’s all there. You get to focus on the work.

JAMIE: And worst offender for chaos?

CHRIS: Liam. Still thinks Dropbox is a trap.

JAMIE: And do you feel—as an artist—that your style is being boxed in by this fear of litigation?

CHRIS: No. I feel like if I fall in love with a melody, I want to be sure I can defend it. That’s not about fear. That’s about respect—for the music, and for the people who made it.

[A pause. Jamie shifts in her seat.]

JAMIE: You’re being very serious today.

[She says it lightly, but her eyes flick to him like she knows exactly what she’s doing.]

CHRIS: That’s because you’re looking at me like that.

[And now he’s not even trying to hide it—the way his mouth curves slightly, the lazy drag of his gaze.]

[He says it like it’s both fact and compliment. On camera, his gaze never wavers.]

JAMIE: Like what?

CHRIS: Like you’re going to either kiss me or cross-examine me.

[Chris lets out a low, soft laugh—quiet and unmistakably amused. Jamie clears her throat.]

JAMIE: So .. back to the matter at hand. If you could change one thing about how the industry talks about plagiarism—what would it be?

CHRIS: I’d like people to stop pretending it’s all black and white. Influence isn’t theft. And homage isn’t always obvious. But intent matters. So does record-keeping.

JAMIE: And what about when it goes the other way? People borrowing your work—intentionally or otherwise?

CHRIS: We try to be reasonable. Music’s always been about influence. We’ve borrowed, referenced, responded. That’s the whole game. We don’t want to kill that by suing anyone with a guitar and a YouTube channel.

JAMIE: But there’s a difference between influence and… pretending you wrote Ten Ton Halo.

CHRIS: Right. If someone’s clearly passing something off as ours—or claiming affiliation with the band when there’s none—we’ll act. Not because we’re precious, but because it’s misleading. Especially if money or reputation’s involved. And legally, we kind of have to, don’t we? Asking my lawyer here...

[He grins at her. Smirking.]

JAMIE: With trade marks, yes. If you don’t defend it, you risk losing the rights. Copyright’s not as fragile, but still—it sets a precedent.

CHRIS: Absolutely. So we always try to handle it quickly, quietly, fairly. Not with flamethrowers. Unless someone’s being an asshole.

JAMIE: Has that ever happened?

CHRIS: Only once or twice. Someone tried to release a fake Aesthetic Ruin acoustic EP online and tag it like it was unreleased material. We sent a takedown and got very polite after that.

JAMIE: No public flamethrower?

CHRIS (grinning): Tempting. But no.

JAMIE: Thank you for joining me today.

CHRIS: Always. [pause] What do I get for agreeing to the interview?

JAMIE: The knowledge that you've helped to educate the public on a topic of great interest to the musical world.

[Outro music fades in. Jamie’s voice softens slightly.]

JAMIE: That of course was Chris Raines. I’m Jamie Nguyen-Raines. This was Legal Fiction. And if you’ve ever written something beautiful and then panicked that someone else might’ve done it first—this one was for you.

[End.]

The commenters renamed the episode: 'That Legal Fiction episode where Chris Raines looks like he wants to marry her again mid-interview.'

Another fan: @metadatafangirl: “No one talk to me I’m watching Chris Raines make heart eyes at his wife during a copyright dispute breakdown.”

After the stream ended, the top comment was: @rainesandnguyenforever: “I’m no lawyer but I’d let them cross-examine each other forever.”

@ruinhouselegaldept: “Was taking notes for my thesis but then Chris SMILED and now I’m crying into my citation manager.”

The red tally light on the main camera finally clicked off.

Jamie moved instinctively—unclipping her mic, collecting cables, half-sorting her notes as she drifted across the studio floor with the casual efficiency of someone who’d done this a hundred times. Chris, however, remained where he was, grinning down at his phone as new comments poured in.

He looked up, watched her cross the room, then stood slowly and intercepted her before she could pack away the mic bag. He pulled her down into his lap with a grin.

"Chris—" she said laughingly as she squirmed in his lap.

"What? This is my reward. I came on your channel. I behaved myself. I kept my hands to myself the entire time even though you were sitting there looking all cute and fuckable."

"That was the deal."

"I was very good," he said solemnly. "With great difficulty."

She craned over to peek at his phone. The numbers on the stream replay were already climbing.

She wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. Ridiculous. People are going to assume it was a stunt."

"Let them. You were extremely compelling on derivative chord structure."

"We talked about genuinely important legal issues."

"You did. I mostly stared at you and tried not to flirt."

She sighed, but she was smiling. "The professional journalists are going to be so mad. 'Why does she get to interview him as an exclusive?"

Chris laughed and Jamie rested her forehead against his and smiled. "Who cares what anyone thinks?"

“You realise now I’m going to get requests to have you back every episode.”

“Tempting,” he said, sliding his hand beneath her blouse and running his hands over her bare skin, smile warm and teasing. “But next time you’re sitting in my lap the whole interview.”

She laughed at his ridiculousness, but didn’t move.