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Chapter Text

The city hummed, a low, persistent thrum beneath Lucy’s feet, a stark contrast to the cicada song of Mississippi. It had been a year since she traded dusty roads for concrete canyons, a year since the sale of that one song had given her an escape, a passport to anonymity. Here, in 1965, amidst the clang of yellow cabs and the distant wail of a saxophone, she was just another face in the crowd, a ghost of the girl she once was.

She sat in a smoky club, the kind with mismatched furniture and the scent of stale beer clinging to the air like a second skin. A half-empty glass of something amber sat before her, untouched. Her fingers, long and elegant, traced the rim, a silent dance that only she understood. The piano on the small stage remained unplayed, a dark, gleaming sentinel.

“You’re Lucy, aren’t you?” a voice, smooth and inquisitive, cut through the quiet hum of the room.

Lucy looked up. A man stood beside her table, tall, with kind eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them. He held a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He wasn’t a regular, she knew the faces here.

“Some people call me that,” she replied, her voice a low murmur, Mississippi still clinging to the edges of her vowels, though she tried to sand them down unsuccessfully.

He chuckled softly, pulling out the chair opposite her without waiting for an invitation. “I heard you play once. Last year. Uptown. At that little place, The Blue Note. You were … remarkable.”

Lucy felt a familiar prickle of unease. She hadn’t played publicly in months, not since she settled into this quiet existence. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long,” he countered, taking a sip of his drink. “My name’s Arthur. Arthur Finch. I write a bit, for the papers. Music reviews, mostly. I remember your touch. It was … haunted.”

Haunted. The word hung in the air, heavy and true. She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Just playing the notes.”

“Oh, it was more than notes, Lucy. It was a story. A sad one, I imagined. Full of shadows.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “They say you came up from the South. Mississippi, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, a curt, almost imperceptible dip of her head. The South. A place she’d tried to bury under layers of city noise and new identities.

“A long way to come for a musician,” Arthur mused, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Not exactly the cradle of jazz, is it? More … spirituals, I suppose. Gospel.”

“Some places, music is a sin,” Lucy said, the words slipping out before she could catch them. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, as if relaying a historical fact.

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “A sin? Now that’s a new one. I thought music was the language of the soul.”

“Depends on who’s listening,” she murmured, her gaze drifting to the silent piano. She could almost feel the phantom keys beneath her fingers, the ghostly echo of melodies that had once been forbidden. Her parents, their faces contorted in righteous fury, their voices a litany of damnation. “The devil’s music! An abomination!” Even her innocent humming had been met with a slap, a command to repent. Repent for breath. Repent for life.

“You don’t strike me as a sinner, Lucy,” Arthur said gently, pulling her back. “You strike me as someone who has seen too much.”

She offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, a ghost of a smile. “We all see what we’re meant to, I suppose.” Lucy threw back the contents in her glass, clearly not wanting to continue this conversation. She pushed her chair back, the scrape of wood against the floor a harsh sound in the club. Arthur didn’t try to stop her. He simply watched, his expression unreadable. She turned, heading for the door, a slender shadow slipping away into the smoky dimness, leaving the silence, and the unspoken questions, hanging heavy in the air behind her. The piano on the stage remained unplayed, its secrets, like hers, held tightly within its dark, polished wood.

As Lucy began to make her walk back to her apartment, she thought of the life she had left behind back in Mississippi. She thought of her best friend, Frank, his freckled face alight with mischief, his hand in hers. “Come on, Lucy, let’s go make mud pies by the river!” She thought of his parents, their eyes full of a warmth she'd never known, their quiet encouragement when they bought a big, beautiful upright piano. Frank, their son, sitting beside me for hours, listening. Running around doing everything together. Stealing cotton from the neighboring fields just to feel the softness. Building castles out of mud that the river would wash away. She was feeling homesick for a life she couldn’t have anymore.

She felt the familiar wall rise within her, brick by brick, impenetrable. The secret, heavy and cold, nestled deep in her chest. It was a wound that hadn’t healed, a scar that still throbbed, a story she couldn’t bear to tell, not even to herself in the darkest hours of the night. It was the reason she had fled, the reason she sought solace in the anonymity of this sprawling city, the reason she kept her music locked away, playing only in the privacy of her tiny apartment, the reason she held herself apart.

Chapter Text

The autumn chill of New York City in 1965 was a crisp, invigorating slap to the face, a stark contrast to the humid, languid air Lucy had grown up breathing in Mississippi. A year in the Big Apple, and she still hadn’t quite shed the lingering scent of magnolias. Today, however, the chill was a welcome distraction from the nervous flutter in her stomach.

Lucy’s friend Jackie DeShannon was insisting that Lucy meet her boyfriend who was visiting from London. Lucy had been trying to avoid the introduction for days since she found meeting new people constantly, a bit of a drag, and exhausting. But Jackie was her one true friend her in New York and Lucy could never find herself saying no.

Lucy had a guiding light in the form of her friend Jackie DeShannon, whom she first met when she moved to NYC last year. Jackie was older, wiser, and knew the ins and outs of the industry like the back of her hand. To Lucy, Jackie was more than a friend she was a mentor who provided both guidance and inspiration. And like Lucy, Jackie was also a Southerner. Jackie introduced Lucy to the who’s who of the music world. Whether it was the glitzy parties or intimate jam sessions, Jackie took Lucy under her wing and nurtured her.

After a typical day at the local all-girls private school, Lucy dressed in her rather stiff navy school uniform – a sartorial masterpiece of wool and tradition - was walking down the halls of the record studio. The scent of old papers and stale coffee usually clung to the record company’s hallway, but today, a faint wisp of something sweeter – perhaps the leftover perfume of a touring vocalist – tickled Lucy’s nose. She ambled along, school bag slung low, tracing the familiar path from the elevator to the office she liked to do her studying in. Her eyes scanned the walls; a makeshift gallery of music history, faded photos of jazz legends, glossy posters of pop idols she’d only heard on the radio, signed album covers from artists long past their prime. It was a pilgrimage she made, almost daily after classes, a quiet ritual before the real work began.

“Lucy! There you are! Oh, you look so … scholarly.” Jackie giggled.

The familiar warmth of Jackie’s voice pulled her from a contemplation of a particularly flamboyant James Brown concert shot. Lucy turned, her heart doing a quick little flutter of recognition for her mentor, then stammered to a halt. Jackie was smiling, her arm linked casually with a man Lucy didn’t recognize. He was tall, impossibly lean, young man with a shock of dark hair that fell just so, intense green eyes, and a smile that seemed to promise mischief and charm in equal measure. He wasn’t just handsome; he exuded an aura, a quiet, humming energy that instantly commanded attention. There was a quiet intensity about him, even from a distance.

Lucy managed a clumsy wave, then started walking down the hall, a blush rising.

“Jackie! Hi! Sorry, I was just … admiring the décor.”

As she approached, Jackie’s smile widened. “No apologies needed, sweet pea. You remember everything on these walls better than the archivists! Lucy, I want you to meet someone special. This is Jimmy, Jimmy Page.”

Jimmy offered a slight, almost shy smile, his eyes, a startling shade of green, meeting hers briefly before dropping to admire her in her school uniform. “Hello, Lucy. Jackie speaks highly of you.” His voice was a low murmur, surprisingly soft given his demanding presence. Laced with an accent so distinctly British it felt like a character from a movie had just stepped into the room

She extended a hand, trying to keep her voice steady, her cheeks warmed. “the pleasure is all mine, Jimmy. Jackie’s quite the talker.” She managed a smile, acutely aware of her uniform and more like a costume. His handshake was firm but brief.

Jimmy’s gaze lingered on her, a faint, almost imperceptible quirk of his lips. “the uniform,” he mused, his eyes twinkling as they raked over her body. “rather fetching, I must say. Very … proper.

Lucy blushed. “Yes, the requirement of attending a private school.”

The connection was instant, a spark, a hum beneath her skin that was entirely unexpected and alarmingly potent. It was as if their minds, or perhaps their souls, had recognized something in each other, a shared frequency. A jolt of guilt, sharp and unwelcomed, pierced through Lucy. He was Jackie’s boyfriend. Jackie, her friend, who was currently beaming beside her.

Jackie, ever the intuitive one, seemed to sense the slight awkwardness. “Come on, let’s go to the lounge. I just finished up a session, and I am ready to properly introduce you two.”

They settled into the worn armchairs in the lounge. Lucy found her gaze drifting back to Jimmy, despite her best efforts. He sat opposite her, long legs stretched out, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm on his knee. He was quiet at first, letting Jackie and Lucy chat about their respective days at school and the studio. But then, Jackie prompted him.

“You should tell Lucy about your session work, Jimmy. She’s a song-writer, you know. She would appreciate it.

Jimmy’s initial shyness seemed to melt away as he began to speak about his life as a session guitarist. His hands, which had been so still, moved expressively as he described the chaotic energy of a recording studio, the thrill of creating sound from scratch, the sheer versality demanded of him.

“one day you’re backing a crooner, the next you’re laying down a riff for a blues track, then it’s a jingle for a toothpaste commercial.” He chuckled, a flash of genuine warmth in his eyes. “it’s relentless, but there always something new, something to learn. Like yesterday, I was experimenting with a bowed guitar on a string section. Madness, but brilliant.” His eyes sparkled, the shyness replaced by an infectious animation. Lucy listened, utterly captivated, forgetting, for a moment, her guilt.

“Sounds incredibly exciting,” Lucy said, leaning forward. “Beats dissecting Shakespeare” she sighed dramatically “if only I could do all my research papers on music, would school be so much more fun.”

“Well what are you currently doing your research on that isn’t riveting?” Jimmy asked.

“I am currently procrastinating on an English paper about the history of Medieval power struggles. Exciting stuff, let me tell you.”

Jackie laughed, a warm, rich sound. “Oh, Lucy spends most of her time here, anyway. I swear, I’ve found her napping in practically every room in the building, the broom closet, the vocal booth, even perched precariously on a stack of abandoned amplifiers once.”

Lucy rolled her eyes “you catch me napping once and you act like that’s all I do. I seem to recall a time you were asleep on the couch over there.” Lucy pointed to a worn couch in the corner of the lounge.

Jimmy’s lip twitched into a smile. “Writing and arranging music on top of school work, that’s incredibly exhaustive, isn’t it? No wonder you need a nap every now and then.” His eyes lingered on her, a thoughtful expression on his face. He found her quick wit charming, her self-deprecating humor endearing, And, in her neatly pleated school uniform, with her hair slightly tousled, he thought she looked quite cute.

“it can be” Lucy admitted, feeling a flush creep up her neck under his gaze.

As the light outside the lounge window began to fade, casting long shadows, Jackie clapped her hands together. “this has been far too much fun to end now. Why don’t we continue this over dinner? There’s a lovely Italian place just a few blocks away.”

Dinner was at a bustling Italian restaurant, red-checkered tablecloths and the scent of garlic mingling with the lively chatter. Jackie, bless her heart, was so enamored with Jimmy that she barely noticed the subtle shift in the gravitational pull at the table. Jimmy, despite being the object of Jackie’s adoration, seemed to effortlessly draw Lucy into his orbit.

“so, London,” Lucy began, trying to sound nonchalantly curious, “what’s it like? Jackie makes it sound like the centre of the universe.”

Jimmy leaned forward, his elbows on the table, a mischievous glint in his eye. “well, Jackie’s not entirely wrong. Its certainly the centre of my universe and its … mad. Utterly mad, in the best possible way. The music scene is exploding. Every night, there’s a new band, a new sound. The Marquee Club, for instance – it’s a tiny little sweatbox, but if you want to see the future of music, that where you go. My mates, they’re always playing there. The Yardbirds, my best mate Jeff is the guitarist.” He said it with a casual confidence.

“and the tea,” he continued, taking a sip of his wine with a mock grimace. “Don’t even get me started on the tea here. You Americans, bless your heart as Jackie always like to say, you just don’t understand the sanctity of a proper cuppa. Its not just hot water and a bag, you know. It’s a ritual. A moment of existential contemplation. A national pastime! You brew it, you let it steep, add a splash of milk, and then you can face the day. Or the evening. Or the apocalypse, frankly.”

Lucy laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that surprised even herself. “So, you’re saying Americans are tea barbarians?”

“Oh, darling, I wouldn’t dare use such a harsh word,” Jimmy said, his eyes twinkling. “let’s just say … you’re still in the experimental phase. Like a scientific discovery that hasn’t quite reached its full potential. But there’s hop! I’m here, aren’t I? I can be your tea guru.” Jimmy winked at Lucy.

Lucy gave a challenging look “but us Americans fought for our right to not have to drink tea especially according to a red coat.”

Jimmy gave a shocked look not expecting Lucy to give such a sassy retort.

Jackie chimed in steering the topic to more lighthearted discussion.

Lucy found herself captivated. He was funny, effortlessly charming, and utterly engaging. He made London sound like the most exciting place on earth, a vibrant, pulsating, heart of creativity. She felt a surprising urge to be there, to witness it, to be a part of it.

“New York is not so bad either, you know,” Lucy countered playfully. “We have our own kind of madness, and great music too. You just have to look around.” She paused, then felt a familiar welling of homesickness, though it was quickly overshadowed by the current company. “I only moved here last year, actually. From Mississippi.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up. “Mississippi! Well, funny that. You don’t hear accents like that on the streets of London, or even here, for that matter. Not usually with such … scholarly attire.” He gestured to her uniform. “so, a southern belle in the big city. Quite the transition, I imagine?”

“It was,” Lucy admitted, a small smile playing on her lip. “A bit of a shock to the system. But I love it here. Its … alive. And Jackie was a lifesaver. We bonded over being Southerners, actually. Its an automatic common ground, you know? Like a secret club.”

“Ah, the Southern Confederacy of Good Manners and Sweet Tea,” Jimmy quipped, nodding sagely. “I’m starting to see the connection. Jackie did mention your musical talent. She said you play the piano? And compose?”

Lucy’s heart did a little flutter, shocked that Jackie had mentioned her playing. It was rare that people heard her compositions, but Jackie was one of the few exceptions. “Oh, just a bit. Nothing as exciting as playing at the Marquee, I’m sure.”

“Nonsense,” Jimmy said, his tone suddenly serious, though his eyes still held that playful spark. “Jackie played me a recording of one of your concertos. It was rather beautiful, Lucy. Truly. It had a … depth to it. A certain melancholy that was quite captivating. For someone so young, to capture such feeling … that’s a rare gift. You should be very proud.”

Lucy felt a blush creep up her neck. It was always a bit uncomfortable and difficult to accept compliments. “Thank you,” she murmured, genuinely touched. “That means a lot,”

Their eyes met across the table, and for a fleeting moment, the restaurant, the chatter, even Jackie’s presence, faded into the background. It was just them, a shared understanding, a spark of recognition that transcended the polite conversation.

The guilt returned, a dull throb, but it was quickly overshadowed by the sheer magnetism of the moment.

The evening wound down, the plates cleared. Lucy, embolden by the conversation and perhaps a glass of wine or two that was had with dinner, felt a lightness she hadn’t anticipated.

“Right, home time,” Jackie announced, gathering her purse. “Jimmy, would you mind walking Lucy home? She only lives a few blocks from here.”

Jimmy, ever the gentleman, nodded, “of course. Wouldn’t dream of letting a southern belle navigate the concrete jungle alone at this hour.” He offered Lucy his arm with a theatrical flourish.

The walk home was a blur of crisp air, distant sirens, and the rhythmic click of their shoes on the pavement. Lucy, feeling a delightful tipsiness, found her balance a little … compromised. She giggled, swaying slightly “whoa there,” Jimmy chuckled, his hand steadying her elbow as she stumbled slightly. “feeling a bit wobbly, are we?”

“its tradition to have wine with an Italian meal.” Lucy slurred, her words a little fuzzy around the edges. She laughed again, bumping into him accidentally. “Oops, Sorry.”

“No worries,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. He adjusted his stride to her, subtly putting himself between her and the street, a silent guardian. “Just tell me if you need to lean. I’m quite sturdy.”

She bumped into him gain, a little harder this time, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact sent a jolt though her, a warm current that had nothing to do with the wine. “I’m usually not so clumsy,” she mumbled, embarrassed.

“Nonsense,” he said softly, his voice closer now. “you’re just … vivacious. And the pavement is clearly conspiring against you.” He steered her gently around a lamppost. “almost there. You live just around the corner, don’t you?”

“mmm-hmm,” Lucy hummed, her head feeling light, her thoughts a jumble of London, tea, and the disconcerting warmth of his presence beside her. She felt herself leaning into him almost imperceptibly, drawn by an invisible thread. He didn’t pull away. If anything, his arm seemed to subtly brace her, his hand touching her back to guide her, a light touch that sent a shiver down her spine.

They reached her brownstone, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlamp. Lucy fumbled for her keys, the metal cold against her fingertips.

“here, let me,” Jimmy offered, his fingers brushing hers as he took the keys. His touch was fleeting but electric. He quickly found the right key and slid it in the lock.

As the door clicked open, Lucy turned to him, her tipsy gaze meeting his. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, with the lingering energy of their connection. The guilt was a dull ache now, overshadowed by the strange, exhilarating pull.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” she said, her voice a little breathy. “For walking me home. And for … everything. It was a really lovely evening.”

He smiled, that same charming, mischievous smile that had captivated her at dinner. “My pleasure, Lucy. Truly. It was … illuminating. And remember what I said about the tea. You have a standing invitation to a proper cuppa should you ever find yourself across the pond.”

“ill remember,” she promised, a wistful note in her voice.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes lingering on her face, before he hugged her, It was a simple, friendly hug at first, a polite embrace. But then, as her arms went around him, she felt his hand press gently into her lower back pushing her body into his, and the hug seemed to linger just a fraction longer than necessary. His breath was warm on her hair. A silent, charged current seemed to pass between them, a recognition of something unspoken. Lucy’s heart thrummed against her ribs, a forbidden warmth spread though her. When they finally pulled apart, their eyes met for a fleeting, intense moment, a question hanging suspended in the crisp night air, “goodnight, Lucy. Get some rest.”

“Good night, Jimmy.”

She watched him turn and walk away, his silhouette receding into the dim street lights, until he was just a shadow. Lucy stepped inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, plunging her into the quiet darkness of the hallway. The warmth of the wine was fading, replaced by a different kind of heat in her cheeks, a different kind of flutter in her chest. She leaned against the cool wood of the door, her mind replaying every word, look, accidental touch. He was Jackie’s boyfriend and she had never felt such an instant, undeniable connection with anyone in her life. The guilt was no longer a throb; it was a full-blown symphony of discomfort, and yet, beneath it, a tiny, rebellious spark of something else flickered – a dangerous, exhilarating possibility.

Chapter Text

The moonlight streamed through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow across the room, illuminating the contours of Lucy's restless body. She lay in her bed, eyes wide open, her mind refusing to let her find solace in sleep. The events of the evening replayed on an endless loop, like a movie she couldn't turn off. It was all because of Jimmy. His smile, his charming demeanor, and the way he made her feel were now haunting her in the quiet solitude of her bedroom.

"why cant i stop thinking about him?" Lucy whispered into the darkness, her voice barely audible. She could almost feel the warmth of Jimmy's breath on her neck, his whisper in her ear, even though he was nowhere near. As she recalled the night's events, a rush of emotions flooded her body, causing her heart to race.

Earlier that evening, they had shared a magical moment. Jimmy's laughter had filled the air as they exchanged playful banter, anad his eyes sparkled with mischief. He had brushed her hand accidentally sending a jolt through her body, igniting a spark she couldn't ignore. She remembered the way he leaned in close, his scent enveloping her, and the gentle touch of his fingers as he reached for her hand. It was all too much for Lucy to handle.

Now , alone in her bed, Lucy's fingertips trailed along her collarbone, mimicking the path Jimmy's gaze had once traced. her nightgown thin and delicate, provided little barrier to her touch. She closed her eyes, imagining his strong hands on her skin sending shivers down her spine. With each stroke, she pictured his smile, the dimple on his cheek, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"oh, jimmy,' she murmured, her breath quickening.her hand drifted downward, slipping beneath the fabric, seeking comfort and pleasure in her own private world. Her mind painted a vivid picture of him, standing at the foot of her bed, watching her with desire in his eyes. She imagined him taking slow deliberate steps towards her, his gaze never leaving hers.

Lucy's fingers moved with purpose, her touch becoming more urgent as her fantasies intensified. She visualized Jimmy's hands replacing her own, his touch firm and possessive. In her mind's eye, he whispered her name, his voice husky with desire, urging her on. she could almost feel his breath on her skin, sending goosebumps across her body.

"Yes, Jimmy," she whispered, her voice laced with longing. Her body arched off the bed as her fingers found the sweet spot that brought her pleasure. The sensation was overwhelming, and she bit her lip to stifle a moan. The guilt crept in, a dark cloud in her passionate haze, as she realized the object of her desire was none other than her friend's boyfriend.

"I shouldn't be doing this," she thought, but her body betrayed her rational mind. The pleasure was too intense, and she couldn't deny herself the release she craved. Lucy's hand moved faster, guided by the fantasy of Jimmy's touch. His imaginary caress fueled her desire, driving her closer to the edge.

As she reached her climax, Lucy's body trembled, and she let out a soft cry, muffled by the pillow. The pleasure washed over her in waves, leaving her breathless and sated. Her heart was still racing, and she felt a mix of emotions - satisfaction, guilt, and a lingering desire for more.

"What have I done?" she wondered, her hand now still on her bare skin. The reality of her actions hit her like a wave. She had just experienced an intense orgasm, fantasizing about a man who was off limits. The guilt pricked at her conscience, but the memory of the pleasure she had just experienced was still fresh and tantalizing.

As the night wore on, Lucy's thoughts continued to dance between guilt and desire. She knew she should put Jimmy out of her mind, but the memory of his touch and the intensity of her passion were too powerful to ignore. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and she drifted into a fitful sleep, her dreams filled with images of Jimmy, leaving her to question her own desires when the morning's light finally arrived.

Little did Lucy know, this was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

The sound of guitar strings and chatter echoed through the dimly lit studio, a testament to the chaotic energy that filled the air. Jimmy leaned against the wall, his fingers idly plucking at his guitar, lost in thought. It was 1967, and after a bruising, exhilarating American tour with the Yardbirds. He was supposed to be working, channeling the raw energy of the States into something new, something that would push the blues further than anyone dared. But his fingers, tracing phantom fretboards in the air, felt sluggish. His mind, however, was still a high-speed reel unwinding, playing back scenes in vivid, technicolour flashes. He strummed a tentative D-chord, letting it ring out, then muted it. Too simple. Too English. He needed the thump, the wail, the unapologetic swagger of America.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a private, conspiratorial grin. America. Jesus.

It had been a blur of highways, dingy motel rooms blossoming into opulent hotel suites, and the constant, electric hum of anticipation. Every city was a new stage, every show a fresh explosion of sound and sweat. But it wasn't just the music. It was the after.

It had been a blur of highways, dingy motel rooms blossoming into opulent hotel suites, and the constant, electric hum of anticipation. Every city was a new stage, every show a fresh explosion of sound and sweat. But it wasn't just the music. It was the after.

The parties. Oh, the parties. They’d spill out of backstage dressing rooms, migrate to the biggest suite in the hotel, or land in some sprawling Hollywood hills mansion, the air thick with marijuana smoke, cheap champagne, and the dizzying scent of a thousand different perfumes. He remembered the cacophony of sound: Motown on the stereo, the clink of ice in glasses, the raucous laughter of musicians from other bands they’d bump into.

Jimmy, often reserved by nature, had found himself swept up in the current. He’d watch Keith Relf, always the poet, holding court in a corner, while Chris Dreja and Jim McCarty disappeared into the throng, resurfacing hours later, flushed and grinning. He, the newest member, had been quickly initiated into the rituals of rock and roll decadence. He’d found himself leaning against velvet curtains, a warm beer in his hand, listening to arguments about chord progressions one minute, then being pulled onto a makeshift dance floor the next, bathed in the red glow of a lava lamp, the bass thrumming against his chest.

And the girls. They were a force of nature, drawn like moths to the flame of rock and roll. Bold, brazen, beautiful. They were everywhere – waiting by the stage door, slipping notes under hotel room doors, materializing out of the smoky haze of a party like mythical creatures. He remembered the way their eyes would follow him as he moved around a room, the almost palpable adoration.

There was the blonde one in San Francisco, with the bell-bottoms and the knowing smile, who’d introduced him to strong hashish. There were the anonymous faces, a kaleidoscope of smiles and fleeting connections, the soft whisper of names he’d instantly forget, the touch of a hand on his arm, the brief, intense spark of shared exhilaration.

It wasn't just about fleeting moments of physical gratification. It was the power of it, the feeling of being utterly alive, desired, celebrated. It was the escape from the mundane, the thrilling plunge into a velvet-lined abyss where every desire felt permissible, every night an unending adventure. They weren't just fans; they were fellow travelers on a wild, exhilarating ride, temporary muses who understood the chaotic magic of the road.

He exhaled slowly, the memory faded, leaving behind a faint echo of laughter and a phantom scent of jasmine perfume. London felt dull, flat, in comparison. The hedonism, the constant high, the sheer volume of it all – it had been overwhelming, but it had also been exhilarating. And now, back in this sterile box, he was supposed to make music?

“Oi, Jimmy! Stop daydreaming and focus!” shouted his mate, Jeff Beck, breaking the trance. The others laughed, but Jimmy merely smirked, his mind drifting back to the wild nights in America.

As he glanced around the studio, something caught his eye. A girl dressed in a funky printed long-sleeved dress was chatting animatedly with a producer. Her light brown hair framed her face perfectly, and her laughter was infectious. Jimmy squinted, trying to place her. There was something strikingly familiar about her. “Jimmy, you’re staring!” teased Chris, the band’s drummer, nudging him with his elbow. “Shut it,” Jimmy muttered, his gaze fixed on the girl. Suddenly, she laughed loudly at something the producer said, the laughter a hauntingly familiar sound. She turned slightly, and he caught a glimpse of her profile – a flash of recognition hit him like a lightning bolt. It was her! Lucy. His heart raced as he recalled the last time he saw her in New York, where he promised each other to meet again someday. Without thinking, he pushed himself off the wall and approached her, his pulse quickening. “Lucy?” he called out, his voice a mix of disbelief and excitement. She turned to him, her eyes widening in shock, “Jimmy! Is that really you?”

“Yeah, it's me! I can’t believe it!” He grinned, taking her hands in his. The warmth of her touch sent a jolt of electricity through him. “what are you doing here?”

“I’m on a study abroad program,” she explained, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m just arrived in London a few days ago.”

“What are the odds, how long are you here for?”

“Twelve weeks,” she replied, her smile brightening. “but I didn’t expect to run into you … not like this!”

Jimmy scratched the back of his head, trying to hide his nervousness. “well, since you’re here, I owe you that tea I promised you two years ago. How about I take you to the best tea shop in London and we can catch up? It’s been so long since we last saw each other.”

Lucy’s giggling. “Right, I do remember you saying something like that! That would be wonderful!”

“Come on, let's go,” he said, grabbing her hand. The moment their fingers intertwined, a spark ignited between them, and they walked out of the studio together, excitement bubbling in the air.

As they strolled down the bustling streets of London, Jimmy pointed out various landmarks, his enthusiasm infectious. “that’s the roundhouse, where they have some of the best gigs in town,” he said, gesturing towards the iconic venue. “and over there is Camden market. You’ll love it – so many cool shops.”

“Wow, this place is incredible!” Lucy replied, her laughter echoing through the streets. “its so different from New York!”

Jimmy turned to her, a playful glint in his eyes. “you think London’s better than New York?”

She feigned contemplation, tapping her chin. “Well, New York has its charm, but I think London has a certain … mystique to it. Plus, the accents are to die for!”

He laughed, enjoying the banter. “you just like the way I say ‘tea’ don’t you?”

“Maybe,” she teased, her voice dripping with flirtation. “But I think it's more about the company.”

They walked for a few blocks, hand in hand, the city’s energy buzzing around them. “I feel like every corner has a story.” Lucy said.

“That’s London for you. You’ll love it here. And I promise to be your personal tour guide while you’re in town.”

“I’d love that,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

When they arrived at the quaint little tea shop, it was everything Jimmy had promised. The scent of Earl Grey and warm scones hung in the air of the Tea Salon, a symphony of porcelain clinks and hushed chatter. The walls were adorned with vintage posters and mismatched chairs. They settled at a small table in the corner, the atmosphere cozy and intimate, ordering tea service. Jimmy, impeccably dressed as always, with a knowing glint in his eyes, gestured to the ornate teacup in front of Lucy.

“Right then, American,” he drawled, his voice a low, velvet purr, “this isn’t some grab-and-go coffee. This is an institution. A ritual.”

Lucy, a whirlwind of light brown hair and vibrant curiosity, grinned. “Lead the way, maestro. My tea-drinking experience usually involves a bag, a mug, and a microwave.”

Jimmy chuckled, a rich sound that resonated through the elegant room. “Heathen.” He leaned in, his dark eyes sparkling. “First, the pour. Always from the pot, naturally. And milk, if you must, always after the tea. Never before. It’s a science, you see.” He demonstrated with an almost theatrical flourish, a delicate stream of milk swirling into the amber liquid.

“And the stirring?” Lucy asked, picking up her spoon.

“Ah, the stirring.” Jimmy gently took her hand, his fingers warm and surprisingly calloused as they brushed hers. “None of this frantic clinking. It’s a slow, graceful glide, circular, from twelve to six o’clock. No harsh sounds.” He guided her hand, their fingers intertwined for a moment over the teacup. Lucy felt a blush creep up her neck, her breath catching. His touch was electric.

“And the pinky finger?” she teased, holding her cup up.

He smirked. “Optional, but it adds a certain… panache. And never, ever hold it like a tankard. Delicate. Elegant.” He touched her knuckles lightly, adjusting her grip. “See? You’re a natural.”

They clinked their cups together, a silent toast to their unexpected reunion. “to old friends,” Lucy said, her smile warm and inviting.

“and new beginnings,” Jimmy added, his heart racing as he gazed into her eyes.

Their eyes locked over the rim of her teacup. The air around them crackled with unspoken words, a delicious tension. Lucy noticed the fine lines around his eyes, the way his dark hair fell just so, the subtle power in his posture even as he sat at a tea table. He was utterly captivating.

“So,” Lucy began, her voice a little breathy, “this is quite the affair. Much grander than what I imagine you’d be doing on a regular Tuesday.”

Jimmy leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips. “One must occasionally indulge in the finer things. Besides, I promised you a proper introduction to England.”

“And a proper introduction it is,” she agreed, taking a careful sip, trying to remember all his instructions. The tea was exquisite, warming her from the inside out. “Though I hear you had quite the… proper introduction to the downside of relationships recently.”

A flicker crossed Jimmy’s face, a brief shadow in his deep eyes. The mention of Jackie. It was common knowledge, a particularly brutal piece of gossip that had spread like wildfire through the music world.

Lucy nodded, not shying away from it. “she tied the knot with some producer, it was a spectacle.”

He took a slow sip of his own tea, his gaze drifting to the ornate ceiling. “She did. Rather suddenly. And rather publicly.” He paused, a long, drawn-out sigh escaping him. “It was… a surprise. To say the least.” A wry, almost painful smile touched his lips. “Heartbreaking, actually. To find out your long-term girlfriend, who cheated on you, had not only moved on but married someone you know, someone in the business… it was quite the punch to the gut.”

Lucy watched him, a wave of empathy washing over her, but also a fierce, protective joy. “Good riddance, I say,” she declared, perhaps a little too loudly for the refined establishment. She lowered her voice. “Honestly, Jimmy, who cares about her marriage? She’s a footnote. A bad chapter.” She reached across the small table, her hand resting briefly over his.

Jimmy’s eyes, which had been distant and clouded by memory, slowly refocused on her. The shadow began to lift, replaced by a returning warmth, a spark. A genuine smile, full of promise, spread across his face. He squeezed her hand gently.

“Lucy,” he murmured, his voice back to that captivating purr, “perhaps you truly are a natural at this English afternoon tea after all.” He didn’t let go of her hand. “I’m really glad you’re here, Luce.”

Her expression softened, and for a moment, the world around them faded away. “me too, Jimmy, I’ve thought about you a lot since that night.”

He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

Over the next few weeks Jimmy was true to his word and took Lucy on a tour of London, hitting the popular tourist spots. Even for Jimmy, this was a new adventure, sometimes not always appreciating what his home city had to offer…

The fume-laced thrum of London, vibrated on the other side of the bus’s windows. Traffic was a serpentine crawl, the air thick with the promise of autumn, exhaust fumes, and revolution. Jimmy Page, even off-stage, carried an aura. Today, however, it was less about electric guitars and more about quiet contemplation. He glanced at Lucy beside him, a wisp of a girl with a tangled mass of light brown hair and eyes that missed nothing.

“Sure, about this, Jimmy?” she asked, a faint smile playing on her lips. “The National Gallery? I thought your idea of culture involved a fuzz pedal and a few hundred watts.”

Jimmy chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “There’s more than one kind of power, Luce. And sometimes, the quiet kind sings loudest, you have much to learn about me, darling.” The bus pulled up near Trafalgar Square. The grand, neoclassical facade of the National Gallery loomed, an imposing guardian of centuries of human endeavor.

Inside, the cacophony of the city faded, replaced by the hushed murmur of footsteps on polished stone, the distant echo of voices. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of old canvas and wood polish. Lucy, used to the smoke-filled clubs and the vibrant chaos of the music scene, felt a shift in the atmosphere. She looked at Jimmy, surprised by the sudden intensity in his eyes as he surveyed the vast halls.

“Where are we heading, Professor Page?” she teased gently.

“To find some truth, Lucy. Or at least, some honest rebellion.” He led her with a musician’s certainty, not to the grand Italian masters or the soaring Dutch landscapes, but deeper into a quieter wing, towards a collection of British art.

They stopped before a particular canvas, rich with jewel-toned hues. It depicted a woman, her face a world of poignant emotion, surrounded by an almost hyper-real natural world – every leaf, every blade of grass, meticulously rendered. It was lush, detailed, and subtly unsettling.

Jimmy stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture almost reverent. “See this, Luce?” he began, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “This isn’t just a painting. It’s an entire philosophy.”

Lucy squinted, trying to discern what he saw. “It’s… very detailed. Almost like a photograph, but dreamier.”

“Precisely. This is Pre-Raphaelite. They were rebels, Lucy, just like we are. In the mid-19th century, art had become academic, stale. They were taught to copy the masters, especially Raphael – all very proper, very formal, very… safe.” He gestured with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,” he continued, his eyes gleaming, “they said, ‘To hell with that.’ They wanted to go back to the honesty, the purity, the vibrant detail of art before Raphael. They believed in truth to nature, in vivid colour, in deep symbolism, and in pouring every ounce of emotion onto the canvas.”

He pointed to a tiny, almost imperceptible wildflower in the foreground. “Look at that; the way the light catches it, the individual petals. No painter of their time would have bothered with such microscopic detail. But they did. Because for them, every leaf, every curl of hair, every fold of fabric, held meaning. It was an incantation, a part of the greater spell.”

Lucy moved closer, her eyes tracing the lines he indicated. She saw it then – the meticulous care, the almost obsessive dedication to capturing the world as it truly was, but imbued with an otherworldly glow. “So, it’s about authenticity?”

“More than that,” Jimmy nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “It’s about intensity. They didn’t shy away from beauty, from myth, from literature, or from tragedy. Their women weren’t just pretty faces; they were soulful, strong, often melancholic. Think of Rossetti’s goddesses, or Millais’s Ophelia, drowning with such heartbreaking beauty. They plumbed the depths of human experience, wrapping it in a kind of visual poetry.”

He moved to another canvas, a portrait of a woman with flowing red hair, her gaze direct, powerful. “They were obsessed with beauty, yes, but not superficial beauty. It was a beauty that hinted at something deeper, something eternal, almost magical. They believed in the power of the imagination, in crafting entire worlds within a single frame.”

Lucy looked at him, really looked at him, seeing a different facet of the enigmatic musician. This wasn’t the showman, or the studio wizard. This was the collector, the researcher, the man who sought the hidden layers. His passion for the Pre-Raphaelites mirrored his own drive – the pursuit of raw, unadulterated expression, a rebellion against the mundane, a search for the transcendent.

“It’s like they were creating a new kind of language, isn’t it?” she mused, finally understanding. “A visual one, but just as complex as music.”

“Exactly!” Jimmy’s eyes sparked. “They weren’t just painting pictures, Lucy. They were casting spells. They were invoking spirits, telling ancient tales, rebelling against the accepted order, all with a brush and oils. It’s about integrity, about believing so fiercely in your vision that you create an entire world with it. And that,” he said, turning back to the painting, his gaze distant, “that’s what I strive for with every note.”

They spent another hour in that quiet wing, Jimmy explaining the nuances of technique, the symbolism of colour, the literary influences. Lucy, for her part, listened intently, seeing the art not just as static images, but as vibrant manifestos, brought to life by the unexpected passion of a rock and roll god.

When they finally emerged back into the sunlit chaos of Trafalgar Square, the city seemed louder, more vibrant, yet also strangely more meaningful. The experience in the gallery had changed the flavour of the day.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” Lucy said, genuinely. “I never knew art could be… rebellious. Or that you saw it that way.”

Jimmy just smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. “There’s rebellion in everything, Luce, if you know where to look. And sometimes, the quietest rebellions are the ones that echo the loudest, long after the noise has faded.”

‐---------------------------------------------------

“Right then, Lucy,” Jimmy said, a faint, charming smirk playing on his lips as he folded the map with practiced ease. His dark hair, already brushing his shoulders, caught the morning light, and his velvet jacket seemed to absorb the city’s cool sophistication. “London awaits. Where shall we go today?”

Lucy laughed, a bright, clear sound. “Wherever the unofficial keeper of its secrets decides to take me, Mr. Page.”

He led her first through the controlled chaos of Piccadilly Circus, past the flashing advertisements and the swirl of double-decker buses. He pointed out architectural eccentricities, spoke quietly about the city’s ever-shifting pulse, and even hummed a blues riff inspired by the rhythm of a passing bus. Their conversation flowed easily, from music to art, from the burgeoning counterculture to forgotten history. Lucy found him far more articulate and quietly intense than his reputation suggested.

Their meandering path eventually led them down a narrow, cobbled lane in Notting Hill, a place that felt a million miles from the trendy boutiques of Oxford Street. Tucked away like a forgotten memory was a shop, its bow window crammed with an eclectic array of forgotten treasures: dusty gramophones, faded tapestries, tarnished silver, and a bewildering collection of old books. A faded sign above the door simply read: "Curios & Antiques."

“Ah, a proper treasure trove,” Jimmy murmured, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The sound of a bell chimed faintly, a ghostly echo in the quiet interior. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, polished wood, and something indefinitely ancient.

Lucy gasped, her eyes immediately drawn to a Victorian dollhouse in one corner, its miniature furniture inviting a closer look. Jimmy, however, gravitated towards a dark, glass-fronted cabinet filled with antique musical instruments. He gently picked up a small, intricately carved wooden flute, turning it over in his hands. “Imagine the songs this has heard,” he whispered, his fingers tracing the worn wood.

After a long, unhurried browse, they found their chosen items. Jimmy, after much deliberation, settled on a small, leather-bound volume titled "The Key of Solomon," its pages brittle with age and filled with cryptic symbols and archaic script. Lucy, captivated by its delicate craftsmanship, chose a small, hand-painted porcelain bird, its wings outstretched as if caught mid-flight. As they paid the kindly, spectacled proprietor, Jimmy, on a whim, pointed to a tarnished silver locket with an intricate Celtic knot design that had turquoise centered in it. "And that one," he added, "for the lady. A token of our London adventure." Lucy's cheeks flushed slightly as she accepted the unexpected gift, a genuine smile lighting her face. She turned around to allow for Jimmy to place the necklace around her neck.

With their new acquisitions carefully wrapped, they emerged back into the sunshine, the scent of antiquity still clinging faintly to their clothes.

“Right,” Jimmy announced, a different kind of glint in his eye. “Now for something truly ancient. The Tower of London.”

A short tube ride later, the ancient fortress loomed before them, its thick stone walls and imposing towers a stark contrast to the lively streets they had just left. The air here felt heavier, steeped in centuries of history, triumphs, and tragedies.

"Welcome," Jimmy said, his voice dropping to a more reverent tone, "to London's bloodiest storybook."

They joined a small group for a tour led by a Yeoman Warder, his iconic Beefeater uniform a splash of colour against the grey stone. They walked through the Bloody Tower, where the young Princes were said to have vanished, and pondered the fate of Anne Boleyn in the Queen’s House. Jimmy, usually so composed, seemed genuinely absorbed, asking the warder insightful questions about the prison's notorious inhabitants and the daily life within its walls.

Lucy found herself unexpectedly moved by the sheer weight of history. The Tower wasn't just a museum; it was a living testament to power, betrayal, and enduring human spirit. She peered through the bars of Traitors’ Gate, imagining the terrified faces of those brought through its archway, and shivered at the thought of the public executions on Tower Hill.

"Imagine the stories these stones could tell," Jimmy mused, as they stood by the imposing White Tower, the oldest part of the fortress. "Centuries of whispers, echoes of cries, the clanking of armour... it's all still here, isn't it? If you just listen." He looked at Lucy, his dark eyes intense. "Every inch of this place resonates with the past."

They spent hours within the Tower walls, exploring the displays of ancient armour, peering at the glittering Crown Jewels, and watching the famous ravens strutting across the lawns, their dark feathers sleek against the ancient stone. Jimmy explained the legend that if the ravens ever left the Tower, the kingdom would fall.

As the afternoon began to wane, casting long shadows across the battlements, they found themselves by the Thames, looking out at the murky river that had borne so many secrets to the sea.

"Thank you, Jimmy," Lucy said, turning to him, her voice soft with genuine gratitude. "This has been... more than I ever imagined. You're quite the guide."

"Thank you, Jimmy," Lucy said, turning to him, her voice soft with genuine gratitude. "This has been... more than I ever imagined. You're quite the guide."

He smiled, a rare, unguarded smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "My pleasure, Lucy. London has a way of revealing herself to those who seek her out. And sometimes," he added, tapping the leather-bound book gently, "she offers a little piece of her magic to take home. I suppose I should get you home, don’t want you getting lost.”

As they walked towards the tube station, leaving the ancient fortress behind them, the soft chime of the bell from the antique shop seemed to echo in Lucy's mind, a gentle counterpoint to the distant roar of a departing train. The day had been an extraordinary symphony of discovery, creating a memory that, like the city itself, would endure.

Chapter Text

As the weeks drew by, Jimmy and Lucy spent more time together getting closer. They traveled all around London, Jimmy taking her to some of his favorite spots. Lucy traced the rim of her teacup, a lazy smile playing on her lips. The drizzle outside the café window was typically London, but even the grey skies couldn't dampen the vibrant kaleidoscope her life had become. she was adrift in a dream, a swirling, technicolor fantasy called London.

She’d come for a semester abroad, expecting history and perhaps a bit of culture shock. What she found was a revolution. Carnaby Street was a dizzying explosion of colour and audacious style, where she’d shed her sensible American clothes for geometric print mini-dresses, bright tights, and knee-high boots that made her feel impossibly chic. The shops, oh, the shops! Each one a treasure trove of future nostalgia, overflowing with pop art prints and daring new silhouettes.

Nights were spent lost in the pulsating rhythm of dark, smoky clubs. The raw energy of the blues bands, the hypnotic swirl of psychedelic rock – she’d lose herself in the music, feeling the bass vibrate through her very bones. She’d always loved music, but London’s scene was raw, vital, alive, a constant invitation to dance until dawn.

By day, there were the grand, imposing monuments - Westminster Abbey echoing with the footsteps of kings and queens, the museums brimming with the collected wonders of the world. Jimmy, with his effortless charm and surprising depth of knowledge, had made the history come alive. He didn't just point out facts; he wove narratives, painting vivid pictures of the past that enchanted her.

Ah, Jimmy. Her companion, her personal tour guide, her partner in crime, her utterly captivating friend. He was the golden thread weaving through every glorious moment of her London adventure.

He wasn't just handsome, though he was, with those intense, knowing eyes and that disarmingly easy smile that could melt the drizzle outside. He was incandescent. He knew the best obscure record shops where they’d spend hours poring over vinyl, the hidden alleyways that led to ancient pubs untouched by time, the perfect spots to watch the sunset over the Thames. He’d taught her to navigate the tube, and patiently explained the nuances of British slang. He’d laughed at her Americanisms and she, in turn, had found herself utterly charmed by his quiet confidence and flashes of brilliant wit.

Every day with him felt like a new discovery, not just of London, but of herself. She found herself floating, perpetually in a daze, a pleasant haze induced by his presence. He made her feel seen, truly seen, in a way no one ever had.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The phone call came on a Tuesday, crackling with an electricity that felt perfectly in tune “Lucy? It’s Jimmy.” My heart did a quick drumroll against my ribs. His voice, usually a quiet murmur, now held a definite edge of excitement. “The Yardbirds are playing the Marquee Club on Wardour Street this Thursday. It’s… well, it’s going to be something. Thought you might like to come?”

He didn’t need to ask twice. The Yardbirds were legends, pushing the boundaries of what rock could be. And Jimmy… Jimmy was a magician with a guitar. I instantly agreed, promising to clear my schedule.

Thursday arrived swathed in a humid, golden haze. I chose my outfit with care: a butter-yellow mini-dress, daringly short, with thick white go-go boots that shrieked London fashion. My hair, a light waterfall, was teased high, framing eyes smudged with kohl. I felt like a walking explosion of Mod optimism and rock and roll dreams.

The air on Wardour Street was thick with anticipation. Music poured from every doorway, mingling with the scent of chips and exhaust fumes. The Marquee Club, a hallowed ground for rock pilgrims, was already buzzing, a line snaking down the pavement. I pushed through the throng, the bass vibrating through the soles of my boots even before I was inside. The club was a sweatbox, a crucible of sound and raw energy. Bodies swayed, cigarettes glowed like fireflies in the dim light, and the roar of conversation was a symphony in itself.

I found a spot near the back, my senses overwhelmed. The stage was small, bathed in a sickly green light, but it felt like the centre of the universe. When The Yardbirds finally sauntered on, a collective gasp went through the crowd, followed by an immediate surge of cheers.

And then, the music started.

It wasn't just loud; it was visceral. A wall of sound that hit you in the chest and resonated in your bones. Jim McCarty’s drums laid down a relentless, thunderous beat, Chris Dreja’s bass a pulsing, hypnotic heart. And then there were the guitars.

Oh, the guitars.

Jimmy stood stage left, his lean frame radiating a quiet intensity. In his hands was a guitar I’d only heard whispers about: his Fender Dragon Telecaster. It was a masterpiece, the pale wood a canvas for an intricate, psychedelic dragon he’d painted himself, its scales shimmering under the lights. It looked like a living creature, an extension of his soul. When he struck the first chord, it wasn’t just a sound; it was a roar, a wail, a whisper, all at once.

But tonight, there was another presence, a second lead guitar that spun a sonic web alongside Jimmy’s. Jeff Beck. I knew of the tensions, the stories of their dual genius and their clashing egos, how Jeff was often in and out, a mercurial force. But tonight, he was there, his own guitar screaming in glorious counterpoint to Jimmy’s. It was a spectacle, two titans of the fretboard locked in a furious, beautiful duel. Their fingers flew, a blur of motion, each riff a challenge, each solo an answer. One moment, they were harmonizing, a twin-headed beast of melody; the next, they were sparring, a thrilling, almost violent exchange of licks that left the audience breathless. The sheer audacity of it, the raw technical brilliance, was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed.

And then there was Keith Relf. He commanded the stage with a strange, almost ethereal presence, his voice a haunting wail that cut through the cacophony. He had an undeniable charisma, a poet’s soul in a rock and roll body. But even from my spot, I could see it. The way he sometimes stumbled, the slight slurring of his words between songs, the way his eyes seemed a little too glazed over. He’d bring the harmonica to his lips, squeeze out a mournful, bluesy riff, only to trail off slightly. He was clearly drunk, perhaps high as well.

The show was a rollercoaster. One moment, they were a tight, unstoppable force, a whirlwind of blues-rock innovation. The next, Keith would falter, and the other band members would exchange quick, almost imperceptible glances – a flicker of frustration, a touch of weary resignation. Jim McCarty would lay down an even more insistent beat, as if trying to anchor them all. Chris would step closer to Keith, a supportive but watchful presence. Jeff and Jimmy, though their musical dialogue was fiery, rarely made eye contact, each lost in their own furious concentration, as if trying to outplay the growing chaos around them.

Yet, despite Keith’s struggles, despite the underlying tension that hummed beneath the music, the show was undeniably monumental. When Jimmy pulled off a particularly searing solo, bending notes until they wept, or when he launched into a furious, almost violent riff, my breath caught in my throat. The dragon on his guitar seemed to writhe with every chord, a living extension of his prodigious talent. This wasn’t just music; it was a force of nature, primal and refined all at once. Even as Keith’s voice grew hoarser and his harmonica playing more erratic towards the end, the sheer power of Jimmy and Jeff’s dueling guitars carried the show, making it feel less like a performance and more like a barely controlled explosion.

As the final, crashing chords faded, leaving a ringing silence in their wake, the crowd erupted. A roar of approval, a tidal wave of applause that shook the very foundations of the Marquee. I felt exhilarated, breathless, my ears ringing, my heart still pounding in time with the phantom drums. The magic had been raw, imperfect, but undeniably present.

I knew I had to go backstage. I fought my way through the crush of bodies, past girls and hangers-on, until I found someone who could point me to the band’s dressing room. The air backstage was thick with sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and the lingering scent of amplifier heat. It was a far cry from the polished performance on stage – grimy, cramped, a real working space.

I found Jimmy slumped in a wobbly chair, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his guitar still clutched loosely in his hand. The Dragon Telecaster, now silent, seemed to breathe with him. He looked utterly spent, but a small, satisfied smile played on his lips. Keith was already slumped on a tattered sofa, a half-empty glass in his hand, mumbling to himself. Jeff was arguing heatedly, but quietly, with Chris in a corner, their voices low but sharp. Jim McCarty was meticulously packing away his drumsticks, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The "band on the fritz" idea wasn't just a rumour; it was a palpable tension in the air.

“Jimmy!” I practically shouted over the background din, my voice still thrumming with adrenaline from the show. “That was… incredible. Absolutely incredible!”

He looked up, his eyes, usually so intense, softening as they met mine. A genuine smile spread across his face, pushing away the exhaustion. “Lucy! You made it." He stood up and gave me a little embrace. "Glad you think so. Bit of a… spirited one tonight.” He gestured vaguely towards Keith, a wry twist to his mouth.

“Spirited is an understatement,” I laughed, feeling a blush creep up my neck. “But honestly, the dueling guitars… It was phenomenal. That Dragon Telecaster, it’s alive in your hands.”

He looked down at the guitar, running a thumb over the painted scales. “Yeah, Jeff gave it to me. Painted it myself. It’s… it’s a good one.” His voice trailed off, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find somewhere a bit quieter. Need a drink, and a smoke.” He motioned towards the hallway, and I followed him, leaving the rest of the band to their separate, unharmonious worlds.

We found a small, dusty storeroom, crammed with equipment and old cases, but blessedly empty. Jimmy nudged aside a pile of cables, and we sat on an upturned road case. He offered me a cigarette from a crumpled pack, lighting it for me with a practiced flick of his Zippo, then lit his own. The smoke curled lazily in the stale air. He handed me a warm, flat beer he’d apparently procured from somewhere.

“So,” he said, taking a long drag, “what did you really think? No need to be polite.”

I took a sip of the beer, the bitter taste grounding me. “I meant it. It was powerful. Truly. You and Jeff… it’s like a conversation only you two can have on those guitars. Electric. But…” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “It felt… fragile. Like it was holding on by a thread.”

He was silent for a moment, just looking at me, his gaze surprisingly direct. “You’re perceptive, Lucy. More than most.” He sighed, a heavy sound. “It’s been getting harder. We’ve been through a lot, this band. So much history. So much innovation. We pushed boundaries, you know? And I love it. I love being in The Yardbirds.” His voice was tinged with a deep affection, but also a profound weariness. “But… yes. It’s a bit on the fritz, as you say.” He took another drag, the tip of his cigarette glowing. “Too many directions. Too many… everything.”

I nodded, feeling a strange mix of sympathy and a growing conviction. “I could see it. The way Jeff and Chris were talking, the way Keith… well, the way Keith was. You’re all brilliant, Jimmy, but it feels like the parts are pulling in different directions now. Like a magnificent machine, but the cogs aren’t quite meshing anymore.”

He leaned back against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening. “It’s hard to let go of something you’ve poured your soul into. Especially when there’s still… magic. Like tonight.”

“There is magic,” I agreed, my voice soft. “But you are the core of it, Jimmy. That magic comes from you. From your hands, your mind, your vision.” I paused, taking a breath. This was the delicate part. “You’ve given so much to this band. You’ve helped shape its sound, its legacy. But what about your legacy? What about what you want to create?”

He lowered his gaze, his eyes meeting mine again, a flicker of surprise in them. “My legacy?”

“Yes. You’re a visionary, Jimmy. I saw it out there tonight. The way you play, the way you connect with the music. It’s unique. And while The Yardbirds are amazing, you’re… you’re bigger than just being a part of something. Think about it. What if you didn’t just play in a band, but created one? One that was entirely yours? One that reflected your sound, your direction, your dreams?”

My words seemed to hang in the smoky air between us. He didn’t dismiss it, didn’t laugh. He just listened, his expression thoughtful, almost pensive. His brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed out. He took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, then exhaled, watching the smoke drift.

“Creating my own band,” he murmured, almost to himself. The words seemed to taste new on his tongue. “It’s something I’ve… I’ve thought about, in the quiet hours. But it’s a big leap. A huge one.”

“Sometimes the biggest leaps are the ones that take you to the most extraordinary places,” I said, meeting his gaze steadily. “You have the vision, Jimmy. You have the talent. You have the drive. Imagine the possibilities. No compromises. Just pure, unadulterated Jimmy Page.”

A faint, almost imperceptible tremor went through him. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a spark of something new – excitement, perhaps, or a nascent dream taking root. He looked at me, really looked at me, and I felt a current pass between us, a shared understanding that went beyond the music.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “no one’s ever quite put it like that before.” A corner of his mouth tilted upwards in a small, genuine smile. “Most people just tell me I’m mad for not getting more solos.”

I laughed, a warm, genuine sound that surprised even myself. “Well, you deserve them. But you deserve more than just solos, Jimmy. You deserve to create something entirely new.”

We sat there for a while longer, not talking much, just smoking and sipping our flat beers, the hum of the club a distant drone. But the silence between us wasn’t awkward; it was comfortable, charged with the unspoken possibilities of the future. I felt a quiet satisfaction, a sense of having planted a seed, tiny but potent, in fertile ground.

Eventually, the late hour caught up with us. Jimmy walked me out, past the now-empty Wardour Street, the neon signs flickering in the pre-dawn light. The cool night air felt a world away from the humid intensity of the club.

“Thank you, Lucy,” he said, stopping at the corner where our paths diverged. His voice was soft, serious. “For coming. And for… for the conversation. It was…” He searched for the word. “enlightening.”

“Anytime, Jimmy,” I replied, my voice a little husky. “Always a pleasure.” I held his gaze a moment longer, a silent message exchanged between us – a recognition of the spark, the shared moment of courage. He leaned in wrapping his arms around me, giving me a tight squeeze. My heart fluttering “Jimmy,” I looked up at him but before I could get a word out, he kissed me. It was brief and sweet, but there was a want there. Like they had been waiting for this moment.

Jimmy starts to pull apart, “Goodnight, Luce.”

As I walked home, the go-go boots clicking on the pavement, I felt a lightness in my step. My ears might have been ringing, but my mind was clear, buzzing with the echoes of the music and the weight of our conversation. The feel of his soft lips against mine. A blossom of what tomorrow might bring.

Chapter Text

The air in The Dark Room was thick enough to chew, a heady mix of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the sweat of a hundred dancing bodies. The new band on stage, The Electric Savages, were tearing through a track, all wailing guitars and a rhythm section that hit you right in the gut. They were bloody good, raw and electrifying, and the crowd was eating it up.

Jimmy leaned closer to Lucy, his voice a rumble against her ear, trying to cut through the sonic assault. “Told you they were special, didn’t I?”

Lucy grinned, her eyes sparkling in the dim, swirling lights. She was a vision tonight, her light brown hair a wild halo around her face, her dress a vibrant splash of colour in the gloom. “You did, Mr. Smarty-Pants,” she yelled back, her breath warm on his cheek. “But I didn’t believe you’d find one this good in a dive like this.”

He chuckled, taking a long drag from his cigarette. The ash glowed red, momentarily illuminating the mischievous glint in her eyes. “This ain’t a dive, love. This is where the magic happens.” He held out his pack of cigarettes. She shook her head, stubbing out her own half-smoked one in the overflowing ashtray on their small, sticky table.

They’d been here for hours, fueled by lukewarm beer and the sheer exhilaration of the music. The corner booth, usually a haven of relative calm, was now vibrating with the energy of the crowd.

Every now and then, a stray dancer would bump into their table, sending a ripple through their drinks, but neither of them cared. They were too engrossed in the moment, in each other.

Their conversations had drifted easily, from the latest news from Vietnam to the burgeoning Mod scene, from pre-Raphaelite art to the merits of different brands of crisps (as jimmy was insistentupon calling them). It was effortless, a natural back-and-forth that Jimmy hadn’t found with many women. Lucy was sharp, witty, and possessed a laugh that could cut through the din of the club and still make him smile. He found himself watching her often, the way her lips curved when she was amused, the thoughtful crinkle between her brows when she pondered something.

He reached for his glass, taking a swig of the bitter ale, the taste of hops and something vaguely metallic on his tongue. He felt loose, unburdened, the kind of high you got from good company and great music. He leaned back, letting the bass drum thump against his chest, feeling the vibrations travel right through his bones.

Lucy was tapping her foot, swaying slightly to the rhythm, her fingers drumming on the table in time with the snare. Her eyes were fixed on the lead guitarist, a skinny lad with a mop of unruly hair, who was coaxing impossible sounds from his instrument. “They’re going to be huge, Jimmy,” she declared, her voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. “You just wait.”

“I reckon you’re right,” he agreed, his gaze now on her. He liked seeing her like this, completely absorbed, her guard down. He’d noticed a certain reserve about her in the past, a slight hesitation, but tonight, she was vibrant, alive.

The band launched into a new track, a bluesy, driving number that had the crowd roaring its approval. The dance floor, already packed, seemed to swell even further. Bodies pressed together, a sea of motion under the flashing lights. Jimmy felt a sudden urge, a surge of pure, unadulterated joy that needed an outlet. He wanted to be out there, moving, feeling the music with his whole body. And he wanted Lucy there with him.

He leaned forward, his arm reaching out across the table. Her hand was resting near her half-empty glass, her fingers still lightly tapping. Without thinking, he gently, but firmly, closed his hand around her wrist. His thumb brushed over the delicate pulse point. It was a simple gesture, an instinctive reach for connection, to pull her into the moment with him.

“Come on,” he shouted, his voice a little hoarse from the noise and the smoke, a wide grin stretching across his face. “Let’s get out there. Let’s dance.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when he felt it. A sudden, visceral jolt. It wasn’t just a pull or a gentle tug; it was a violent, panicked recoil. Lucy’s hand, which had been relaxed under his, instantly went rigid. Her eyes, which had been sparkling with amusement and excitement only moments before, widened, not with surprise, but with a raw, stark terror that made his blood run cold.

Her breath hitched, a sharp, choked sound that was lost in the roar of the music, but unmistakable to him. Her body tensed, every muscle coiling. And then, with an almost desperate strength, she wrenched her wrist free of his grasp. It happened so fast, a blur of motion, that for a split second, Jimmy was left with his hand hanging in the air, his grin frozen on his face, utterly bewildered.

Her eyes were still fixed on his, but they were no longer seeing him. They were seeing something else, something terrifying and unseen. A shiver ran through her, a visible tremor that shook her from head to toe.

“Oh! Oh God, I’m so sorry!” The words burst from her, a desperate, breathless whisper that barely reached him over the thumping bass. Her voice was thin, strained, unlike her usual confident tone. She stumbled back from the table, knocking her chair askew. Her eyes darted around the club, wide and unfocused, as if she were trapped and searching for an escape route. Before he could even process what was happening, before he could form a single word of question or concern, she was gone. She spun on her heel, a whirlwind of panicked motion, and darted through the crowded tables, her body weaving frantically between surprised club-goers. She was a blur, a fleeting shadow swallowed by the pulsing, chaotic mass of people.

“Lucy!” he yelled, pushing himself up, knocking his own chair back. The suddenness of her departure, the sheer terror in her eyes, had stunned him. What the hell just happened?

He tried to follow, to push through the throng, but the club was a labyrinth of dancing bodies and spilled drinks. He shoved past a couple swaying in a tight embrace, mumbled an apology to a man who glared at him for stepping on his foot. He could see her, a flash of her bright dress, near the exit, but she was moving with an almost unnatural speed, driven by an invisible force he couldn’t comprehend.

“Lucy, wait!” he called again, but his voice was lost, swallowed by the blare of the music and the cacophony of the crowd. He burst out of the doors, into the cool, damp London night. The street was busy, taxis flashing past, people milling about. He scanned the pavement, his eyes darting left, then right. But she was nowhere. Gone. Vanished into the night like a ghost.

He stood there, chest heaving, the cold air doing little to calm the frantic beat of his heart. The distant thud of the bass from the club vibrated through the pavement, a mocking reminder of the good time that had just shattered. His mind raced, replaying the moment. His hand on her wrist. Her eyes. The sheer, unadulterated terror. What in God’s name had he done?

----------------------------------

The next day dawned grey and miserable, a perfect reflection of Jimmy’s mood. He’d barely slept, the image of Lucy’s panicked face replaying on an endless loop in his mind. He’d called her flat a dozen times since he’d woken up, letting it ring until he was sure she wasn’t home, or wasn’t answering. He’d even considered going over there, but he didn’t want to scare her further. Not after last night. Finally, late in the afternoon, his phone rang. He snatched it up before the first full ring had finished.

“Lucy?” he said, his voice tight with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

“Jimmy,” her voice was soft, fragile, barely above a whisper. “It’s me. I… I’m so sorry about last night.”

His shoulders sagged with a wave of relief. At least she was okay. “Sorry? Lucy, what happened? I was worried sick. You just… you ran out. What was all that about?” He tried to keep his voice calm, but he couldn’t completely mask the concern.

A long pause stretched between them, filled only by the faint crackle on the line. He could almost hear her breathing, shallow and uneven. “I know,” she finally said, her voice barely audible. “I know it must have seemed… crazy. I just… I couldn’t stay.”

“You were terrified, Lucy,” he stated, not a question. “I saw it. What was it? Was it me? Did I do something wrong?” He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d somehow triggered it.

Another pause. This one felt heavier, laden with unspoken burdens. “No, Jimmy. Not you.” Her voice gained a fraction of its usual strength, a hint of steel beneath the fragility. “Look, can we… can we meet? I need to explain. I can’t do this over the phone.”

“Of course,” he said instantly, his relief palpable. “Where are you? I’ll come to you.”

“No, I’ll come to your place,” she replied. “It’s… quieter. Less public. And I think I’ll need a cup of tea, or something stronger.” There was a faint, almost imperceptible attempt at a joke in her tone, but it fell flat.

“Alright,” he agreed. “See you in half-hour?”

“half-hour,” she confirmed, and then the line went dead.

He spent the next thirty minutes pacing his living room, tidying things he’d already tidied, trying to prepare himself for whatever she was about to tell him. He ran through every possible scenario in his head: a bad reaction to the smoke, a sudden illness, a forgotten appointment. But none of them explained the sheer terror in her eyes. It was something deeper, something he couldn’t fathom.

When the knock came, it was soft, hesitant. He opened the door to find her standing there, looking small and vulnerable, her shoulders hunched, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her usual vibrant energy was gone, replaced by a quiet weariness. She was wearing a simple coat, her hair tied back, no makeup. She looked… defenseless.

“Come in, Lucy,” he said, stepping aside. He reached out to touch her arm, but stopped himself, remembering last night. He didn’t want to spook her.

She walked past him into the living room, her movements slow and deliberate. She didn’t look at him. He closed the door, the click echoing in the sudden silence.

“Tea?” he offered, gesturing towards the kitchen.

She shook her head, still not looking up. “Please. Something stronger. “He went to the kitchen, the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing filling the quiet apartment. He could feel her presence in the next room, a heavy weight of unspoken words. When he returned with two glasses filled with amber liquid, she was sitting on his sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white. She still hadn’t looked at him properly.

He placed her glass on the coffee table in front of her, then sat down in the armchair opposite, giving her space. “So,” he began gently, his voice low. “What happened last night, Luce?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath, her gaze finally lifting to meet him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. The terror was gone, replaced by a profound sadness. “It’s… it’s not easy to talk about, Jimmy.”

“Take your time,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

She nodded, then looked down at her hands again. “When you… when you grabbed my wrist… it just… it took me back. Back to when I was a little girl.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, as if the words themselves were painful to utter. Jimmy waited, his heart aching for her. He knew this wasn’t going to be a simple explanation.

She began to tell the story of her childhood:

The air in the Davidson home was thin, almost sterile. It pressed down on Lucy like a physical weight, smothering sound, joy, and anything that hinted at spontaneity. Her parents, Samuel and Martha, were people carved from granite and faith, their eyes like flint, their voices perpetually hushed save for the booming recitations of scripture. Music, to them, was a defilement, a siren song of the devil designed to lure souls from the righteous path.

Lucy knew this truth in her bones, and had known it since she was old enough to hum. The first time, she’d been a small child, a melody bubbling up from inside her as she played with a wooden doll. She hadn’t even known what it was, just a happy sound. Samuels hand had cracked across her cheek, silencing her with the sharp sting to “cleanse your mind of these demonic whispers.” And the immediate, chilling sermon about the sin of frivolous noise, the sacred silence being the only prayer.

After that, the punishments grew more inventive. Discovered drumming her fingers on the kitchen table to an unheard rhythm, she’d been forced to hold her hands in a bucket of ice water until her fingertips went numb. Martha, gaunt and severe, reciting verses about idle hands and the devil's shop. Caught humming softly while doing chores, she’d been confined to her room for days with only water and dry bread, the silence amplifying her internal melody until it felt like a torment.

It never stopped. From the moment she woke, to the moment she finally succumbed to sleep, her mind was a constant concert hall. Intricate fugues wove through her thoughts while she did her chores. Soaring operatic arias accompanied her lonely walks in the fields. Jazz improvisations rippled behind her eyes during the long, silent dinners

She didn’t understand it. Music, her parents preached, was the devil's snare, a seductive distraction from prayers and piety. It was a sin, a corruption of the soul.

But the music wasn’t meant to be contained. It begged for release, a river swollen with rain, pounding against its banks. As she grew, the pressure intensified. The soft whispers became insistent pleas, then roaring demands. When she couldn’t give it voice, couldn’t let it flow through her fingers or hum from her lips, the headaches came. Blinding, throbbing waves of pain that started behind her eyes and radiated through her skull, a physical manifestation of the unexpressed notes, the unplayed harmonies. It felt as though a thousand unplayed symphonies were trying to burst from her brain.

But the world outside the Davidson house held different sounds. Across the quiet street lived the Albrights, an older couple whose home always seemed warm and bright. One Summer afternoon, Lucy, weeding in her mother’s garden heard it. A cascade of notes, shimmering, flowing from an open window. It was a piano. She froze, captivated, a hunger she hadn’t known existed gnawing at her.

Mrs. Albright, spotting the small girl, smiled kindly. “Do you like that, dear?” She asked, her voice soft like a lullaby. Lucy, stunned, could only nod. “Come in, then,” Mrs. Albright urged

It was a stolen moment, a sliver of forbidden heaven. Lucy’s fingers, tentative at first, then trembling with a desperate yearning, touched the cool ivory keys. The sound that sprang forth born of her own touch, was more beautiful than anything she had ever known, and for the first time in a long time the headaches stopped. As she pressed another, then another, a soft ethereal glow filled the room. A profound understanding settled over her; this was a gift. A sacred, divine gift. God had touched her, not with the sterile piety her parents preached, but with the boundless creativity of the universe itself. Mrs. Albright was shocked by the sound coming from the piano and began to teach the child how to read music. Lucy would sneak out when her parents were away.

But the return to the muted silence of her home was always a brutal shock. The oppressive weight of her parent’s condemnation pressed down, and the music trapped once more, began its insistent torment. The headaches returned with a vengeance, the unplayed melodies clawing at her sanity.

“it’s a curse,” she whispered to herself one night, clutching her pounding head, tears tracing paths on her cheeks. “It must be. A demon’s trick, festering in my mind, promising me beauty only to deliver agony.” Why would god give her a gift that her parents, his devout servants, believed was an abomination? Why would he bless her with something that brought her so much pain, so much fear, so much solitude?

The headaches throbbed, a relentless, dissonant drum. Was this truly a gift from the divine, or a cunning torment whispered by the Serpent, designed to break her, to drive her to madness with its unceasing, unfulfilled cries? Lucy began to wonder if the music wasn’t from God at all but a cruel, beautiful curse by the devil.

One day, as Lucy was playing, Mrs. Albright had left the window open. And then, the music stopped. Not by Lucy’s hands, but by an encroaching shadow.

Samuel and Martha stood in the doorway, their faces masks of horrifying rage. The sound. The unspeakable sin.

“Lucy!” Samuels voice was a guttural roar, filled with a righteous fury that made the very air vibrate. He strode forward, grabbing her arms with bruising force, yanking her from the piano bench as Mrs. Albright gasped in horror. “Defiling yourself with the heathen noise! In another’s house! You shame us before God!”

Mrs. Albright tried to intervene “please, Mr. Davidson, she’s just a child, she has such a gift.”

But her words were swallowed by Samuels wrath. He dragged Lucy out of the house, Martha following close behind, her face contorted in a mixture of disgust and dark satisfaction. Lucy’s feet stumbled, barely keeping pace with Samuels furious strides. The short walk home felt like an eternity, each step echoing her escalating terror.

The beating that followed was senseless, a storm of blows fueled by fanaticism and a profound sense of betrayal. Lucy curled into a ball on the cold kitchen floor, whimpering, sobbing, her parents stood over her, raining down blows with a leather belt and their open hands, each strike punctuated by cries of “demon!” and “unholy spawn!” Then, a different kind of pain, sharp and excruciating. A deliberate, sickening crunch, and then another. Her wrists. They had twisted and bent her small hands, breaking the very instruments of her forbidden joy.

When they were done, Lucy lay motionless, a broken doll amidst the silence. Her parents, breathing heavily, surveyed their handiwork convinced they had purged the sin from their child and corrected her path. They bandaged her wrists tightly, almost mechanically.

The next morning, Lucy moved with slowness, her bandaged wrists swollen and throbbing beneath the tightly wound cloth. She couldn’t hold a spoon, couldn’t even push open the door without a tear escaping her eyes.

Across the street – different neighbors – The Millers – were watching. They always found the Davidsons unsettling, the child too withdrawn. Mrs. Miller had seen Lucy struggling that morning, her small pale face gaunt and drawn, noticing the bulk under her sleeves.

That afternoon, Mrs. Miller brought over a casserole, a pretext for a visit. She found Lucy trying to read an old book, her bandaged wrists in her lap.

“Lucy, dear, what happened to your wrists?” Mrs. Miller asked.

Samuel and Martha emerged from the back room, their expressions hardening. “it was the Lord's correction, Mrs. Miller,” Samuel stated, his voice flat. “She was straying. She fell, quite clumsy, and bruised herself.”

“Bruised?” Mrs. Miller gaze moved from Lucy’s ashen face to the obvious, unnatural angle of the bandages. “Those don’t look like bruises, Mr. Davidson. They look … broken.”

Mr. Miller, having seen Lucy’s struggle earlier, had followed his wife, “we heard some … noises last night, Mr. Davidson, and now Lucy’s wrists are visibly broken. This is not ‘clumsiness’ , this is abuse.”

Samuels face purpled. “how dare you! We are God fearing people! We raise our child according to his will!”

“Gods will does not involve breaking a child’s bones,” Mrs. Miller retorted, her voice firm, unwavering. She knelt down beside Lucy, whose eyes darted between the adults, wide with fear. “Lucy, are you safe here?”

Lucy could only whimper, her eyes welling up. The dam of silence within her had broken.

Mr. Miller stepped forward, “we are calling the authorities, Samuel unless you do something about this.”

A tense silence hung in the air. Samuel and Martha exchanged a look. The idea of public scrutiny, of their ‘faithful’ home being investigated, was abhorrent. Martha spoke, her voice strained but laced with a cold finality. “She is corrupted. A heathen. She has no place in a house of God. If you wish to take on such a burden, then take her.”

Samuel nodded slowly, a dark relief in his eyes, “Indeed, take her. She is a cross we no longer wish to bear.”

The Millers looked at each other, then back at the small broken girl. Their decision was instantaneous. “Pack your things, Lucy,” Mrs. Miller said. “You’re coming home with us.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on some distant point, reliving the memory. A tear finally escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. “It was the helplessness, you see.”

She took another shaky breath. “And last night… when you grabbed my wrist… it was like I was back there. In that moment. All those years of trying to forget, of burying it, just… burst out. It wasn’t you, Jimmy. It was them. It was that little girl, terrified and helpless all over again.” She looked at him then, her eyes pleading for understanding. “I just had to get away. I had to run. It was an instinct, a panic response. I’m so, so sorry.”

Jimmy got up from his armchair, walked over to the sofa, and sat down next to her. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out and gently, slowly, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her close, careful not to put too much pressure, giving her the space to pull away if she needed to. But she didn’t. She leaned into him, her body trembling.

He felt the warmth of her against him, the slight shudder that ran through her. He could feel her tears soaking into his shirt. He tightened his hold, a silent promise.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Lucy,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “Not for any of this. Never for this.” He stroked her hair, gently, repeatedly. “God, Lucy. I had no idea.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, her quiet sobs shaking her frame. “It’s why I’m… sometimes I’m a bit reserved. Why I don’t like being touched unexpectedly. It just… it triggers it all. I thought I was over it. I thought I’d buried it deep enough.”

“You’re not over it,” he said softly, his voice a steady anchor in her storm. “You just learned to live with it. And that’s a hell of a thing to do, Lucy. You’re incredibly strong.” He held her tighter, his hand stroking her back. “It’s okay. It’s okay to feel this. It’s okay to remember.”

He let her cry, holding her close, feeling the weight of her pain. He didn’t try to offer solutions or platitudes. He just held her, giving her the safety and the space, she needed to finally let it out. He felt a fierce, protective instinct rise within him, a desire to shield her from every ghost of her past.

“they’re gone now,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. “they died years ago. But the fear… it never really leaves, does it?”

“No,” Jimmy agreed, his own voice thick. “Some things, they stick with you. But you’re not that little girl anymore, Lucy. You’re not helpless. And you’re not alone. Not ever again.”

He felt her nod against him, a fragile acknowledgement. He continued to hold her, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing as her sobs gradually subsided. The silence in the room was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but with a quiet understanding, a new kind of intimacy forged in vulnerability and trust. He knew this was just the beginning, that there would be more to talk about, more to heal. But for now, just holding her, feeling her slowly relax in his embrace, felt like enough. He would be there. For all of it.

Chapter Text

As you were sitting on the couch cuddled up against JImmy's side, you felt relieved to have gotten a weight off your chest, and grateful he was there to listen. You peered your head up from his shoulder to look into his green eyes, but instead your eyes landed on his plump lips. You leaned up to give him a thankful kiss, when his hungry mouth decended upon yours, and a groan left his mouth. You brought your hand up to cradle his chin, kissing him hard. You couldn't help but want more of the sweet taste of his lips.

He reached out for your hips, hauling you fully so you were sitting on his lap.

"Jimmy,"

"Relax, love," Jimmy said. His hands slowly stroked up and down your sides. His hands felt so good on your body as they coaxed and situated you closer to his lap, the quiet noises he made against your mouth made warmth spread throughout your body. You locked your lips firmly with Jimmy's, your faces so close together that your noses squished against each other's cheeks.

Jimmy's hands began to wonder, sliding down to grab a handful of your ass and squeezing, and giving a playful slap, a gasp leaving your lips. Soon enough, that same hand slid to your thigh to pull your leg up and over his knee. You shifted so one of your knees was on the couch while the other was lightly pressed against his hard cock that was straining in his pants, giving him some friction from your movements. You were so caught up in the kiss you barely registered the way his breath hitched at the contact.

"I want you to fuck my thigh, ride it, baby," he ordered. a touch of playfulness in his tone. "and I'm going to watch."

At your arched brow he slapped your ass again, a lottle harder this time, before taking a strong hold of it, and grounding your pussy down onto his thigh. Hard. Realization slammed into you as the pleasure, caused a choke moan to be torn from your throat. "oh"

Jimmy began pressing kisses to the corner of your lips, then drifting down to your jaw, and along your neck. You lean your head back, your light coloured hair falling over your shoulders and revealing the spot where your neck and shoulder meet. The open mouthed kisses continued, lower and lower along the sensitive skin.

A soft whine left you at the feeling of Jimmy sucking at the base of your neck leaving a purple mark on the spot, resulting in you tightening your grip on his shoulders and whispering "fuck..."

Your mind was growing fuzzier by the second, struggling to keep up with the feelings of his mouth and his hands moving over your body.

Heart thumping, your body temperature rising along with your need for more. As promised, Jimmy never took his eyes off your face, continuing to watch you as you grind his thigh. His eyes were dark with lust, but held a soft affection. It felt a little intense, being under his gaze like this. But its intensity was raw and made you wetter.

He moaned, the sound almost coming out like a purr while you grind your wet pussy against his thigh, surely leaving behind a dark patch. It was probably a mix of watching you get yourself off and you obeying him. He loved it. You could see it in his face. He was loving every second of having you in his lap.

You start to feel a pulse form at the spot between your thighs, your pussy aching for his touch. His mouth returned to yours in another passionate kiss and as his hands squeezed your things and inched underneath your dress playing ith the edges of your lace panties, you hardly realized you let out a heavy, shaky sigh

His big hands once again stroked down your thighs, before he retook his hold of your ass. Grasping it and forcing you to an almost complete stop.

You whined, desperate to gain more of that blessed friction, but all he did was press heated, open mouthed kisses over your throat as he held you still.

"you're not going to cum very quickly like that, baby," he told you. "Let me help."

He repeated his motion from earlier, grinding you hard, fully, against his thigh. Your back arching, and your pussy throbbing, Jimmy nearly growled at the sight.

Then he did it again and again.

You thought you die, it felt so good.

Your lips were on each other again, Jimmy's tongue slipping past your soft lips to rub against yours, while his hands gripped and tugged at your hips as you rolled back and forth in a smooth continuous motion. You were sure you were going to have finger shaped bruises when this was done. You felt small waves of pleasure roll through you as your panty covered centre kept grinding on his thigh. and you cried out in shocked pleasure.

"Baby," he pleaded roughly, "look at me. That's it, love."

You grasped his dark hair, lips parted as you fought to keep your eyes open and on him. "Jimmy" you whimpered.

His entire being was focused on you, and giving you what you needed.

"you're so beautiful," he murmured. "fuck, baby ..."

His words were accompanied by him thrusting against you, pulling you nearly flush against his chest. You cried out as pleasure shot up your spine.

Without much thought to how your knee was rubbing against Jimmy's crotch through his pants, you let your pace pick up, grinding your pussy faster on his leg and shuddering at the stimulation. Your hands gripping Jimmy's shoulders to support yourself.

"fuck..." Jimmy grunted under his breath, the curse hot on your skin.

"that's it, love... just like that."

The praise only spurred you on, grinding at a feverish pace. "Jimmy," you were nearly sobbing with need. "please." Your breaths were coming out jagged, Jimmy was doing his best not to stop you and pin you to the couch to have his way. He was achingly hard. You could feel just how hard he was through his pants. He tightened his grip on you and clenched the muscles there, giving you more friction and pressure right against your core.

Hearing you let out a few soft shuddering gasps, he could tell you were close. " that's it, love. cum on my thigh."

You could do nothing but obey him. That was all it took for you to finally cum with a loud moan, eyes screwed shut and mouth agape. gasping, trembling, your pussy gushing and squeezing around nothing, clinging to him hard as release finally claimed you

You were only dimly aware of how Jimmy's hips jerked underneath you just a moment later, a desperate moan leaving his lips, warm wetness spread over the fabric of his pants.

You both were panting hard as you were coming down from your highs. You could feel him wrap his arms around you as you layed your head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent.

You felt shocked at what just happened, but so relaxed.

Eventually, the two.of you could hear a stomach rumble. Giggles coming forth. "Come, I'll put the kettle on and make a snack." Jimmy said.

You looked down at your adjoined laps, rubbing your wet panties against Jimmy's thigh one more time, "could I also borrow some pants? I think you've ruined my panties."

Jimmy let out a soft laugh, "of course, love, I think I need to change as well."

Chapter Text

After few days away, I was back in the studio. I was supposed to be forging the next big hit, but my mind, a tangled mess of guitar riffs and scattered notes, refused to coalesce. Instead, it was filled, unequivocally, with Lucy.

Lucy. Just the name was enough to send a blaze through me. After all this time, stumbling back into her orbit felt like a damn miracle. God. Lucy. It has only been a few weeks since we'd been gallivanting, as she called it, through the city, losing ourselves in smoky clubs and quiet corners. And now, back in the sterile buzzing space, the silence of her absence was deafening. But I was absolutely thrilled to have run into her again, even more thrilled to have spent those stolen days completely enthralled by her. She was an unexpected jolt to my system, a vibrant, unpredictable current that had bypassed all my usual defenses.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. Her light brown hair, which caught the dim London light like spun honey, always seemed to have a mind of its own, escaping its ties and framing her face in soft wisps. And those eyes- those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through me, but with a guarded glint that hinted at depths yet unexplored. Her witty remarks, quick and sharp, often caught me off guard, making me bark out a surprised laugh. And her Americanisms, those charming little linguistic quirks she'd sprinkle into conversation, "Real swell," she'd said once, after I played her a rough demo. "Just peachy." It was endearing, and infuriatingly captivating.

Yet, despite the hours we spent talking, laughing, simply being I still wanted more. I was yearning for it, a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of studio wizardry could fill. It was a hunger not just for her touch, but for the untamed parts of her soul she hadn't yet revealed. Even though I had heard her music, I had yet to see her play, just another tantalizing mystery, another layer to peel back.

She opened up to me, in a way that both surprised and humbled me, she'd spoken of her childhood. It explained so much, why she was closed off, why that mysterious aura clung to her like a second skin. But with me, she peeled back a corner of that shroud, and the vulnerability in her voice was a siren song I couldn't resist.

And then, later, after that story ... that's what truly consumed me. The memory flared, hot and vivid.The weight of her on my lap had been an exquisite shock. The way she'd moved against me, her soft moans echoing in the dimly lit room, the pure, raw lust that had consumed us both. I could still feel the ghost of her touch, Her hands found my hair tangling in it, pulling my head back, exposing her throat. Her kisses, Oh, God, her kisses, urgent, hungry, demanding. Her mouth had devoured mine, tasting of whiskey and something wild and elemental. I remembered the look on her face - pure lust, unadulterated ecstacy. Her eyes, usually so guarded, had been wide, dilated, hazy with desire. her cheeks flushed, a deep rose against her pale skin. It was raw, animalistic, and utterly captivating. And I'd gotten off too, riding the wave of her abandon, meeting her intensity with my own. My hands had been everywhere - her waist, back, the curve of her thighs, her luscious round ass, desperate to feel every inch of her. It was hot and sexy, a fever dream of sensation, and it had left me breathless, craving more even as it ended. A hunger that pulsed in my veins now, I was ravenous for more.

"Jimmy! You trying to burn a hole through that fretboard with your thoughts, or are you actually going to play something?" Chris's voice, sharp and laced with impatience, pierced through my reverie. I startled, my fingers, which had been idly tracing the contours of my guitar, tightening around the neck. "Just ... thinking," I mumbled, my voice rough.

"Well, think faster, mate. Time's money, and we've got a record to make."

He was right, of course. This was the studio, not a lovers' den. But I couldn't shake the lassitude, the pervasive sense of distraction that had been eclipsing my work for days. The riffs that had once flowed effortlessly now felt clunky, uninspired. Every chord felt like a chore, every lyric a forced effort. It was exasperating, this internal battle between my professional obligations and the relentless pull of my personal desires. My creative well, usually overflowing, felt inexplicably dry, drained by the sheer force of my longing for Lucy.

"Right bollocks to this," I sighed, setting the guitar down with a clatter. "Break time. Need a cuppa."

Chris just grunted, already turning back to fiddle with something. I pushed myself up from the worn swivel chair, the springs groaning in protest, and ducked out of the room. The hallway was quieter, the low rumble of the ventilation system a comforting drone. I walked aimlessly, my hands stuffed into my pockets, my thoughts still snagged on Lucy. I needed to clear my head, find some equilibrium. Maybe a walk around the block, or just a few minutes of quiet contemplation with a steaming cup of tea.

I ambled towards the small lounge area, which was usually deserted this time of day, but as I approached, hoping to find a vacant armchair and some peace, a splash of light brown caught my eye. My breath hitched.

There she was. Lucy.

She was curled on the worn sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling casually. In her lap, she held a battered notebook, and her tongue was sticking out from the corner of her mouth, a small, endearing gesture of intense concentration. She was oblivious to the world, utterly absorbed in whatever she was doing. The sight sent a fresh wave of longing through me. God, she was captivating.

A smile, unbidden, tugged at the corners of my lips. My heart, which had been leaden weight seconds before, suddenly felt light, buoyant. The exhaustion I felt moments ago dissipated like smoke.

I moved quietly, drawn in by the magnetic pull of her presence. I wanted to see what had her so utterly captivated, I crept around the back of the sofa, trying to get a glimpse of her work without disturbing the delicate bubble of her focus. Peering over her shoulder, my brow furrowed in confusion.

The page wasn't filled with words, or even musical notes in the traditional sense. It was a chaotic mess of lines, squiggles, loops, and jagged angles - a frenzy of graphite on paper. It looked like a bunch of scratches a child had made with too much enthusiasm and too little direction. I titled my head trying to make sense of it. Was it a drawing? Some kind of abstract art? I was utterly befuddled by it.

A grin spread across my face. I couldn't resist.

"Well, I don't think that's going in the Tate Modern anytime soon, love." I said, my voice a low rumble, intentionally breaking the spell.

Lucy jumped, a small yelp escaping her lips. Her head snapped up, then titled back, resting on the top of the sofa, her blue eyes wide with surprise, meeting mine. Her mouth, still slightly open from her concentration, curved into a sheepish smile. The sudden movement, the angle of her head, the way her neck stretched, revealing her throat ... a sudden, sharp jolt went through me. My gaze lingered there, a primal instinct licking in. It was an exquisite line, elegant and vulnerable. A flush spread across my face and I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Jimmy! you scared the wits out of me!" she laughed, but there was no real anger in her voice. She still held the notebook up. "and what do you mean, not museum-worthy? This is my masterpiece."

"Looks like a pigeon walked through an inkwell and then danced on your page," I countered, recovering slightly, though my eyes kept drifting back to the delicate curve of her throat.

She chuckled, a low, husky sound that sent shivers down my spine. "it's my way of working out music you nitwit. It comes out in scratches first. Ideas, you know? like a furious scribble of sound. Later I annotate it, translate it into proper notation. But it starts here, in this beautiful, chaotic mess." She gestured to the notebook with a flourish.

"So this is what a prodigy pianist does?" I quirked an eyebrow, my voice a little rougher than I intended. The sight of her head tilted back, the long, graceful hollow of her neck exposed like that, was doing something strange to my insides. A warmth spread through my chest, pooling low in my stomach. The yearning intensifies, sharp and immediate. I wanted to lean down, press my lips to that spot, feel the delicate pulse there.

She tilted her head further, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "precisely. Genius always starts in chaos, Jimmy. You should know that."

"chaos, yes. Scribbles, maybe not so much,"I teased, but my gaze was fixed on her, no longer on the notebook. Every fibre of my being was screaming for a closer proximity.

"speaking of chaos," I said, taking a step closer, my hand instinctively reaching for hers. Her skin was warm, soft beneath my fingers. "I'm on a break. You look like you need one too, before your brain explodes from all that ... artistic expression."

Her eyes widen slightly, The air between us thrummed with unspoken electricity.

Without waiting for a response, fueled by the sudden surge of desire that had been simmering for days, now brought to a boiling point by the sight of her, the memory of her, the tantalizing curve of her neck, I pulled. Gently at first, then with more urgency.

"Come on," I murmured, my voice low and husky, ignoring the surprised gasp that escaped her. I threaded my fingers through hers, pulling her up from the sofa, her notebook falling to the cushion with a soft thud. "I know just the place for a proper break."

I didn't look back, didn't hesitate. My mind races, searching for a secluded spot. My eyes landed on it - a storage closet, almost always empty, tucked away at the end of the hall, usually used for forgotten instruments or empty equipment cases. It wasn't perfect, but it was private. It was ours.

I tugged her along, her fingers tightening around mine as she followed, a half-smile playing on her lips, her eyes alight with a mixture of surprise and something else ... something hot and promising. I half drugged, half led her down the corridor, the beat of my heart echoing the frantic rhythm of my footsteps. I pulled her inside, the door clicking shut behind us, plunging us into near darkness. The air was thick with the scent of dust and old cardboard, but all I could smell was Lucy.

"Jimmy, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice a breathless whisper.

"Giving us both a break," I murmured, my hands finding their way to her waist. "A much-needed one."

I pushed her against the wall, my hands tracing the curves of her body, igniting a fire within me. she leaned back against the wall, her eyes searching mine. "This is… risky."

"That's half the fun, isn't it?" I said, my voice husky.

I lowered my head, my lips brushing against hers. She tasted of coffee and something else, something uniquely Lucy. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but it quickly deepened, tongues dancing, bodies pressing together.

The small space felt charged, electric. I could feel her heart pounding against my chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps. My hands roamed over her body, tracing the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts.

Lucy's POV

"God, Lucy," he groaned, pulling back slightly."You're so sexy, Luce" he whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "I can't stop thinking about you."

His voice thick with desire. "About how I want to peel away every layer, discover every secret you're hiding."

I shivered, my grip tightening on his shoulders. "There are a lot of secrets, Jimmy."

"I don't care," he said, kissing me again, harder this time. "I want them all."

His hands found the hem of my shirt, slowly pulling it up, revealing a sliver of smooth skin. I didn't stop him, I couldn't, I wanted this.

"Jimmy," I breathed, my voice trembling.

"I know," he said, his lips trailing down my neck. "But I can't help myself." he kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. His hands moved over my shirt , cupping my breasts, teasing my nipples through my bra. I let out a moan, my back arching against the wall.

"Please, Jimmy," i whispered, my voice barely audible.

"Please what?" he asked, his breath hot against my skin.

"Don't stop," I said, my eyes pleading.

My heart skipped a beat as I felt his fingers graze the fabric of my skirt, sending shivers down my spine. He leaned in, his lips brushing against my neck, and I could feel his arousal growing.

"I've touched myself imaging you," he confessed, his voice low and husky. "I've been so hard for you, Lucy."

His hands slipped under my skirt, and I gasped as I felt his fingers against the bare skin of my upper thigh, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Jimmy's fingers found their way to the outside of my panties, and I could feel the heat of his touch against my most intimate parts. "Look at this mess you’ve made, your little pussy is all wet for me, isn’t it?” All I can do is whimper, more juices oozing from me, drenching my panties. He moves his fingers beneath the fabric running a finger all the way up between my lips. He pulls his hand back, bringing his finger to his mouth and sucking, tasting my juices. His eyes roll shut as he lets out a low groan, his pants tightening over the bulge between his own legs.

“Fuck,” he groans, eyes snapping open. His fingers return to my pussy, one gathering up the wetness pooling there and trailing up to my throbbing clit. The finger he sucked into his mouth pushes into my aching pussy, the thick digit stretching me deliciously. I moan at the feeling

"You have to stay quiet, Lucy," he murmered, his lips brushing against my ear. "We can't get caught."

His fingers worked their magic, and I felt myself growing wetter with each passing moment. The anticipation was almost unbearable, and I knew I was on the verge of something incredible.

“Such a tight little pussy,” he mutters eyes trained on the sight before him. It’s all I can do to keep my moans in check, biting down on the noises he is so intent on dragging from me.

As Jimmy's fingers continued their dance, I felt my legs growing weak and shaky. He lifted me effortlessly, my back pressed against the wall, and my legs wrapped around his waist, my nails digging into his clothed back. His finger slid in deeper and I cried out in pleasure, His lips found mine, muffling my cries with his mouth and I lost myself in the moment, the taste of his kiss like a drug I couldn't resist. The feeling of his long, strong fingers playing with me fills me with pleasure, my pussy clenches around him, aching for more. His eyes are dark, staring into mine as I try to stop them from falling closed. This is so wrong, but it feels so good. He adds another finger, stretching me, filling me, and I knew I was close to the edge. My hand snapping up to grip onto his forearm. He glances down at my hand on him as if he can’t believe I’ve touched him.

“Please…” I moan again, unable to think from the torture of his fingers pumping inside me. He leans down, mouth hovering over my ear, so close I can feel his breath as he whispers, “please what?” I whine uselessly in response, needing more but feeling too proud to ask for it.

Jimmy voice was a low growl in my ear, he licks the shell of my ear and a shudder racks through my body, encouarging me, telling me how beautiful I was, how much he wanted me. His fingers moved faster, and I felt the familiar tingling sensation building within me. I clung to him, my body trembling as I reached the peak of pleasure.

The orgasm ripped through me like a storm, and I cried out, my voice echoing in the small space. Jimmy silenced my cries with his kisses, his fingers still buried deep inside me letting me riding the waves of pleasure. The juices he coaxed from my pussy with every pump of his fingers are coating his hand,

He slowly withdrew his fingers and set me back down on my feet. I could feel the wetness between my legs, and I knew I was a mess. But Jimmy didn't seem to mind his eyes filled with desire as he licked my juices from his fingers.

I glanced down at the bulge in his pants, his hard cock straining against the confines, I reached out to touch him but he gently pushed my hand away.

"Not now, Lucy," he whispered, his voice filled with regret. "I need to get back to the studio before they realize I'm gone."

I nodded, my heart heavy with disappointment. He adjusted the front of his pants and took a deep breath, steeling himself for the journey back to his band.

"Come over to my house in Pangbourne, later, and spend the night. I bought it a few months ago and would love to show you around." he stated.

I nodded my head, still dazed by what just happened.

With that, he disappeared into the darkness, leaving me alone in the closet with my thoughts and the lingering scent of our passion.

Chapter Text

After the incident in the closet, Lucy decided to go back to her flat, take a bath, and pack an overnight bag. She wasn't sure what to expect spending the night with Jimmy, but she was excited. As the afternoon rolled by, she decided to take a taxi to Jimmy's boathouse, not wanting to deal with the crowds from rush hour train. The wind off the Thames bit at Lucy's cheeks, as she stepped from the taxi. Before her stood the Pangbourne boathouse, its feet seemingly dipped into the fast-flowing muddy embrace of the river. The Thames, swollen and impatient, rushed past the rear porch, a churning brown ribbon against the grey sky. Swans, majestic and unconcerned, glided with an almost arrogant grace, their white feathers stark against the England sky, while scruffy ducks poked about the reeds, their quacks small punctuation marks in the vast quiet.

A figure emerged from the front door, silhouetted against the warm glow within, Jimmy, a bright smile playing on his lips, a contrast to the five o'clock shadow growing on his cheeks, extended a hand "Lucy! Here let me take your bag. Come in, get out of this chill." HIs voice, warm and welcoming, had a surprising quality, a subtle resonance that seemed to vibrate with unspoken things.

The first impression upon entering was a peculiar blend of grandeur and comfortable chaos. The main living area, though spacious, was dominated by an enormous white telescope, its polished brass gleam catching the faint light filtering through the large windows that overlooked the river.

"Teas ready," Jimmy announced, leading her towards a low, inviting sofa piled with cushions. The aroma of tea mingled with something less definable - old books, perhaps, and a faint, sweet woodsmoke. "I thought a proper warm-up was in order before the grand tour."

The tour began. What struck Lucy immediately was the disorienting, almost organic flow of the architure. There were no straight lines, no predictable corridors. Rooms seemed to appear at unexpected angles, accessed by short, winding passages or a sudden, shallow flight of steps. It felt less like a house designed by an architect and more like something that had grown, amoeba- like, over time.

"Down we go," Jimmy gestured, leading her down a surprising, steep flight of stairs, the air growing perceptibly cooler, heavier. This was the subterranean level, a cavernous space beneath the ground floor. The dim light revealed a bewildering array: a colossal central heating boiler, a veritable behemoth of pipes and gauges, wrestled for space with a dismantled antique bed, its ornate headboard leaning forlornly against a damp stone wall. Surrounding them were considerable quantities of what could only be described as junk - old crates, forgotten furniture, rolls of ancient carpet.

But the real surprise was at the far end. There, in a specialty constructed inlet that brought the Thames directly into the house, a sleek motor launch bobbed on the water. The air here was damp, the chill seeping into Lucy's bones, yet there was a peculiar charm to it, a sense of hidden utility and forgotten dreams.

"Rather handy for a quick escape, or a supplies run," Jimmy quipped, noticing her wide-eyed stare. "or for when the river decides to pay a more intimate visit."

They ascended back to the main level, navigating more low-ceilinged rooms where the floors often sloped at disconcerting angles, as if the house itself was settling. The sheer volume of Jimmy's possessions was staggering. Piles of valuable paintings, some still in their packing, leaned against walls or lay half-unwrapped on the floor. Records, hundreds of them, were stacked precariously, often spilling from their sleeves, forming miniature towers of vinyl. And books - everywhere, books!

"My... library in progress," JImmy murmured, seeping a hand over a particularly sprawling pile. "I tend to acquire more than I can contain."

Lucy noticed copies of "Man, Myth, and Magic" scattered about, well-thumbed and worn. Then her gaze snagged on something grander, heavier. A huge, leather-bound volume, unmistakably the collected works of Aleister Crowley, lay open on a small, round table, a bookmark of faded ribbon marking a page. Jimmy followed her gaze, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "A man of ... varied interests," he offered, his eyes twinkling. He didn't elaborate, and Lucy didn't press.

They turned into another small, almost secret room. Here, tucked away in a corner, was the most unexpected discovery of all: a Mutoscope. It was a hand-cranked seaside peepshow, the kind you'd see on a pier, an antique relic of a bygone era. Jimmy grinned, a boyish mischief in his eyes. "For your viewing pleasure, Luce. A classic."

He cranked the handle, and a series of flickering images played out through the small lens. It was titled "A Gentleman's Downfall," featuring a lissom lass, certainly alluring, wearing not unsexy 1920s underwear. The narrative was simple, suggestive, and utterly charming in its innocence, Lucy laughed, a genuine, delighted pearl, finding herself charmed by the unexpected, slightly risque anachronism.

"You know, we could make our own version, if you would like," Jimmy said, his eyes holding a mischievous promise.

I stared up at him, not really sure what to make of his offer. "What do you mean?"

Jimmy grabbed my hand, taking me back to the living room, the one with the wall of glass, that truly captivated me. Last bits of sunlight streaming in, painting the wooden floor with warm, golden hues.

"I want to show you something," Jimmy said, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down my spine. He gestured towards a camera, a sophisticated piece of equipment perched on a tripod. I'd seen cameras around before; he often brought one on our outings, capturing candid moments with a playful ease. But this felt different, more deliberate.

"I want you to pose for me, Lucy," he said, his eyes locking onto mine. " I want to capture you, your beauty, your essence."

My heart skipped a beat. I wasn't a model, but the way he looked at me, like I was a masterpiece waiting to be unveiled, made me feel ... special. "Okay," I breathed, a nervous excitement bubbling ithin me.

He led me towards the glass wall, adjusting the tripod, fiddling with the lights. The sunlight felt warm on my skin as I struck a pose. Jimmy clicked away, the sound echoing in the spacious room. He was focused, his brow furrowed in concentration, but his eyes held a spark of something more, something that made my cheeks flush.The first few shots were easy, almost natural. He had me sitting, standing, leaning against the wall. "Look away, now look at me," he instructed, his voice soft but firm "good, now a little smile. No, a real one. Thinking of something funny. Yes, exactly like that." The camera clicked, the flash popped, and I could hear the whir of the film advancing. I felt a sense of freedom, the joy of simply existing under his attentive gaze.

He moved around me, adjusting angles, squatting, sometimes lying on the floor to get a different perspective. "Beautiful, Lucy. Just beautiful." His words were like a warm current, I started to relax, letting my expressions flow more freely.

"A little more to the left darling" he instructed, his voice soft "Now, try tilting your head ... perfect."

He was taking control, guiding me, shaping me with his gaze. It was intoxicating, this feeling of being his muse. He asked me to kneel, arms outstretched, as if I was reaching for the sky. The light caught the curve of the neck, the swell of my breasts beneath my blouse.

Then, he lowered the camera, his gaze lingering on me. "You're incredible, Luce," he said, his voice a little softer now, laced with a different kind of intensity. "But I feel like there's more. More layers to you. You're so comfortable in your own skin, so free. Let's try to capture that."

My breath hitched. I knew what he was suggesting, even if he hadn't said it outright. My cheeks flushed. "What... what exactly did you have in mind?"

"Take off your shirt," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

A jolt of surprise shot through me. This was different, more intimate than I had anticipated. I met his gaze, a playful challenge in my eyes. "And what are your intentions, Mr. Page?" I asked, my voice laced with amusement.

He simply smiled, a slow, naughty curve of his lips that sent my pulse racing. "Just be a good girl, Luce," he said, his voice husky

I hesitated for a moment, the question lingering in my mind. But the desire to please him, to surrender to his artistic vision, was too strong to resist. Slowly, I unbuttoned my blouse, the soft cotton sliding off my shoulders. The cool air kissed my skin as I tossed it aside, revealing the delicate silk of my bra.

I struck another pose, a little more daring this time, my gaze meeting him through the lens of the camera. Jimmy clicked away, the sound more rapid now, as if he couldn't get enough. He was a conductor, orchestrating my movements, my expressions.

"Now, the skirt," he said, his voice thick with anticipation.

I shimmied out of my skirt, the fabric pooling at my feet. I was standing there in my bra and panties, the sunlight painting my skin in a soft, golden glow. I felt vulnerable, exposed, but also strangely empowered.

Jimmy's eyes devoured me, his gaze lingering on every curve, every shadow. He was a man possessed, lost in the moment, captivated by the image before him. The camera clicked incessantly, capturing every nuance of my pose, every flicker of emotion on my face.

He directed me to lie on the floor, arching my back, pushing my chest forward. My breath came in ragged gasps, a mixture of nerves and excitement. I was teetering on the edge of something, a precipice of desire and vulnerability.

"I want to see all of you, Lucy," he said, his voice a raw plea. "Bare yourself for the camera."

My heart pounded in my chest. This was it, the point of no return. I wasn't sure if i could go all the way, if i could completely surrender myself to his gaze. I looked at him, searching for reassurance, for guidance.

He met my gaze, his eyes filled with a burning intensity, but also with a tenderness that melted my resistance. "trust me, darling," he whispered. "you're beautiful."

His words were like a balm, soothing my anxieties, igniting my desire. Slowly, deliberately, I reached behind my back and unclasped my bra. It fell away, revealing the full curve of my breasts, the delicate pink of my nipples, the cool air on my bare skin was invigorating, a sudden liberation. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the feeling wash over me.

When I opened them, Jimmy's eyes, visible above the camera, were burning with an intensity that was almost unbearable. He was breathing a little heavier now, the clicks of the camera coming faster, more urgent.

"Yes," he whispered, a guttural sound. "Yes, Lucy. That's it."

He had me arch my back, then lie on my stomach, peeking over my shoulder. He focused on the curve of my spine. The line of my leg. I felt completely exposed, yet utterly safe. Every click of the shutter as a confirmation of trust, a deepening of our bond. I had never felt so seen by anyone.

I lay there, naked except for my panties, my body trembling with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. The sunlight bathed me in its warm embrace, highlighting every imperfection, every vulnerability.

Jimmy was enthralled. He moved closer, his eyes fixed on me, his camera clicking incessantly. He circled me, capturing me from every angle, his gaze both possessive and reverent.

"you're magnificent," he breathed, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Truly magnificent."

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the moment, to his gaze, to the intoxicating power of his desire. I was his muse, his canvas, his masterpiece. And with each click of the camera, I felt myself falling deeper, surrendering more completely to this man.

Finally he lowered the camera, the clicks ceasing. The silence that filled the room was heavy, almost suffocating, charged with the emotional weight of what had just transpired. I lay there, still mostly undressed, my chest heaving slightly, my skin flushed.

Jimmy didn't move for a long moment, his eyes fixed on me. Then, Slowly, he placed the camera down on the table. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling.

"Lucy," he said, his voice husky, most hoarse. He walked towards me, not as the photographer anymore, but as my boyfriend. He knelt beside me, reaching out a hand, his touch feather like as he traced the line of my jaw. "You were Absolutely breathtaking."

I reached out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Jimmy," I whispered.

He leaned in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was slow, deep, and utterly tender. I let out a small gasp, only to have it muffled by Jimmy's mouth. His lips sucked at mine, taking my bottom lip between his teeth and tugging. My eyes fluttered, wavering between open and closed.

His nose nudged mine, moving down my jaw with light pecks kissing his way down the column of my neck, the stubble on his cheek scratching my skin. More kisses were laid on my neck, his toungue licking occasionally, and continued to move down to my collarbone. He sucked the skin just above it, surely leaving a mark, my breath was coming out heavily, intermixed with little whines, as my fingers tugged at his dark curls. He let out a rough moan against my skin from the pressure, nipping at me with his teeth.

He continues further down till he is at the top of my breasts, gently nipping at the skin with his teeth, flicking his tongue over the spot soothing it. I could feel my pussy becoming soaking wet, feeling the mix of pleasurable pain when he sucks and nips my breasts. Jimmy captured a nipple in his warm mouth, sucking hard, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub, making shivers run down my spine.

"Mhmm, Jimmy.." I moaned, my head rolling back and arching as Jimmy nuzzled his face between my breasts.

My hands are still tangled in Jimmy's soft hair, holding him close to my chest as he continues to leave kisses on my chest. I could feel him kissing me all over, my breasts, my stomach, and continues down until he is kissing along the waistband of my panties. I whimper as he slides them off. "You're so sexy," Jimmy lets out a deep breath as if he was holding it in, and settles himself between my spread legs.

He kisses my inner thigh brushing his rough, stubbly cheek against the soft skin, "Jimmy,” I moan, as he bites down gently on my plushy inner thigh. His tongue laps over where he had bitten, and sucks a mark into my thigh. I lift my head to look down at him and I see the marks of his teeth that he has left allmover my body. He moves over to my other thigh to give it the same treatment, then his kisses get closer and closer to my core. I was nearly shaking in excitement.

His hand comes up to spread the lips of my pussy, before leaning in, licking a wide stripe up across the spanse up to my clit. I moan shakily as he flicks his tongue at my clit, with some force as he shakes his head side-to-side, making me cry out and clamp my thighs around his head. The stubble on his jaw pricked at my thighs. I threw my head back against the floor when his lips latched onto me and sucked, hard. I tighten my grasp in his hair. He whimpers, and the vibrations to my pussy throb. My hands curled harder into his hair, tugging as the pressure in my belly rose higher and higher. I crossed my legs around the back of his neck, holding him there. One of his hands moved away from where it was lightly rubbing the outside of my thigh, coming to the inside as his mouth moved back up to my clit.

He slipped two fingers inside easily, my slick pussy taking them without protest. I could feel the edge come hurtling fast, his fingers curling inside quicker than before. My hips bucked up against his mouth, the lewd slurping noises he was making filling the room “Fuck, Jimmy, please,” I cried, rocking up against his tongue and fingers. He looked up at me, saying nothing, his lips stayed sealed around my clit for a moment before his head moved down slightly, nose now pressing against me as his tongue dipped into my hole. his hands gripping my ass, forcing me to stop bucking so wildly. "Ah! Jimmy!" I cried, my hands tugging his hair. Waves of pleasure racked my body as I came. He kept flicking my clit lazily with his tongue as I bucked lightly against him, until I couldn't take anymore and pulled his head away by the hair. He groaned at that, licking his lips, his wide eyes seeming dark.

"You taste so fucking good." Jimmy smirked, his hands undoing the buttons of his pants and slipping out of them, laying back down on me placing his hands firmly at either side of my head.

I admire the smooth lines of his body, the softness of his stomach leading down to where he’s hard and leaking. I let out a breath as his cock came into view, and ran my hand down his stomach, reaching his cock. Jimmy let out a groan as I wrapped my hand around his cock and started slowly pumping. I could feel him swelling growing even larger. I brushed my thumb over his tip and Jimmy growled, biting down on my neck . "Fuck, Lucy." He groaned, bucking his hips into my hand. He growled, suddenly grabbing my hands and pinning them above my head. He keeps one hand tangled in both of mine and uses the other to place himself by the lips of my pussy. His tip slid through the wet folds, spreading them open, teasing the head of his cock at the entrance. Then he pushes the head in, and watches intently as he slides in. I stare into JImmy's eyes, breathing hard. He was a tight fit, and moving slowly, the discomfort faded and I began to whine and rock against him. He groaned, placing his lips onto mine, dipping his tongue in and slipping it against mine. I could taste my juices on him, kissing me hard he pulled out slightly his pace slow and steady, I could feel myself falling deeper and deeper into ecstasy. "You feel so good." I moaned. With a low groan, he picked up the pace, his hips moving faster and faster. “Jimmy, fuck, oh God–!” I cry out, helpless, my orgasm hitting me like a tidal wave, the pulsing of my pussy sends him over the edge with a groan, clenching around him as he empties himself deep inside me.

Both of us breathing hard, I look into his eyes, And then, the words came, unbidden, whispered into the charged air.

“I love you,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion, trembling with the aftermath.

My own voice, raw and surprised, echoed his confession, “I love you too, Jimmy.”

It was honest, uncomplicated, breathtakingly true. It wasn't just the heat of the moment; it was a recognition, a profound knowing that had been simmering beneath the surface since we’d first met. The words felt like anchors, securing us, solidifying the new, beautiful reality unfolding around us.

We lay there for a long time afterward, tangled together on the cool, hard floorboards, the single blanket now pulled haphazardly over us for warmth. The evening light softened, painting the boathouse in hues of amber and rose. My head rested on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart, feeling the slowing rhythm of his breathing. His arm was wrapped tightly around me, holding me close, as if afraid I might float away.

“Lucy?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

“Hmm?” I hummed, too content to open my eyes.

“There’s something… there’s someone I want you to meet.”

My stomach fluttered. My mind, still hazy with the afterglow, immediately jumped to bandmates, managers, people in his professional orbit. But the way he said it, the quiet sincerity in his tone, hinted at something else entirely.

“Who?” I asked, a sliver of apprehension creeping in.

He shifted slightly, tightening his hold on me. “My mum. She lives in Epsom, where I grew up. I… I want her to meet you. Properly.”

My heart did a somersault. His mom? This was fast. Incredibly fast. We’d just declared our love to each other for the first time, and now he was talking about family? A part of me, the logical part, screamed, Too soon, Lucy!. But another part, the part that was still humming from the intimacy we’d just shared, whispered, Yes.

I pulled back just enough to look at him, my brow furrowed slightly. “Your mom? Jimmy, that’s… that’s a big step. Are you sure?”

His eyes, dark and earnest, met mine. “I’ve never felt like this before, Lucy. Never. This isn’t… this isn’t just a moment. This is… everything. And if it’s everything, then she needs to meet you. You’re important to me. The most important.” He ran a thumb over my cheekbone, a reassuring gesture. “She’s a lovely woman. She’ll adore you, I promise.”

His conviction, the sincerity in his gaze, melted my reservations. He wasn't pushing; he was simply stating a truth that felt as real as the wooden floor beneath us. How could I say no to that kind of honest vulnerability?

A small smile touched my lips. “Alright,” I said, the word a soft exhalation. “Alright, Jimmy. I’d love to meet her.”

The relief that washed over his face was palpable. He grinned, a wide, boyish grin that transformed his intense features. He squeezed me tight. “Excellent. We’ll go tomorrow.”

Later that evening, in the cozy, slightly cluttered kitchen of his childhood home, a different kind of warmth enveloped us. Jimmy had insisted on cooking dinner.

“I’m a dab hand in the kitchen, you know,” he’d declared with a confident flourish, pulling out a saucepan and some surprisingly unappetizing-looking vegetables. “Touring teaches you self-sufficiency.”

I watched, amused, as he attacked an onion with what could only be described as brutal efficiency, showering tears onto the chopping board. He then proceeded to fumble with a potato peeler, nearly taking off a finger, and then looked utterly baffled by a packet of dried pasta.

“Planning on making pasta, are we?” I ventured, trying to stifle a giggle.

“Indeed! A simple classic,” he announced, brandishing the packet. “Boil water, add pasta. Simplicity itself.”

He then filled a pot with water, put it on the hob, and waited. And waited. He didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t turned the gas on.

“Perhaps we should apply some heat, darling,” I suggested gently, reaching over to click the knob.

He flushed. “Ah, yes. Details, details.”

As the water slowly began to warm, he started on a sauce. His idea of a sauce, it turned out, involved a tin of chopped tomatoes, a truly alarming amount of garlic, and a random assortment of herbs, some of which looked suspiciously like they’d been dug up from the garden. The smell that began to emanate from the pan was… distinctive. Not bad, necessarily, but certainly not appetizing.

I leaned against the counter, watching the maestro of guitar struggling with a wooden spoon, stirring with the intensity of a man trying to conjure a magical spell. It was endearing, and utterly hopeless.

“You know,” I said, carefully, “perhaps I could… assist? Just to make sure it’s, ah, perfect.”

He looked relieved. “Would you? That would be splendid, Lucy. These vegetables are proving quite… resistant.”

I took over. Quickly. My hands moved instinctively, chopping, sautéing, adding things he would never have thought of – a pinch of salt here, a swirl of olive oil there, a dash of wine. He watched, fascinated, as I transformed his culinary chaos into something that actually smelled delicious.

“You’re a marvel,” he said, leaning against the counter, utterly mesmerized. “I had no idea you possessed such domestic wizardry.”

“Well, someone has to save us from a night of gastronomic rebellion,” I teased, stirring the now bubbling sauce. “You should stick to making tea, darling. You’re quite good at that.”

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that filled the small kitchen. “Duly noted. My talents clearly lie in other areas.”

We spent the rest of the evening in the cozy sitting room, the aroma of a surprisingly decent pasta dish lingering in the air. We were curled up on the sofa, a bottle of red wine open between us, the gentle glow of the table lamp casting long shadows. Jimmy put on some vinyl – an eclectic mix of blues, folk, and early rock ‘n’ roll. The crackle of the needle on the record, the rich, warm sound of the music, filled the space.

He talked about his childhood, about the records he’d listened to, the bands that had influenced him. I told him about my own dreams and fantasies. We talked, and we listened, and we simply were. His hand found mine on the sofa, his fingers lacing through mine, a silent, comforting connection.

Chapter Text

The late morning sun dripped like warm honey through the lace curtains of Jimmy's sitting room, Lucy, perched delicately on the edge of a velvet armchair, exclaimed "Jimmy, darling, I have a brilliant idea!" her voice bubbling with excitement.

Jimmy, sprawled across a floral chaise lounge, strummed a desultory chord on an acoustic guitar. His dark eyes, usually smoldering, were crinkled with boyish amusement. "Oh, do you now? And what's this brilliant idea, love?"

"I'm going to teach you how to drive!"

Jimmy bursts out laughing, nearly dropping his guitar. "You're going to what now? Lucy, sweet girl, you know I don't have a driver's license, right? There's a perfectly good reason for that. It's called public transportation! I live in London. We have the tube, buses, black cabs that stop on a dime. Why would I subject myself to the indignity of a driving test when I can simply glide from Soho to Kensington with a mere shilling?”

"But Jimmy," Lucy persists, her eyes sparkling mischievously, "It’s a life skill. What if you need to make a quick getaway from a horde of screaming fans? Or just go to Tesco without consulting a bus timetable?”

Jimmy sighed dramatically “My fingers are for making music, Luce, not wrestling with a gear stick. Besides," he adds with a playful smirk, "you're American. You drive on the wrong side of the road. I'm not sure I trust your driving instructions."

"Hey! My driving is impeccable, thank you very much." Lucy retorts, feigning offense. "Come on, Jimmy, it'll be fun! A little adventure."

Jimmy sighs, but a smile plays on his lips. He looked at her, truly looked at her – her determined chin, the sparkle in her eyes, the way her hair framed her face. He knew when he was beaten, especially when her stubbornness was laced with such affection. "Alright, alright. But if I end up wrapped around a lamppost, I'm blaming you."

"Deal!" Lucy claps her hands together. "While we are in Epsom let's borrow your mum's car."

Jimmy chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that Lucy found intoxicating, "sure love, we can do that... Go get ready. We've a train to catch. Epsom awaits!"

Lucy sighed, a dramatic flutter for effect. “Epsom. The mystical land where the legendary Jimmy Page learned to tie his shoelaces.”

“And where I perfected the art of dodging a good clip round the ear,” Jimmy added, already pulling on a smart jacket. “Consider it an anthropological expedition. You get to see me in my natural, unvarnished habitat.”

The train rattled along the tracks, a metal serpent slithering its way through the green English countryside. Lucy, perched beside Jimmy, fidgeted with the hem of her floral dress, a nervous habit. Epsom, the promised land of parental introductions, felt miles away, both geographically and emotionally.

"Relax, love," Jimmy murmured, his voice a soothing hum against the train's rhythmic chug. He placed a hand on her thigh, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of her dress. "Mum's going to adore you."

Lucy managed a weak smile. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one about to be interrogated about your intentions, It’s not ‘just Mum,’ Jimmy. It’s your Mom. And we’ve only been… well, not that long. What if she thinks I’m some stupid American floozy trying to snag you?”

“Darling, you’re about as floozy as a particularly well-mannered teacup. And if she thinks you’re trying to ‘snag’ me, she’ll be thrilled. She’s been trying to get me to settle down for years. Besides, it’s not like she’s expecting a grand pronouncement. Just a polite cuppa and a natter. You’ll charm her, you always do.” He grinned, flashing that famous gap-toothed smile squeezing her thigh gently. "Besides, I'll be there to run interference."

His touch was reassuring, but the nervous flutter in her stomach refused to subside. She glanced out the window, the blur of green fields doing little to calm her nerves. Jimmy's hand remained on her thigh, a comforting weight. But then, it started to move. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers began to massage, kneading the muscles beneath the fabric.

"Jimmy," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the train's rumble. "We're on a train."

He chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "So we are. Just helping you relax."

His fingers continued their exploration, inching higher, closer to the edge of her skirt. A jolt of heat shot through her, a stark contrast to the cool apprehension that had been gripping her moments before.

"Jimmy, stop it," she hissed, trying to sound stern, but her voice betrayed her. "Someone will see."

He ignored her, his fingers now tracing the outline of her panties. The sensation was electric, forbidden. She bit her lip, trying to suppress a moan. He was pushing his luck, pushing her buttons, and she was teetering on the edge of losing control.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of her dress, finding purchase against the soft cotton of her panties. He began to rub, a slow, circular motion that sent shivers down her spine.

"Jimmy!" she gasped, her eyes darting around the carriage. A few passengers glanced their way, but quickly averted their gaze, pretending not to notice.

"Relax, darling," he whispered, his voice a husky murmur in her ear. "No one's looking."

But they were, she knew they were. And even if they weren't, the sheer audacity of his actions was enough to send her into a state of flustered panic. His fingers continued their torment, and she could feel herself getting wetter, her panties clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

"Please," she pleaded, her voice barely a breath.

Jimmy's finger slipped under the fabric of her panties, running up the length of her slit, rubbing circles into her clit. Lucy's breath began to come out harder, her hand grabbing his forearm holding him in place.

Just as the train began to slow, signaling their arrival, he withdrew his hand, leaving her flushed and breathless.

"Later," he promised, a wicked glint in his eyes, kissing her cheek.

The train screeched to a halt, and the doors hissed open, releasing a flurry of passengers onto the platform. Lucy scrambled to gather her composure, smoothing down her dress and trying to ignore the lingering heat between her legs.

As they stepped onto the platform, Jimmy slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Epsom," he announced, his voice full of boyish pride.“Welcome to the land of sensible shoes and precisely trimmed hedges, Luce,” Jimmy declared, taking her hand. His touch was warm and reassuring. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour of my stomping grounds before we descend upon Mum.”

They began to walk, Jimmy’s pace easy and reminiscent. He led her through the quaint town, pointing out his old school, the local pub where he'd spent many a misspent youth, and the record shop where he'd first discovered the blues. Lucy tried to focus on his stories, but her mind kept drifting back to the train, to the forbidden thrill of his touch. He pointed out landmarks with a proprietary air, each one triggering a memory.

“See that sweet shop?” he gestured to a small, colourful storefront with rows of jarred sweets. “Mr. Henderson’s. He had a glass eye and swore he could see right into your pockets. Used to make us nervous as anything when we tried to nick a few sherbet dips.”

Lucy peered in. “Did you ever?”

Jimmy winked. “Let’s just say my allowance was spent… ethically. Mostly.”

They turned down a quiet residential street. “And this,” he announced, stopping in front of a modest semi-detached house with a vibrant rose garden, “was my greatest heartbreak. Wendy Thompson lived there. Red hair, freckles. I swore I’d marry her. Then her family moved to Guildford.” He sighed dramatically. “Never saw her again. A true tragedy for the ages.”

Lucy nudged him playfully. “I’m sure you’ve recovered.”

“Barely. Still wakes me in a cold sweat.”

Further along, they passed a small park. “The scene of many youthful skirmishes,” Jimmy mused, kicking a loose pebble. “That big oak? My sanctuary. Used to climb right to the top, pretending I was a wizard. Escaping the mundane. Or, more likely, escaping homework.” He paused, looking at the tree with a fondness that made him seem far younger than his almost 23 years. “Actually, I wrote my first proper song lyrics up there. About a dragon, I think.”

“A dragon?” Lucy raised an eyebrow.

“A particularly misunderstood dragon,” Jimmy clarified. “Deeply complex inner life, you know.”

Lucy found herself gradually relaxing. This wasn’t the intimidating rock star she sometimes felt she had to measure up to, nor was it the slightly distant figure she sometimes saw. This was Jimmy, the boy from Epsom, delightfully ordinary in his extraordinary stories. She could see where his imagination had been forged, in these quiet streets, under these very trees. The nerves began to dissipate, replaced by a genuine curiosity and even a burgeoning affection for this unvarnished version of him.

Finally, they turned a corner, and Jimmy stopped in front of a neat, slightly larger house, its small porch adorned with hanging baskets. “Right. This is it. Deep breaths. She doesn’t bite. Hard.”

Before Lucy could reply, the front door swung open, and a woman with kind, intelligent eyes and a warm smile appeared. She was dressed in a sensible, flowered apron, her hair neatly styled. This was Pat Page.

“James! Darling, you’re here!” Pat’s voice was soft, laced with a familiar British lilt, and instantly comforting. She enveloped Jimmy in a hug, then turned to Lucy, her smile widening. “And you must be Lucy! Oh, it’s so lovely to finally meet you, dear. James has told me so much.”

Lucy felt an immediate wave of relief. She was warm, welcoming, and possessed a mischievous twinkle in her eye that hinted at a shared sense of humor with her son. “It’s lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Page,” Lucy said, offering a polite handshake, which Pat quickly turned into a soft, maternal hug.

“Pat, dear. And come in, come in! I’ve put the kettle on. You must be parched after that long journey.”

The living room was exactly as Lucy imagined: cozy, filled with comfortable armchairs, family photographs on a mantelpiece, and the faint, comforting scent of tea and lemon polish. A plate of homemade shortbread sat invitingly on the coffee table.

“Make yourselves at home,” Pat insisted, bustling towards the kitchen. “Tea will be just a moment.”

Jimmy, looking visibly more relaxed himself, gave Lucy a triumphant shrug as he sank into an armchair. Lucy, feeling much lighter, took the sofa, admiring a framed photo of a much younger, rather gangly Jimmy with an enormous, slightly goofy grin.

Pat returned with a tray laden with a teapot, milk, sugar, and more biscuits. As she poured, the conversation flowed easily. Pat asked Lucy about America, about her journey to London, about her impressions of England. Lucy found herself answering honestly, charmed by Pat’s genuine interest. She even managed a few light jokes, and Pat’s soft laughter filled the room.

“So, James tells me you’re quite the musician yourself, dear,” Pat said, stirring her tea.

Lucy blushed slightly. “Oh. Nothing like Jimmy, just mainly write.”

“Nonsense!” Pat waved a dismissive hand. “He said you have some really beautiful pieces. I remember when James was first learning to play the guitar, He used to make quite a racket, didn’t you, James? Bang bang bang, all day long. Nearly drove me to distraction.”

Jimmy, who had been contentedly munching a shortbread, looked up. “Mum! It was practice. Dedication.”

“It was noise, dear. Like a runaway train in the drawing room. Sounded like a dying cat being strangled by a badger.”

Lucy choked back a laugh, pretending to cough into her teacup. Jimmy gave his mother a look of mock betrayal.

“Mum, you’re exaggerating for our guest’s amusement.”

Pat exclaimed. "Jimmy was always a creative child. Always scribbling away in his notebook."

Jimmy groaned. "Mum, please don't start."

But Pat was already off and running. "Oh, but you should see some of the things he wrote! When he was about ten, he wrote a poem about his pet hamster, Horace. It was the most dramatic thing I've ever read. Poor Horace met a tragic end, apparently devoured by a giant… well, I can't remember what it was now. But it was very dramatic."

Lucy burst out laughing, picturing a young Jimmy Page, penning an epic poem about a hamster's demise.

"Mum!" Jimmy protested, his face turning a shade of red that matched the roses in the garden. "That was a long time ago."

"Oh, don't be embarrassed, darling," Pat said, patting his hand. "It was adorable."

Jimmy buried his face in his hands. "Mum, please! You're killing me."

“Am I, dear? Do you remember that time you tried to play for the school assembly?” Pat’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “It was a rendition of ‘Three Blind Mice’ on a recorder. You were so off-key the music teacher nearly had a conniption. Said you had ‘no musical ear whatsoever.’ I kept that report card, you know.”

Jimmy’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “That was a faulty recorder! And I was seven!”

But Pat was undeterred. She regaled Lucy with tales of Jimmy's childhood escapades, each one more embarrassing and hilarious than the last. Lucy laughed until her sides ached, tears streaming down her face.

She looked at Jimmy, his face a mask of mortification, and couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for him. He might be a rock star, but underneath it all, he was still just a boy who was deeply loved by his mother.

As the afternoon wore on, Lucy felt more and more at ease. Pat's warmth and genuine affection had melted away her initial nervousness, Lucy felt as if she’d known the Page family for years. Pat was everything Jimmy had promised and more – sweet, funny, discerning, and utterly devoid of any pretension. She simply saw James, her son, and loved him, glorious embarrassments and all.

Even Jimmy seemed to relax, his embarrassment gradually giving way to amusement as he listened to his mother's stories. He knew he couldn't stop her, so he might as well embrace the chaos.

As they prepared to leave, Jimmy pipped up "Mum, Lucy here has this wild idea that she's going to teach me how to drive," a hint of apprehension in his voice.

His mother, a kind-faced woman with a twinkle in her eye, chuckles. "Well, James, it's about time you learned. Always relying on others to get you around." She turns to Lucy, "You be careful with him, dear. He's a bit of a wild one."

Pat pulled Lucy into a warm embrace. "It was so lovely meeting you, dear," she said. "You're a breath of fresh air. You must come visit again soon."

"I'd love that," Lucy replied. Pat giving her the keys to her Morris Minor. The car, a vintage beauty with a charmingly outdated interior, feels like a time capsule. Lucy takes the driver's seat, giving Jimmy a quick refresher on the basics before switching places.

"Okay, Jimmy, remember, stay on the left," Lucy reminds him, her voice laced with mock seriousness. "And watch out for roundabouts. They're like a swirling vortex of confusion."

Jimmy nods, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. He starts the engine, and the car sputters to life. "Right, left, vortex of confusion. Got it."

They pull out of the driveway, and immediately, chaos ensues as predicted, a symphony of vehicular distress. The car bucked and stalled with alarming regularity, protesting loudly with every grinding gear change Jimmy attempted.

“Alright,” Lucy instructed, gripping the door handle. “Clutch in, first gear. Now, slow and steady on the clutch, give it a little gas…”

Stall.

“Blast it all!” Jimmy exclaimed, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Okay, okay,” Lucy soothed, trying to remember her own driving lessons from back home. “Ease off the clutch… and remember to stay in your lane! Keep centered.”

Jimmy, about to attempt another hesitant lurch forward, paused. “My lane? Luce, darling, you keep trying to drift me into oncoming traffic! We drive on the left here. The left.” He gestured emphatically. “You keep telling me to center myself, and my instincts are screaming ‘crash!’”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh, right! Left! Just… stay to the correct side, whatever that means here, alright? Don’t hit anything British.”

Jimmy, still getting used to the feel of the car and the unfamiliar side of the road, swerves slightly, narrowly missing a parked bicycle.

"Whoa, easy there, Speedy Gonzalez!" Lucy exclaims, her eyes wide. "Remember, gentle with the gas pedal."

"I'm being gentle!" Jimmy protests, his voice a bit strained. "This bloody thing is like driving a tractor."

As they navigate the narrow streets of Epsom, Jimmy's driving becomes a comedy of errors. He forgets to signal, takes corners too wide, and nearly stalls at every stop sign. Cars honk their horns in protest, and Lucy can't help but burst into laughter.

"Oh, Jimmy, you're a natural!" she teases, wiping tears from her eyes.

"Very funny," Jimmy mutters, his face flushed. "Just try to be a bit more helpful and a bit less… hysterical."

At one point, they approach a roundabout, and Jimmy's eyes widen in panic. "Okay, okay, remember what you said. Vortex of confusion. How do I escape the vortex?"

"Just yield to the cars on your right, and merge when it's clear," Lucy instructs, trying to keep a straight face.

But Jimmy, in his moment of panic, misjudges the speed of an oncoming car and pulls out into the roundabout. The other car slams on its brakes, and its driver leans out the window, yelling obscenities that Lucy pretends not to understand.

"Jimmy!" Lucy cries, grabbing his arm. "What was that?"

"I panicked!" Jimmy exclaims, his voice rising. "It was the vortex! It sucked me in!"

Despite the near-misses and the constant honking, they somehow manage to make it to a secluded park on the outskirts of town. What should have been a 15-minute drive has turned into a harrowing 30-minute ordeal. They park the car under the shade of a large oak tree, both of them a bit shaky and still laughing.

"Well," Lucy says, taking a deep breath, "that was… eventful."

"Eventful is one word for it," Jimmy replies, running a hand through his hair. "I think I aged about ten years in the last half hour."

Lucy leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek "It wasn't that bad."

They get out of the car Jimmy slipped his arm around Lucy's waist. and walk towards the center of the park, their laughter echoing through the trees. The park is a haven of tranquility, a world away from the chaos of the road. They stroll along a winding path, admiring the lush greenery and the colorful flowerbeds.

Eventually, they reach a massive, ancient tree, its branches reaching towards the sky like gnarled fingers. They sit down at its base, leaning against the rough bark. The air is filled with the scent of wildflowers and the gentle hum of insects.

"So," he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "What did you think about meeting my mum? Was it as bad as you imagined?"

Lucy laughed. "Worse. And better. Your mum is amazing."

"She is, isn't she?" Jimmy said, his voice full of affection. "And now that you've survived the parental initiation, I think you deserve a reward."

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear. "Remember that promise I made you on the train?"

Lucy shivered, the memory of his touch flooding back to her. "I do," she whispered.

"Well," he said, his voice husky with desire. "I intend to keep it."

He leans in and kisses her, a gentle, tender kiss that speaks volumes. Lucy responds with equal passion, her arms wrapping around his neck. The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more demanding.

They break apart, breathless and flushed, their eyes filled with a longing that cannot be denied. "I think you're the one who deserves a reward after indulging me in my driving lessons." Lucys whispered.

She kissed him, her lips crashed against his, demanding more. His hands slid to her lower back, drawing her closer, sending shivers of anticipation through her. She found her hands roaming over him, feeling the heat radiate off him beneath his clothes as they kissed, tongues sliding in a rhythm of shared urgency. It was raw and frantic, their breaths coming out in shallow gasps. His hands palmed her breasts, through her shirt, a moan leaving her lips. It was too much, making her ache with need.

She slid her hand to his chest, pushing him back against the tree. He responded immediately, pulling her closer, practically into his lap, desperate for more. She could feel how hard he was beneath her. All she wanted to do, was pull his pants down and slide down his hard cock, but this wasn't about her pleasure, it was about his.

She slid off his lap and on her knees between his spread legs. Her hand sliding down his chest till she reached the top of his pants. fingers undoing the buttons on his pants and sliding her hand in, meeting his hot, bare skin and the hard length of his cock, giving a stroke.

He groaned, his hand reaching out to stop her. “Luce…” He was fighting for both sanity and air. “We shouldn’t… its too public, there's—”

She gave him another smooth stroke, adjusting the pressure.

He dragged in another shaky breath, “people… could see.” She wrapped her hand around his thick cock and stroked him firmly, swiping her thumb across the swollen head spreading the pre-cum.

His whole body shuddered, hips twitching, jerking into her hand despite the barrier of his pants.

As she was trying to tug his pants down further, his hand caught her wrist.

She looked up at him, her lip caught between her teeth, her eyes drifting down to his pants, "Do you want this, Jimmy?", her voice soft. She stroked him slow and dilberate.

He groaned low, a shudder going through him, his eyes looking fierce and electric, his head thumbing against the tree. It was an exquisite site.

The risk of being seen still lingered but he was too far gone, she angled herself carefully, shielding him from view as much as possible

She removed her hand and pulled down his pants over his ass. His cock pointed straight up, stiff and swollen, There was no mistaking how he was aching with need. It was such an intoxicating sight that her mouth watered.

She took ahold of him again with a firm grip and leaned forwarded, tongue darting out to taste the cum that was leaking down the tip. Giving it a little kiss, she moved her tongue down the length of him, tracing the ridge, before moving back up swirling her tongue around the tip.

He was muttering something under his breath that she couldn't make out. As she looked up at him she saw him watching her, captivated, dark and hungry.

Her fingers gripped him tighter feeling him throb. She stroked him, slow and steady as her lips parted taking him into her mouth, sucking. His thighs tensed, hips jerked forward, and a moan left his lips.

As her hand was continue moving, she pulled her head back and looked up at him. "Better stay quiet if you don't want us to get caught."

he squeezed his eyes shut and a sharp breath seemed to be caught in his throat as he tried to reign in some control. He twined his fingers through her hair, moving her head back down, guiding her forward, desperate to feel her mouth on him again.

She opened her mouth a little wider accepting more of his cock in. He tasted of unmistakable salt and musk and as she slid further down she couldn't help but get even wetter than she already was. She started moving up and down, her lips sliding further with each pass. his breathing was ragged and he was trying not to jerk his cock into the back of her throat. Her cheeks were hollowing with the force of the suction and her hand was moving in tandem with her mouth, he groan again, and the sound made her panties completely soaked. She let out a groan of her own, the sound vibrating his cock. Jimmy froze, and she knew he was close to the edge.

“Shit… fuuuck. Luce” Jimmy's voice cracked, and he bit his hand to prevent anymore noises.

She moved one hand down to cup his balls, massaging them with her fingers, feeling the weight of them. His posture stiffened and his hips jerked. She knew he was about to cum. She worked him faster, her mouth moving to just the tip sucking harder while her hand was moving up his shaft.

Jimmy's breath caught Letting out a deep strangled groan, hips thrusting weakly against her hand and mouth as if he were trying to bury himself deeper. his release came with overwhelming force flooding into her mouth. Hot thick spurts coating her tongue rope after rope and She swallowed hungrily.

She sucked the head one final time giving it a lick and pulled away. His cock falling from her mouth with a wet pop noise.

She could feel how aroused she was, her nipples were hard and her core aching for him to fill her.

"Wow," Jimmy breathes, his gaze fixed on her lips.

"Wow is right."

He leans in this time, the kiss sweet, a simple thank you. Their bodies press together, their hearts pounding in unison. The sun had begun setting and shadows were dancing across the park, Jimmy and Lucy remain entwined beneath the ancient tree, lost in their own little world. The disastrous driving lesson has faded into a distant memory, replaced by the intoxicating reality of what just happened. Eventually they gathered themselves and headed for the train station.

Chapter Text

The first time JImmy asked me to play for him, I nearly choked on my tea. It wasn't a direct question, of course, not from Jimmy. He was far too perceptive, too attuned to the subtle vibrations of a person's soul, to ever be so blunt. Instead, he'd been tracing patterns on the back of my hand, our fingers laced together on my sofa, the late afternoon sun spilling gold across my worn rug.

"You know," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic rumble, "I'd love to hear some of your own compositions sometime. The ones you keep hidden away."

My heart had skipped a beat, then hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I laughed, a little too hard, and pulled my hand away to fetch another cookie. "Oh, it's nothing you'd be interested in."

He simply smiled, a knowing, gentle curl of his lips, and let the subject drop. That was Jimmy. He understood the art of patience, the quiet dance of give and take. He never pushed, never prodded, but his gaze, when it rested on me, was full of an unshakeable curiosity, a deep desire to understand every facet of my being.

He knew I wrote music for other artists, My compositions were out there, interpreted by others, gaining acclaim under different names. But the idea of performing my own work, for anyone, let alone for him, was a foreign concept.

My piano sat like a silent sentinel in my music room, a sacred space I rarely allowed anyone to enter. It was where I poured out my vulnerabilities, my joys, my sorrows, where the music flowed unfettered from my mind. It was my sanctuary. To share that, to expose that raw, unfiltered part of myself, felt like baring my soul on a public stage.

Jimmy, being the musician that he was, couldn't help but be intrigued. He saw me compose, seen the intensity in my eyes as I scribbled in my notebook, but he never witnessed the translation into living sound. He'd bring it up again, weeks later, sitting on the floor of my bedroom, flipping through one of my old notebooks.

"This one," he murmured, his finger tracing the lines. "It deserves to be heard, Luce. The marks have a intriguing vibe to them."

I'd just shrugged, pretending to be engrossed in cleaning up "Maybe someday," I replied.

He didn't press. He never did. But his quiet persistence, his unspoken belief in me, chipped away at my resolve, brick by agonizing brick. He saw me, truly saw me, beyond the polite smiles and carefully constructed facade. And deep down, I knew that if there was anyone in the world I could trust with such an intimate revelation, it was Jimmy. His art is a testament to his honesty. He understood the vulnerability of creation.

The thought lingered, a quiet hum beneath the surface of my consciousness. Could I? Should I? For him?

Then came that night. Just a typical night in my flat. The kitchen, usually a place of quick meals and hastily brewed coffee, was transformed. The aroma of roasted chicken, thyme, and garlic filled the air, I lit candles, Their flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls, and put on an old jazz record, the kind that whispers rather than shouts.

Jimmy, opened another bottle wine and filled out glasses. "Smells divine, my love," he said, kissing my temple. "you've outdone yourself."

We sat at my small dining table, the candlelight glinting off the flatware. The conversation flowed effortlessly, as it always did with Jimmy. By the time dessert came, we were quite tipsy.

After dinner, plates abandoned, we drifted into the living room, drawn by the soft glow of the candlelight and the lingering music. Jimmy changed the record, slipping on something with a slow, bluesy groove, the kind that makes your hips sway almost involuntarily. He held out a hand, his eyes sparkling.

"Dance with me, Luce," he invited.

I took his hand, and he pulled me gently into his arms. We moved slowly at first, a languid shuffle, then with more freedom as the music swelled. I rested my head on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear, his fingers tracing patterns on my back. We talked less, simply were, moving as one, losing ourselves in the music, the wine, and the profound comfort of each other's presence. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only the soft lamplight, the soulful saxophone, and the comforting embrace of jimmy's arms.

The dancing led, inevitably, to the bath. He drew the water, steaming and fragrant with lavender, and helped me out of my clothes, kissing my skin as it was revealed. In the soft light of the bathroom everything felt sacred. we sank into the warm depths, the water caressing our skin, the steam rising around us like a gentle mist.

I leaned back against his chest, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm draped loosely around my waist, drawing patterns on my skin. His breath stirred my hair, and the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat a steady lullaby against my back. We didn't speak for a long time, just luxuriated in the shared warmth, the quiet intimacy.

It was in that moment, with the last vestiges of my carefully constructed walls dissolving under the influence of wine, music, and jimmys unwavering love, that the words simply slipped out.

"I want to show you something," I whispered, my voice fragile but firm

Jimmy tensed slightly behind me, a silent question in the sudden stillness of his body. He tightened his arm around me, a silent affirmation, a promise of presence.

We stayed in the bath a few minutes longer, letting the decision settle, letting the courage solidify. Then, with a soft sigh, we rose from the water, the air chilling our wet skin. We dried each other off, lingering over every touch, every gentle stroke of the towel. He wrapped a soft, oversized bathrobe around me, then donned his own.

My heart was thrumming in my chest, a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration. This was it. The moment I had both dreaded and secretly yearned for. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my shaking hands.

"Come on," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, and took his hand. My fingers intertwined with his, and I felt the strength and warmth of his grip, a silent reassurance.

I led him, not to the bedroom as he might have expected, but down the short hallway toward the double doors that led to my music room. Jimmy's hand tightened in mine, a noticeable jolt in his reaction, a silent gasp of recognition. I could feel his surprise, his awe, his understanding of what this moment truly meant.

My music room, usually kept dim and cloistered, glowed softly in the faint light filtering in from the hallway. The piano sat in the center, it's polished wood gleaming. Before I could lose my nerve, I turned to him, my eyes probably overly bright, my cheeks flushed from the wine and the bath.

"Sit," I commanded, a mischievous glint in my eyes, the wine giving me a playful boldness I rarely possessed. He looked at me, a mixture of disbelief and utter tenderness on his face. I gave him a gentle, drunken push towards the large, plush armchair that faced the piano. He sank into it, his gaze anticipation.

I walked to the piano, sliding onto the polished bench, my fingers hovering over the keys. I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a shaky breath, letting the moment wash over me. Then, I opened them and looked at Jimmy. His eyes were soft, encouraging, utterly devoid of any judgement.

And then, I began to play.

It was a piece I had written recently, a spontaneous outpouring of joy and wonder that had surprised even me. It was pure light, pure exuberance. My fingers usually so precise and controlled moved with a freedom, a wild, untamed grace. THe music bloomed from the keys, a cascade of bright, shimmering notes that filled the room.

It was, as I'd hoped, beautiful. It sounded like sunlight filtering through stained glass windows, like the first blush of spring after a long winter, like the unfurling of a rose petal in slow motion. Melodies dance and wove together, light and airy. It was everything good and pure and hopeful that I felt inside. The music swelled, then softened, drifting to a delicate close.

I glanced up at my gaze finding Jimmys. His face was a study in profound awe. His eyes, usually so sharp and knowing, were wide, almost glassy, reflecting the candle light and the music. He wasn't just listening, he was absorbing every note, every emotion. I could see the understanding dawning in his eyes, the realization that this was a piece of me, laid bare specifically for him.

Silence descended, a heavy, revenant hush. My hands trembled, resting on the keys, and my breath hitched. Jimmy was out of the armchair, standing a few feet from the piano, his gaze still fixed on me, intense and unblinking.

Then, he moved. He walked towards me ,a slow, deliberate approach, his eyes never leaving mine. He didn't say a word, didn't need to. The emotion radiating from him was palpable, a wave of tenderness and profound admiration. He reached the piano, and without breaking eye contact, he gently scooped me up.

I gasped, my legs leaving the floor, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He held me close, so close I could feel the rapid thump of his heart against my chest, echoing my own. He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply, and I felt the tremor that ran through his body.

Then, still holding me in his arms, he turned and walked out of the music room, leaving the silence behind. He carried me, cherishingly, purposefully toward the bedroom.

He set me down gently on the edge of the bed, his hands still on my waist, his eyes dark with a hunger that was as much emotional as it was physical. He kissed me then, not with urgency, but with a deep, consuming devotion that promised everything. It was a kiss that honored the music, the trust, the raw beauty of the moment. It was a kiss that pledged a future.

His hands went to the belt of the bathrobe I was wearing, untying it, and pushing the robe off me. I did the same, wanting to feel his skin beneath my fingers. He climbed on top of me pushing me further up the bed.

His lips ran down my neck, tasting as much of my skin as he could, he always loved kissing my neck, I'm sure was something spurred on by always wearing the necklace he gave me. It set something ablaze in him, some sort of possession that would make him groan seeing it, just like now, when his kisses became hot and wet, searing the skin on my collarbone and the hollow of my neck, right beside where the necklace sat and let the world know I was his.

When he pulled back, Jimmy ran his thumb over the bottom of my lip, his eyes holding a look of worship, like he couldn't believe I was lying here beneath him. My tongue peaked out circling the tip of his thumb, wanting more. Jimmy moved his thumb and crushed his lips to mine, devouring me. His lips traveled back down my neck, to my collarbone, further down to my breasts. I couldn't believe how short and ragged my breaths were coming out as He ran his hand over one of my breasts, while slowly taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking till he pulled away leaving it hard and red and moved to the other one doing the same.

I ran my hands through his hair, over and over, sending little chills down his spine, He was going so slow, every kiss against my flesh exaggerated the fire that was burning within me. I could feel his lips and hands everywhere. I couldn't take the torture anymore and pushed him to the side climbing into his lap. Jimmy looked up at me in surprise, but I just leaned back down and kissed him, our tongues battling with each other for control. His hands continued to wander over my body, running up my back to tug at the ends of my hair gently, then they ran down my sides exploring the skin there. The grabbing at my thighs feeling the meatiness, then to my ass, guiding me against him. I could feel how hard he was. Jimmy slid a finger along my center, feeling the wetness, throwing my head back as he circled my clit, "Jimmy, please." I moaned, “I feel like I could explode just from your touch.”

Jimmy groaned, my juices drenching his fingers “Don’t let me stop you.” She had no idea what her words were doing to him. He was throbbing and there was this beautiful woman on his lap, naked and wanting. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, gently pushing me onto my back and began his trail of kisses down my stomach.

I spread my legs further as he put his face between them, taking a deep breath before placing a kiss on my swollen lips.

“Oh...God,” I breathed heavily.

He lapped his tongue slowly through my slit. He didn't seem to be in any rush, his tongue circling my nub, pulling it into his mouth. The slow torture turning into a delightful pain. He pointed his tongue and pressed it just inside my opening and licked his way up, fattening it just as he reached my clit again. I let out a loud moan feeling the full pressure of it. Keeping his tongue flat and wide, he licked from my hole to clit over and over. I was going crazy needing a release, writhing and squirming, begging.

“Jimmy...please...”

My begging didn't appear to be doing anything. Instead he moved up laying down beside me and kissed me urgently on the lips, his tongue entwining with mine demanding that I taste myself. With his left arm under my body wrapping around me, pushing as close as possible. He pushed two fingers inside me and fucked as hard and as fast as he could until my orgasm racked through my body. As I was catching my breath, I looked at Jimmy's face, His eyes were dark and his mouth was wet, a smile gracing his lips, the juxtaposition of his adoration with how filthy he could be made me clench my thighs together in anticipation

Jimmy pulled my leg over his hip, positing his cock at my entrance. He rubbed the tip over my lips soaking it in my juices. I gasped as he pushed in and stretched me, “Oh God," I breathe out as he pushed further inside, my hands gripping his shoulders and running down his arms, trying to ground myself.

Jimmy stilled "are you okay?"

“yes. it just feels”— Wrapping my leg around his waist tighter, I gasped as he went in deeper. —“so fucking good.”

Jimmy groaned, “You’re just—God, you’re perfect. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

I pressed my hips forward, urging him on “I’m not perfect,” I said, and Jimmy tilted my head up, forcing me to make eye contact with him.

“You’re perfect for me,” he said firmly, and then he slammed his lips against mine taking my breath away. He started moving inside me, our hips moving together, my fingers tangling in his hair.

There was a desperation to the way we consumed one another, as if we never wanted this to end. Jimmy’s cock grinding deep inside reaching places that I swore I would remember forever. I could feel every inch of him - every inch of his love - inside, outside of me, his hands holding me like I was so beloved to him, his lips kissing every inch of skin he could reach.

My orgasm came rushing through me, the pleasure rolling over me as a heat engulfed my body setting me on fire. I could feel my pussy squeezing tightly around him, my legs trembling, gasping into his mouth "Jimmy," biting down on his lip, he groaned too, his hips stuttering, cumming deep inside me, kissing his symbol around my neck.

Chapter Text

The world, for Lucy and Jimmy had shrunk to a perfect, sun-drenched sphere where only they existed. Weeks had melted into a hazy few months of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and the thrilling electricity of new love. They’d spent countless hours intertwined on Jimmy’s plush sofa, music always humming softly in the background, or exploring forgotten corners of London, their hands always finding each other.

Then, the phone rang. The incessant ringing, shrill and insistent, sound against the backdrop of a perpetually grey London morning, had cut through the hazy, afternoon like a jagged shard of glass. Lucy, curled on the worn velvet armchair in her flat, a half-read paperback forgotten on her lap, startled. She unwound herself slowly, her limbs protesting, as she stretched. Her fingers, still stained faintly from last night’s charcoal sketch, trembled as she lifted it. She’d answered, a bright, cheerful “Hello?” on her lips, a voice on the other end, distant and strained, but oh so familiar, had delivered news that shattered her world into a million irreparable pieces.

Her adopted parents. A car crash. Gone. Just like that. No goodbyes, no final words, no last hugs. The receiver slipped from her numb fingers, clattering against the wall before dangling precariously by its cord, the dial tone a mocking, endless drone in the sudden, echoing silence of her flat.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply dissolved. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the wall, an amorphous heap of limbs and despair. The threadbare rug felt rough against her skin, but she barely registered it. Hours blurred into an indistinguishable mass of time. The morning light faded, replaced by the bruised purple of an early London dusk. The flat grew cold, the silence immense, broken only by the frantic hammering of her own heart.

Her parents. Gone. Just like that. The two constants in her life, the anchors, the safety net, severed. The sheer, brutal finality of it pressed down on her chest, stealing her breath. She saw their faces, a montage of sun-kissed smiles, gentle hands, an unwavering belief in her, in their Lucy. And now, nothing. A vast, terrifying emptiness where their love had been.

It was the cold that finally jolted her, a shiver running through her core that had nothing to do with the unheated flat. She had to move. She couldn’t stay like this, a ghost wrapped in her own grief. She needed to do something, anything, to ground herself.

With a monumental effort, she pushed herself up, her muscles stiff and protesting. Her reflection in the hallway mirror was a stranger – haunted eyes, tear streaks drying on hollowed cheeks, hair a tangled mess. This wasn’t Lucy, the girl who had arrived in London with stars in her eyes and a hunger for artistic freedom. This was a broken doll.

The shower was scalding, almost painful, a deliberate act of self-flagellation masking as cleansing. The water hammered against her skin, washing away the grime of despair, but not the deep-seated ache. She scrubbed herself raw, as if she could erase the news, scrub away the last few hours. She let the water run over her face, masking the wellspring of tears that finally, belatedly, began to flow. They mixed with the steam, hot and silent, a testament to a grief too vast to contain.

When she emerged, raw and red, the flat felt even colder. She pulled on the first clothes she could find, a thick, oversized wool sweater the colour of storm clouds, and a pair of fitted black petal pants that clung to her like a second skin. It was an outfit as bleak and grey as the weather outside, a somber uniform for a somber purpose.

Two weeks. That was all she had left of her study abroad program, two weeks of London, of cobbled streets and smoky pubs, of the vibrant, beating heart of a city that had become her second home. More importantly, two weeks of Jimmy. They had been inseparable, a whirlwind romance, nurtured over late-night talks and stolen kisses in Kensington Gardens. Their bliss had been so complete, so all-consuming, that the looming end of her program had simply… vanished. It hadn’t been discussed, not truly. It was an inconvenience for a future that felt impossibly far away, a problem for another day. Now, that day had arrived, cloaked in black.

She had to go home. To America. For the funeral. To sort through the wreckage of a life that was no longer hers to simply live, but to manage, to dismantle, to mourn. And it meant saying goodbye to the one person she couldn’t bear to leave, the one person who had made the last few weeks a living, breathing dream. The thought twisted in her gut, a sharp, nauseating pain. How could she? How could she walk away from something so potent, so beautiful, especially now, when she was so utterly broken? But she had to. She knew, with a chilling clarity, that the life she’d built, the dreams she’d chased, the love she’d found, were no longer sustainable. Her place was back home, with the shattered remnants of her family, in the quiet, grieving comfort of Mississippi. London, with its vibrant chaos and its rock and roll dreams, felt like a cruel joke now.

The walk to Jimmy’s flat was a blur. The familiar streets, usually bustling with life and vibrant colours, seemed muted, distant. Her feet moved on autopilot, one heavy step after another, her mind a chaotic maelstrom of grief and dread. Each breath felt like a physical effort, a sharp, painful intake of air.

She stopped at his doorstep, the rain beginning to fall, cold and insistent. Her hand trembled as she lifted it, her knuckles brushed against the polished wood, hesitated, then knocked. Three firm raps.

A moment later, the door swung open, revealing Jimmy. His dark hair, a glorious tangle, fell across his eyes. He was wearing a soft, worn shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. A wide, easy smile bloomed on his face, the kind that always made her heart flutter. His eyes lit up, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Lucy! Early bird, are we? Come in, love, I was just—” His words died in his throat. His smile faltered, replaced by a deep furrowing of his brow. His eyes, sharp and perceptive, took in her rain-damp hair, her pale, ravaged face, the bleakness of her clothing, the profound emptiness in her eyes.

“Lucy? What is it? What’s wrong?” He reached for her, his concern palpable, immediate. He reached out, not playfully, but with a tentative, almost reverent touch, cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed a tear she hadn’t even realized had escaped.

His expression shifted, from concern to alarm. Without another word, he pulled her inside, closing the door gently behind them. He didn’t ask again. Instead, he simply wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, so close that her face was pressed against his chest, her ears filled with the steady, comforting beat of his heart. It was a long, tight hug, the kind that offered silent solace, a silent acknowledgement of a pain too profound for words. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, her own body shaking with suppressed sobs. She felt the warmth of his hand stroking her hair, a quiet comfort in the storm.

After a long moment, he gently loosened his hold, but kept an arm around her, guiding her into the living room. The room was a familiar sanctuary: overflowing bookshelves, scattered records, a worn sofa, and the faint, comforting scent of old paper and patchouli. He steered her towards the sofa, easing her down.

“Stay there, love. I’ll make us some tea. Strong tea,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. He disappeared into the small kitchen, leaving her alone in the quiet room.

Lucy sat there, numb. Her gaze drifted around the familiar space, trying to piece out her life, trying to make sense of the sudden, brutal rupture. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the distant clatter of cups from the kitchen. Her mind replayed the phone call, the detached voice, the horrific words. Car crash. Instantaneous.

Jimmy returned a few minutes later, two steaming mugs in his hands. He set one down on the coffee table in front of her, the other on a coaster beside him as he sat down, close beside her, and pulled a blanket around her.

“Here, drink this. It’ll help,” he said, his voice gentle. He watched her, his expression a mixture of patience and quiet dread. He knew, he must have known, that something truly awful had happened.

Lucy picked up the mug, her hands trembling, the warmth seeping into her cold fingers. She took a shaky sip. The warmth spread through her, a small comfort. She stared at the swirling patterns of the tea leaves, trying to find the words, to articulate the unspeakable.

“Jimmy,” she began, her voice a raw whisper, thick with unshed tears. “I… I got a call.”

He waited, his gaze unwavering, his hand reaching out to gently rest on her knee.

“My parents,” she choked out, the words catching in her throat. “My adopted parents. They… they were in a car crash. They’re gone.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Jimmy’s hand tightened on her knee, his face paling. His eyes, widened, clouded with shock and sorrow.

“Oh, Lucy. Oh, my God. I’m so, so sorry, love,” he murmured, his voice thick with genuine grief. He pulled her close again, holding her as she finally let the tears fall, hot and relentless against his shirt. He held her, stroking her hair, murmuring reassurances, letting her cry. “I’m so sorry, Luce. So incredibly sorry. What can I do? Anything. Anything you need.”

She pulled back, her eyes fixed on his, the flicker of resolve she’d found earlier hardening into a steel-like certainty. This was the hardest part.

“I have to go home, Jimmy,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though it felt like a stranger’s. “I have to go back to Mississippi. For the funeral. For… for everything.”

Jimmy nodded slowly, his expression still etched with profound sadness. “Of course, love. Of course you do. I understand. How long do you think you’ll be? A month? I can come visit, of course. As soon as I can get away. We’ll make it work, darling. You’ll be back here in London before you know it. We’ll pick up right where we left off.” He tried to smile, a weak, hopeful attempt to reassure her, and himself.

Lucy closed her eyes, a fresh wave of pain washing over her. This was the hardest part. “No, Jimmy,” she said, her voice barely audible. “You don’t understand. I’m not coming back.”

The words hung in the air, shattering the fragile hope he had built. Jimmy froze. His arm, which had been wrapped around her, tensed. He pulled back slightly, his eyes wide, disbelieving.

“What? What do you mean, ‘not coming back’?” he asked, his voice sharp with sudden alarm. “Lucy, don’t be ridiculous. This is your home now. You’re just upset. You’re not thinking straight.” He reached for her, a desperate plea in his eyes. “Look, I know this is a shock. A terrible, terrible shock. But don’t make any rash decisions. Go home. Do what you need to do there. I’ll be here. Waiting. This can be a short break. A few weeks, maybe a month, for you to… to get things sorted. To heal. And then you come back. We’ll pick up right where we left off. This… this changes nothing about us. It can’t.”

His words, intended to soothe, to comfort, ignited a spark of fury within her. He was trying to minimize it, to put a neat little band-aid on a gaping wound. He was talking about them, about their future, when her past had just been obliterated.

“A short break?! Thinking straight?!” she snarled, the words spitting out of her, laced with a bitterness she hadn’t known she possessed. Her voice rose, raw and trembling with suppressed rage fueled by exhaustion and despair. “Are you listening to me, Jimmy?! My parents are dead! I just lost the only family I’ve ever truly known! I have a funeral to plan! I have a house to go through! A life to put back together, for Christ’s sake! I have to start over."

“Start over? Start over without me? Lucy, no! You can’t just… you can’t just leave!” He stood up, pacing the small space in front of the sofa, his movements agitated, his hands running through his hair. “We only just found each other! Don’t you remember? All those nights, all those talks, all the plans we made?"

“Plans? Jimmy, what plans? We never even talked about me leaving in two weeks, let alone forever!” she retorted, her voice cracking. “We were living in a bubble! A beautiful, wonderful bubble, but it was just that – a bubble! And now it’s burst!”

He stopped pacing, turning to face her, his eyes blazing with a mixture of hurt and anger. “So that’s it? It was just a bubble to you? Just a bit of fun while you were on holiday? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No! Don’t you dare put words in my mouth!” she shot back, tears streaming down her face again. “This is not about fun! This is my life, Jimmy! My entire life has just been ripped apart! I can’t just stay here and pretend everything is fine!”

“And what about us, Lucy? What about us?” he demanded, his voice rising, raw with desperation. “Are you just going to forget about me? Forget about everything we shared? I won’t accept that! I won’t let you just walk away!”

“Why are you being so selfish?!” she screamed, leaping to her feet, facing him now, tear-streaked face to tear-streaked face. “Don’t you understand the magnitude of what’s happened? My parents are dead! I have nothing left there! I have to go back and figure out who I am without them! I can’t do this anymore! I can’t be half a world away, trying to maintain some impossible long-distance relationship when my entire world has just imploded! My time here was coming to an end anyway! It wasn’t going to work out, Jimmy! It was never going to work out!”

“So that’s it? You’re just giving up? Just like that?” His voice was hoarse, choked with emotion. “You’re just going to throw us away because things got difficult? I thought you were stronger than that, Lucy! I thought we were stronger than that! I showed you my life, Lucy! I let you in! I fell in love with you! Don’t you dare say it meant nothing!”

“Don’t you dare question my strength, Jimmy!” she sobbed, her hands clenching into fists. “I am barely holding myself together right now! I am broken! And you’re standing here, making it about you! About us! I have a funeral to plan! I have a house to clear out! I have a life to rebuild! I can’t do it with you here, begging me to stay, making me feel guilty!”

He reached out, trying to grab her hands, but she pulled away. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, Lucy! I’m trying to make you see reason! I love you! Do you hear me? I love you!” His voice broke on the last word, tears streaming freely down his face now, mirroring hers. “Please, don’t leave me. We’ll figure it out. We always do. I’ll come with you. I’ll come to America. Whatever it takes. Just don’t leave.”

His words, so sincere, so raw, twisted a knife in her already shattered heart. She looked at him, truly looked at him, the man she had fallen so deeply, irrevocably in love with. The pain in his eyes was unbearable. She knew, with a terrible certainty, that if she let him, he would follow her, he would cling to this, and it would only drag them both down. She couldn’t ask that of him. Not now. Not when she had nothing left to give. He needed to move on. He needed to forget her. And there was only one way to ensure that.

Taking a shaky breath, Lucy forced herself to meet his gaze, summoning a strength she didn’t know she possessed. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside her.

“No, Jimmy,” she said, the words tasting like poison on her tongue. “You don’t understand. I don’t love you. I never have.”

The words landed like a physical blow. Jimmy reeled back, his face crumpling, his eyes widening in disbelief, then hardening with a pain so profound it was almost physical. The tears on his face seemed to freeze. A flicker of something died in his eyes, replaced by a devastating emptiness.

He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her, his expression a mask of utter devastation.

Lucy couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. “I can’t do this anymore!” she cried, the last vestige of her anger crumbling, leaving behind only raw, unadulterated pain. Her voice broke, a pathetic gasp. Her shoulders slumped, and she brought her hands to her face, finally succumbing to the full, overwhelming weight of everything. The screaming had been too much, the confrontation too much, the sheer, unbearable reality of her parents’ death too much.

She wasn’t angry anymore. She was just… broken.

“I can’t,” she sobbed, the words muffled by her hands, her body shaking uncontrollably. “I just… I can’t. I have to go home.”

She turned, blindly, stumbled towards the door. Jimmy stood frozen, his anger draining away, leaving a hollow ache. He watched her, wanted to reach for her, to pull her back, to beg her to stay, but something in her utterly shattered posture, in the desolate sound of her sobs, held him back.

She fumbled with the doorknob, her fingers slick with tears. The London rain outside had intensified, a steady, mournful drumming against the windowpane. She opened the door, a cold gust of wind sweeping into the flat, carrying the scent of damp earth and city exhaust. Turning back, she reached behind her, unclasping the Celtic knot necklace that Jimmy had given her at the antique show and threw it on the table.

With a shuddering breath, Lucy stepped out into the relentless, indifferent London night, leaving behind the warmth, the music, the love, and the screaming. She walked away, into the rain, towards the impossible task of rebuilding a life from the ashes, leaving Jimmy Page, and everything they had built together, behind.

Chapter Text

The Starship, 35,000 feet above the continental United States, the hum was a low, constant thrum beneath my feet, a vibration that had become as familiar as the throb in my temples. We were somewhere over Pennsylvania, a glittering tapestry of night lights stretching out below, receding like a fading dream as we arced towards New York. The air, thick with the scent of sweat, illicit herbs, and something vaguely resembling burnt sugar, vibrated with an almost palpable energy. It was a cocktail of exhaustion, adrenaline, and pure, unadulterated hedonism.

I leaned back in the plush chair, with a table laden with neatly arranged lines of powder before me. My gaze drifted from the table to the chaos unfurling beyond it, a panorama of glorious excess. Beneath the table, a rather enthusiastic groupie's head bobbed below, her eyes never leaving my face. I felt a familiar tingle of pleasure as I reached down to tussle her hair, a silent gesture of approval. She took me deeper in her mouth, and I leaned back further.

The first, most immediate, and certainly most audible spectacle was John Bonham. Bonzo, bless his thunderous heart, was a man who approached everything with the subtlety of a runaway freight train. Tonight, that freight train was fuelled by an impressive quantity of Jack Daniel's and a sudden, inexplicable passion for depilation. A groupie had brought a full waxing kit onto the plane. Why? Who knew. Perhaps she anticipated an impromptu spa day. Bonzo, however, had other plans.

"Hold still, you lily-livered ponce!" Bonzo bellowed, his face a mask of drunken concentration, eyes narrowed to slits. He was hunched over Big Tony, one of our burly, long-suffering roadies, who was strapped into a dining chair, eyes wide with terror, a towel clenched between his teeth. Tony’s chest, normally a lush, hirsute landscape, was now a horror show of red welts and sticky, half-removed wax strips, dotted with clumps of dark hair. It looked like a very disgruntled badger had taken up residence there and chosen to self-immolate.

Bonzo, with a grunt of effort, ripped another strip. Tony let out a sound that transcended a scream and slid firmly into the realm of a banshee’s wail. It was a sound that could curdle milk at fifty paces.

"BLOODY MURDER!" Tony shrieked, his voice cracking. "You’re skinning me alive, you mad bastard!"

Around them, a chorus of laughter and cheers erupted from a mix of roadies, groupies, and hangers-on. "More, Bonzo! Go for the nipples!" someone yelled. "He's almost smooth, Bonzo! Just like… like a baby's bottom!"

Bonzo grunted, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of a hand that was, presumably, cleaner than the wax-strewn chest before him. "That's the spirit, Tony! You'll thank me for this when you're wading through birds in your prime! No hairy sasquatch on my plane!" He tore another strip, and Tony convulsed, his legs kicking out wildly, nearly taking out a bucket of lukewarm champagne. The sheer audacity of it, the messy, visceral, drunken absurdity, was pure Bonham. It was grotesque, painful, and somehow, undeniably hilarious.

I took a slow, deliberate line of coke, the rush a familiar whisper in my brain, sharpening the edges of the chaos around me before leaning back, letting the groupie's mouth resume its sweet torture.

Further back, in the Starship’s opulent bar section, the scene was slightly more refined, though no less decadent. There, at the gleaming organ that was somehow bolted into the floor, sat John Paul Jones. Jonesy, hunched over the keys, his fingers dancing with an effortless grace that belied the rocking motion of the plane. He was playing some funky groove that made your hips want to sway whether you wanted them to or not. It was the kind of music that smelled of late nights and cheap whisky. A small crowd had gathered around him, dancing. Joints were passed around, their cherry ends glowing like tiny, illicit fireflies in the dim light. Drinks flowed freely.

I nodded approvingly, the coke working its magic, sharpening my focus. Jonesy was the bedrock, the one sane point in the maelstrom, and yet, he was as much a part of the maelstrom as any of us. He just expressed his madness through different means instead of body hair removal or theatrical pronouncements.

And speaking of theatrical pronouncements, my attention next drifted towards the forward lounge, where a rather grand, if entirely non-functional, decorative fireplace served as the focal point. There, in the flickering glow of its fake logs, sat Robert Plant. Robert, of course, was holding court. I couldn't help but smile; Plant had always been the charmer of the group, the one who could sweet talk his way out of any situation and into any pair of panties. And he wasn't simply telling stories; he was performing them, his golden mane catching the light as he gesticulated wildly, his voice, even in casual conversation, capable of filling a stadium. Robert's laughter echoed through the cabin as he regaled his audience with tales of conquests and near misses.

He was in full flow, leaning forward conspiratorially, his eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. "And I tell you, lads," he was saying, "there were nights on this tour… oh, the hunger! I swear, there were nights I could have had sex with the entire front row. From left to right! Didn't matter who, didn't matter what, just… carnage!" He paused for dramatic effect, letting his words hang in the air, eliciting gasps and appreciative groans from his mesmerized audience of groupies and junior roadies.

"And you know what the best bit is?" He leaned in further, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that was still perfectly audible across the lounge. "Some nights, friends, I did! Not the whole bloody front row, mind you, wouldn't want to overdo it, but a good healthy chunk! And the penicillin, bless its magical heart, it’s just become part of the daily ritual now. Like a vitamin! I swear, I’m probably immune to it. My body’s just accustomed to it, a natural immunity. Keep the show on the road, eh?" He winked, a roguish, devil-may-care glint in his blue eyes, and the circle around him erupted in laughter and applause.

I took another hit of the coke, the bitter taste mixing with the sweetness of the whiskey on my tongue. The rush washed over me, sharpening my senses and pushing the exhaustion of the past few days to the back of my mind.

I allowed myself a small, private smile. The groupie beneath the table shifted, a subtle reminder of my own immediate reality, and I gave a nearly imperceptible nod of satisfaction. This was it. This was the life.

Six years. Six glorious, insane, blindingly fast years. It felt like just yesterday we were scrounging for gigs, playing dingy clubs, fuelled by dreams and cheap beer. And then… boom. Like a rocket, fired from the depths of some primordial blues swamp, we had shot into the stratosphere. Now, we travelled in our own damn plane, a luxury liner kitted out for maximum debauchery, soaring through the night sky.

Sometimes, I truly couldn't believe it. I mean, I knew how good we were. I knew the power we wielded, the way we could bend sound to our will, conjure storms, evoke primal screams from a single guitar riff. I knew the magic was real. But the sheer scale of it, the speed with which it had happened, the way we'd eclipsed every other band on the planet… it was dizzying.

From those early, hungry days, when we’d share rooms, shared a joint, to now, where our private chef was currently preparing individual platters, and our most pressing concern was whether Bonzo would accidentally de-hair the flight attendant in his drunken enthusiasm.

We were the biggest band in the world. And the world, it seemed, was our oyster, our groupie, our personal supply of every indulgence imaginable. We were rock gods, and the power was intoxicating. It coursed through my veins, a different kind of rush from the coke, but equally potent. It was the thrill of creation, yes, but also the thrill of absolute freedom, absolute dominance.

The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, and the groupie choked, coughing around my cock, looking up at me with wide eyes. I placed a reassuring hand on her head and nodded for her to continue. I watched Bonzo, still battling Big Tony’s chest hair, now humming tunelessly as he worked, a smear of blood on his cheek. I watched Plant, still holding court, his voice rising and falling with dramatic flair. I heard Jonesy’s funky sound pulsing through the floor. It was a beautiful, terrible thing. A circus of our own making, and we were the ringmasters, the clowns, and the star attractions all at once.

We were due to land in New York soon, for the final leg of the tour before we headed back to England. The thought stirred a flicker of something resembling melancholy in my chest. Back to the drizzle, to the relative normalcy of our English country homes, to the studio. Not that the studio wasn't exhilarating, but it was a different kind of beast. The road, this road, it was a living, breathing creature.

Part of me almost didn't want the fun to end. This perpetual motion machine, this glorious, messy, triumphant juggernaut was, in its own warped way, a perfectly tuned instrument. It hummed with a dangerous, vital energy. The music we made on stage was a direct reflection of the lives we lived off it – loud, unruly, impossible to ignore.

The Starship began its slow descent, the faint change in pressure a subtle shift in the air. The lights of New York City began to twinkle below, a vast, glittering tapestry spread out before us. Another city, another conquest.

Bonzo finally ripped the last strip from Tony’s chest, who collapsed back in the chair, whimpering. "There!" Bonham declared, surveying his handiwork with pride. "Smooth as a baby! Now, who's next for the Bonzo Beautification Treatment?" The cheers grew louder.

Robert, seeing the lights outside, raised his glass. "To New York!" he boomed. "May she be as fertile and as willing as every other city we've plundered!" More cheers.

Jonesy just kept playing, the funk groove deepening, perhaps a little faster now, as if trying to squeeze every last drop of sound from the journey.

I finished my line, the last whisper of cocaine a fleeting kiss. The groupie stirred under the table, her task complete. I gave her a polite, distracted pat on the head. "Thank you, dear," I murmured, my eyes fixed on the city lights.

As the Starship touched down, the cabin erupted. The groupies and roadies stumbled back to their seats, fixing their clothes and makeup in a last-ditch effort to appear presentable, the room grew quiet, the anticipation of the night ahead hanging in the air like a thick fog.

The Starship, a magnificent beast of an airplane, finally coughed and shuddered its way to a halt on the tarmac in New York City. The air was thick with the scent of jet fuel, stale cigarette smoke, and the lingering, cloying sweetness of champagne we had on our flight from Philly. The roar of the engines faded, replaced by the ringing in my ears and the distant wail of sirens.

God, I was hammered. My head pounding The ground, now thankfully beneath my feet, swayed with the gentle insistence of a ship caught in a storm. Below me, the steps of the Starship stretched down into the humid night, a gangplank leading from airborne debauchery to terrestrial… well, more debauchery.

One by one, we spilled out of the plane’s belly like a group of exceptionally well-dressed drunks escaping a particularly exclusive asylum. Robert, his golden mane, a halo of sweat and rock ‘n’ roll glory, stumbled first, his embroidered silk shirt already untucked and stained with something unidentifiable. He let out a triumphant holler that probably echoed across the five boroughs, then nearly face-planted on the second step. Bonzo, a mountain of a man, followed, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s clutched in one ham-sized fist. He roared with laughter as Robert flailed, then promptly slipped himself, catching his balance with a grunt that seemed to vibrate the very tarmac.

“Watch it, lads!” I slurred a, picture of aristocratic decadence in my velvet jacket, despite the woozy fog in my brain. We had a fleet of limos, gleaming black sharks waiting to swallow us whole and whisk us away to the next stage of our nightly ritual.

Jonesy emerged last, looking impeccably disheveled rather than outright trashed. He offered a small, knowing smile as he descended, observing the unfolding chaos with the detached amusement of a particularly jaded deity.

We staggered towards the waiting vehicles, a line of black sedans that promised air conditioning and a brief respite from the world. Roadies, security, and assorted hangers-on were already piling into the first few. But our limos, the inner sanctum, were reserved. The band, management and a few other essential cogs in the Zeppelin machine. Our destination tonight wasn't the hotel; but a swanky restaurant where our lawyer, Steve Weiss, awaited to discuss… well, something important. Probably money. Always money.

The plush leather seats of the limo swallowed me whole. Robert collapsed beside me. Bonzo squeezed into the seat opposite, his bottle of Jack now barely a quarter full.

The ride was a blur of neon signs, blaring horns, and the endless, fascinating ugliness of New York at night. We exchanged a few grunted words, mostly non-sequiturs about the Philly show.

Eventually, the limo glided to a halt in front of an imposing, discreetly lit building. Swanky. Very swanky. The kind of place you expected to see old money, not a quartet of semi-coherent rock stars trailing the scent of a thousand cigarettes and broken dreams.

As the door opened, a figure emerged from the shadows of the entrance. Steve Weiss. He wore an impeccable suit, cowboy hat and boots, but had an air of calm authority that seemed entirely out of place in our orbit. He offered a courteous, practiced smile as we began to disentangle ourselves from the limo’s interior.

“Welcome back to New York, gentlemen,” Steve said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. He extended a hand to Robert first, then Bonzo, then Jonesy, and finally me. I shook it, trying to look less like a man who’d just crawled out of a particularly enthusiastic tumble dryer.

“Steve, my man!” Robert boomed, clap-happy, nearly knocking Steve's glasses off. “Good to be back! Where’s the grog?”

Steve merely chuckled, a practiced, indulgent sound. “Right this way. Food and… libations are awaiting.”

We shambled after him, a parade of drunken excess entering a temple of refined taste. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto polished mahogany, reflecting the rich, dark suits and occasional flashes of velvet worn by the band and their inner circle. Laughter, raucous and uninhibited, boomed from the table at the center – a supernova of rock and roll energy. It smelled of expensive cigars and even more expensive food. Other diners, a smattering of well-heeled couples and hushed business types, cast nervous, curious glances our way. We were a different breed, a raw, primal force unleashed upon their carefully curated tranquility.

Steve led us to a large, round table tucked away in a semi-private alcove. It was already laden with an obscene amount of food – towering platters of oysters, glistening roast beef, bowls of what looked suspiciously like caviar, and crusty bread that reeked of garlic. And, indeed, plenty of libations. Bottles of fine wine, tumblers already filled with amber liquids, and a bucket of iced champagne that shimmered invitingly.

We collapsed into our chairs, a collective sigh of relief. Within seconds, a battalion of waiters, moving with the silent efficiency of ninjas, were refilling our glasses and pressing food upon us.

I sipped on a glass of whiskey, leaned back and watched the scene unfold at the large, circular table, a half-smile playing on my lips.

I was enjoying the celebratory din, the release of tension after another monumental show. Our lawyer, Steve Weiss, who sat across from me, a dapper man with a perpetually smug grin plastered on his face. He always looked pleased with himself, especially after haggling down a particularly troublesome contract. He caught my eye and raised his glass. “To another sold-out night, boys.” Our table erupted in loud cheers.

“So, Robert,” Bonzo began, his voice surprisingly clear, given the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. He gestured with a chicken leg that he’d somehow acquired. “About my Corvette.”

Robert, already halfway through an oyster, paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Ah, yes, the Corvette. A magnificent machine, Bonzo. Truly.”

“Magnificent until you broke the sodding handbrake, you pillock!” Bonzo roared, accidentally splattering a fine sheen of grease onto the pristine white tablecloth.

“Minor technical difficulty!” Robert retorted, waving a dismissive hand. “The spirit of rock and roll demanded a hasty departure! Speed, Bonzo, speed!”

“Speed that resulted in my beloved ‘Vette rolling down a hill and nearly taking out a fruit stand!” Bonzo countered, taking a massive bite out of his chicken leg, punctuating his words with furious chewing. “Do you know how much a new handbrake costs? And the paint job? And the grapes!”

“A small price to pay for art, Bonzo!” Robert said, taking a dramatic sip of champagne. “Think of it as a creative sacrifice. The car was merely… participating in the performance.”

“The car was participating in a bloody demolition derby, you theatrical wanker!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. This was classic. Robert, ever the poet, Bonzo, ever the pragmatist with a penchant for smashing things. I took a generous swig of my drink, feeling the warmth spread through me. The conversation was exactly what I needed to ground myself after the plane ride.

“Well, you know,” I chimed in, feeling a surge of misplaced confidence, “if you’d just parked it properly, Bonzo, none of this would’ve happened. Handbrakes are tricky, mind you, but not rocket science. It’s all about the angle, the incline, the… the leverage.” I pontificated, despite the fact that I didn’t, in fact, drive. Never got my license. Too busy with guitars, you see. And various other distractions.

Both Bonzo and Robert stopped. They turned their heads slowly towards me, their expressions identical, a mixture of disbelief and utter exasperation.

“Shut up, Jimmy,” Bonzo said, his voice surprisingly calm, which generally meant he was about to explode.

“You can’t even drive!” Robert finished, the words ringing with a triumphant finality.

They both burst into raucous laughter, their booming voices filling the private room. Even Jonesy, let out a quiet chuckle into his wine glass. Richard Cole, who’d been attempting to engage Steve Weiss in some mumbled, business-related drivel, paused and joined their laughter, looking at me with an amused smirk. My face, I imagine, turned a fetching shade of crimson. Bloody hell. They always got me with that one.

I grumbled into my drink, pretending to be utterly absorbed in the quality of the whiskey.

A lull descended, not of silence, but of anticipation. From the raised platform in the corner, where a grand piano sat bathed in a soft spotlight, a smooth, smoky alto voice drifted over the clinking of glasses. Her fingers danced over the keys, a melody both familiar and hauntingly new filling the space. It wasn’t rock and roll, not even close, but it was beautiful. I found myself leaning forward, despite myself. She played a short, bittersweet instrumental, then paused, her voice carrying clearly across the room. "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, the words imbued with a southern accent I hadn't heard in her singing voice, "before I continue, I'd like to dedicate this next piece to a truly remarkable individual seated among us tonight. To Mr. Steve Weiss. One of the greatest men I've had the distinct pleasure of knowing."

I nearly choked on my sip of whiskey. Steve? Our Steve? I glanced at him, and sure enough, Steve blanched playfully, raising his hands in mock surrender as Plant nudged him conspiratorially. "Oh, Stevie, you old dog!" Bonzo roared, eliciting more laughter. The rest of the lads just chuckled, none of us accustomed to our lawyer being serenaded.

She began again, a classic jazz standard, infused with such cheekiness it practically vibrated the air.

The singer’s voice, full of warmth and a hint of world-weariness, wrapped around the lyrics:

“He's not much for looks…” Robert Plant let out an exaggerated groan, leaning back. "Oh, Stevie!"

“…two or three girls has he…” Bonzo slapped the table with a hearty guffaw eyes wide. "Steve! Is there something we should know?"

Steve, face flushed but grinning, raised his glass to the unseen singer. The band delighted in his good-natured embarrassment.

“…but I love him ...” Jonesy raised an eyebrow at Steve with a knowing smirk.

She continued, the piano work impeccable, her voice a seductive purr that filled the opulent room. When she hit the line, “He isn't good. He isn't true. He beats me, too…” Robert Plant dramatically raised his eyebrows in Steve’s direction, a look of mock abhorrence on his face, which sent Bonzo into another fit of laughter.

When the final, lingering chord faded, the room erupted in polite applause. The singer rose, a graceful silhouette against the spotlight. I had found myself inexplicably captivated by her voice, watching as she slowly made her way from the piano, her movements fluid and confident. She walked with an easy grace, straight towards our table, no, straight towards Steve. She didn't even glance our way, the four members of Led Zeppelin, sitting right there, practically radiating rock and roll. It was as if we were invisible. There was something about her, something familiar in her walk, in the way her hair caught the light, that tugged at a forgotten corner of my mind. Familiar. Disturbingly familiar.

She approached the Zeppelin table, a warm smile gracing her lips. Steve, seeing her, pushed back his chair and rose, a genuine smile spreading across his face, meeting her with an open arm. She wrapped hers around him, a genuine, warm embrace. "Lucy! You were magnificent!" Steve murmured, clearly audible in the sudden quiet between them.

"Only for you, my love," she replied, her voice softer now, intimate. Then, Steve pulled back slightly, his hand resting on her arm, and he looked at her, his eyes twinkling. "Lucy, you never cease to amaze me."

My blood ran cold. Lucy.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the luxurious restaurant fading into a hazy background. Lucy. The girl who had shattered my heart into a thousand pieces six years ago. The girl I thought I’d never see again, had tried to forget, had filled the void she left with a thousand girls and roaring crowds. My mind flashed back to a small flat in London, a shared laugh, a whispered promise, and then… that day everything ended. My hand instinctively clenched under the table, My gut twisted. She looked older, more refined, but it was undeniably her. The same blue eyes, the same sharp, intelligent gaze I’d once fallen so desperately in love with.

I tried to listen to their conversation, but the buzzing in my ears drowned out most of it. Bits and pieces filtered through – “…the gala tomorrow night…” “…your exhibit…” “…so excited for you…” My heart hammered against my ribs. An exhibit? What was she doing now? And what was this "event tomorrow"?

Steve was still holding her close, practically nuzzling her hair. She laughed, a light, melodic sound I remembered too well. Then, she pulled away, a final, lingering hug, It was a familiar hug, the kind shared between old friends. As they pulled apart, Steve, with a mischievous grin, reached out and gave a swift, firm smack to her rear end.

Lucy let out another peal of laughter, a genuine, delighted sound that filled the air. She swatted his arm playfully. "You haven't changed a bit, you rascal!" and turned to leave. My jaw tightened. The sight of her, the sound of her laughter, and the casual, intimate spank from Steve, sent a jolt of something unexpected – a forgotten memory, a forbidden urge – right through me.

He settled back into his seat, a contented sigh escaping his lips. "Right," he said, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "Where were we?"

"Steve," I managed, my voice rougher than I intended. The others looked at me, a flicker of surprise in their eyes. "Who was that lady? And what's this event tomorrow?"

Steve chuckled, puffing on a cigar "Oh, that's Lucy. Just a client of mine." He took a sip of his champagne, a glint in his eye. "She's having a small art exhibit tomorrow night. Private affair, really. But you know, it promises to be an interesting event. we should all go. What do you say, boys? A little culture after all that rock and roll?"

I didn't hear the answers from the others. My gaze was fixed on the now-empty piano bench, the echo of her voice still in the air. Lucy. An art exhibit. A client. And Steve. The world, it seemed, had just decided to play a cruel, beautiful, and utterly terrifying joke.

Chapter Text

The rumble of the limo was a familiar lullaby, yet tonight, it only served to amplify the discordant cacophony in my head. New York City, A concrete beast that roared with life, and tonight, promised to chew up the last vestiges of my self-composure. We were headed to an art exhibit, an evening affair hosted by our esteemed lawyer, Steve Weiss. My mind, however, was still reeling from the bomb that dropped in my lap that was Lucy.

Lucy. Six years. Six years since she’d ripped a hole clean through my chest, leaving a permanent draft that no amount of success, no chorus of screaming fans, no fleeting embrace of a groupie could ever quite fill. Even Charlotte, bless her heart, and our beautiful daughter Scarlet, hadn't quite claimed that deepest, most guarded chamber of my heart. Lucy was the ghost that haunted the castle, even as the king moved on. Anyone who truly knew me, beyond the rockstar facade, knew the truth: I was never completely over her. She was the ghost that haunted the halls of my grand Manor, the phantom note in every chord I struck, the ache behind every smile. Alastair Crowley himself, a man who famously held a low opinion of women, would have nodded in grim understanding at my own jaded cynicism born from her departure. Hell, I even wrote ‘Tangerine’ about her, a confession whispered to millions, yet understood by so few.

Just a few years ago, I’d been sprawled in a hotel room, a bottle of lukewarm beer cradled in my hand, the television droning on in the background. Then her name, like a searing brand, flashed across the credits: "Music Score by Lucy Miller." The world had tilted. That calm, collected woman, the one who’d walked away from me without a backward glance, was now scoring films. A red mist had descended. The bottle, heavy a moment before, became a missile, shattering against the screen. Then the television itself, a symbol of her sudden, public intrusion into my private world, followed the beer, sailing out the window and plummeting several stories to the street below.

Of course, the lads had come running, their faces a mixture of alarm and bewildered amusement. “What in God’s name, Jimmy?” Robert had asked, ever the dramatic one. And in a drunken stupor, the dam had broken. All the years of suppressed pain, the bitterness, the raw, unadulterated heartbreak, had spilled out. I told them everything about Lucy, the woman who had effortlessly, irrevocably, broken me. They seen the aftermath, the tightening in my jaw, the sudden, almost ferocious distrust that had settled in my eyes whenever someone got too close, too real.

Six years was a long time. Long enough to conquer the world, to fill stadiums, to write anthems that echoed from every radio, but not long enough, it seemed, to entirely erase certain impressions from a man’s heart. Lucy. Her name hung in the air, unspoken, a delicate, fragile thing that nonetheless possessed an almost brutal weight. She was the one. My bandmates knew. They understood the bizarre cocktail of dread and morbid curiosity that now churned in my gut. If it weren’t for that insatiable curiosity, that desperate need to glimpse the woman who had so profoundly shaped my life, I wouldn’t have bothered to come. But here I was, hurtling towards her, towards the past, towards the open wound that refused to heal. Steve, ever the smooth operator, clapped Bonzo on the shoulder. “Right this way, boys. You’re in for a treat. Lucy’s work is… unique.” He winked, a brief, conspiratorial glint in his eye. The humid air hung thick as velvet as we piled out of the limo, the flash of paparazzi bulbs momentarily blinding before we were ushered into the cool, cavernous space of the art gallery. It was 1973. A time of excess, experimentation, and a thirst for the provocative. And tonight's exhibition promised all three.

The gallery space was vast, bathed in a soft, almost reverent light. People milled about, champagne flutes in hand, their voices a polite murmur. But as we moved deeper into the exhibit, the murmurs seemed to falter, replaced by a different kind of quiet – a startled gasp here, a low chuckle there.

These weren’t landscapes or portraits. These were… raw. Unflinching. Drawings, charcoal mostly, sometimes with splashes of unsettlingly vibrant colour, depicting scenes of profound intimacy, bordering on the explicit. Graphic. Unapologetically sexual. Lovers entwined in impossible positions, bodies contorted in ecstasy and abandon. Men receiving oral sex, their faces a mask of pleasure, eyes half-closed in ecstasy. A woman’s hand, delicate yet firm, wrapped around a man’s shaft, muscles tensed under her touch. Bodies entwined, limbs tangled, expressions a mix of vulnerability and unbridled desire. Most would have been disgusted, but the members of Led Zeppelin were quite amused.

Bonzo, ever the purveyor of blunt honesty, broke the silence first vocalizing his appreciation. Or rather, his lack of subtlety. "Bloody hell, Robert" His voice boomed across the hushed gallery, making heads turn. "Look at this one! That fella’s got a right good time comin’ his way, eh?" He nudged Robert, a wide, lecherous grin spreading across his face.

I followed his gaze, my eyes widening. The wall was adorned with a series of drawings, stark and visceral. The one Bonzo was pointing at depicted a man, head thrown back, receiving a blow jo from a woman between his legs. Another showed a woman’s hand, delicately yet firmly, pleasuring a man. The sheer audacity of it, the raw, uninhibited sexuality, was breathtaking. These weren't sketches meant for public consumption; these were intimate, deeply personal explorations. It seems Lucy has grown, bolder, unafraid to show the world her fantasies and desires.

“Bonzo, for Christ’s sake!” I hissed, trying to subdue him. But it was no use. He was in his element, wandering from drawing to drawing, making increasingly loud and crude pronouncements. “Look at the detail on that! You can nearly feel it! Amazing!” His laughter, deep and guttural, echoed a little too loudly in the refined space.

John Paul Jones merely cleared his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck, but a mischievous twinkle in his eyes betrayed his amusement. He was always the quiet one, soaking it all in.

Bonzo, meanwhile, was cackling, already reaching for his wallet. "I want that one! And that one! Bloody brilliant!" He shouted, clearly not caring if the entire gallery heard him. Robert merely shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. They were a bizarre, beautiful bulwark against the rising tide of my own anxiety.

I walked deeper into the exhibit, moving with a slow, deliberate grace, head tilted, studying each piece with an intensity that went beyond mere artistic appreciation. I was searching my eyes, scanning the pieces, dissecting every line, every shadow. Each one was a punch to the gut, a revelation. The lines were fluid, confident, the shading so meticulous it breathed life into the charcoal. These were not just drawings; they were confessions, explorations of desire and vulnerability. Drawn towards a section of the gallery bathed in a lurid, almost unholy light however, I was mesmerized. Each stroke of the charcoal seemed to vibrate with a primal energy, a forbidden desire made manifest. And then I saw it. Tucked away in a less prominent corner, almost hidden, was a piece that seized my breath.

One that was different from the rest. A piece, that felt like it was dominating the wall, depicted Lucifer himself, a figure of terrifying beauty, wielding a whip over a kneeling, submissive young woman. The detail was breathtaking, the emotion raw and unsettling. It was a vision of power and vulnerability, of darkness and light, all intertwined in a dance of dominance and submission, her long hair falling over her shoulders, her body arched in a posture of exquisite vulnerability, It was sensual, startlingly intimate, yet possessed a strange, ethereal beauty. A shiver ran down my spine. It was more than just the unsettling imagery. It was something ... familiar. A certain curve of a hip, the way the light caught in the girl's hair, the almost defiant tilt of her chin even on the face of Lucifer's wrath. It was a memory, a ghost from my past, resurrected in charcoal and ink. A jolt went through me. This was it. This was the one.

I stood there for a long moment, unmoving. Then, almost imperceptibly, my hand rose, as if to touch the image, before stopping short. “She’s… brave,” I murmured, not to me, but to the air. “I never thought she’d… put them out there. For everyone to see.” My voice was low, laced with an almost reverent awe. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew, with absolute certainty, that she had kept these private. She'd shown me sketches once, fleeting glimpses into her darker, more primal side, but never anything like this. To display them, to lay bare her innermost desires for the world to see, was an act of incredible bravery. A surge of fierce pride, mixed with a pang of possessiveness, washed over me. I wanted to tell her, to congratulate her, to tell her how truly proud I was of this raw, fearless expression of her art. Without a second thought, I turned, scanned the room, catching the eye of a nearby gallery attendant and flashing a disarming smile. "I'll take this one," I murmured, the attendant nodding with a knowing smirk. A small, red sticker appeared beside the piece. Sold.

With the purchase made, a new urgency propelled me forward. I needed to find her. To see if the years had changed her, if the fierce spark in her eyes was still there. I navigated through the throng, my gaze sweeping the room, searching for that familiar cascade of light brown hair, that elegant, almost ethereal presence.

As I rounded a corner, my thoughts consumed, and collided with someone. Hard. There was a soft gasp, the clatter of something falling.

“Oh, bloody hell, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, my hand instinctively reaching out to steady them, my composure momentarily shattered. “My apologies, I wasn’t looking where…”

My voice trailed off. The woman he’d bumped into was standing there, a glass now shattered on the floor, her eyes wide, staring up at him. And then the NYC hum, the gallery whispers, the champagne bubbles – they all seemed to fade into a singular, agonizing silence.

It was Lucy.

Her eyes, still as intense as he remembered, widened in shock. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was about to speak, but no words came. Six years since he had last seen her, since she had disappeared from his life without a trace. Six years that had etched lines of experience around her eyes, sharpened the angles of her face, but had not diminished her captivating beauty.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant murmur of the crowd and the faint strains of a jazz quartet. Six years of unspoken words, of lingering pain, of shattered trust, all hung heavy in the air between us. My rock-and-roll swagger, my carefully constructed walls, crumbled in an instant. All that remained was Jimmy, the boy who’d fallen irrevocably in love with her.

Finally, I found my voice, a little rougher than I intended. "Lucy. It's… it’s really you." A ghost of a smile touched my lips, a genuine one, tinged with that familiar, dirty, mischievous glint she used to tease me about. "Your work… it's magnificent. I'm truly proud of you, you know. I was always a fan of your art, then and now." The last words were softer, a quiet confession of enduring admiration.

A blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a delicate rose. She dropped her gaze for a split second, then met my eyes again, her own wide with a mixture of shock and something else… relief? "Jimmy," she whispered, her voice a little breathless. "I… thank you. I… I’m so shocked. I didn't… I never expected to run into you, especially here." She stammered, her usual composure utterly absent. It was strangely endearing, and a small part of me, the cruel, bruised part, revelled in my unexpected upper hand.

She collected herself, though the flush remained. "And you," she continued, her voice gaining a little strength, "Led Zeppelin. It’s… incredible. The biggest band in the world. I’m proud of you too, Jimmy."

A warmth spread through me. It wasn’t a platitude; I could hear the sincerity in her voice. "Thank you, Lucy. That means a lot it’s been… quite a ride.” I paused, then a fresh thought struck me, one born of last night’s unexpected detour. "You know, I actually heard you sing last night. You sounded amazing. Your voice… it’s even more beautiful than I remember.”

Her eyes widened further, if that was possible. Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. "You… you were there? I didn't see you."

A chuckle escaped me, deep and resonant. "Yes, I was there. And no, you didn't." A wry smile played on my lips.

She stared at me for another beat, then a surprised laugh bubbled up, rich and melodious, a sound I hadn't realized I’d missed so desperately. "Well," she said, shaking her head, "Clearly, you have the upper hand in this unexpected reunion, Mr. Page. You seem to know far more about my whereabouts than you should.”

"Blame Steve," I said, shrugging playfully. "It's all his fault, inviting us here."

She nodded, a knowing look on her face, the shared understanding of our mutual lawyer drawing us closer. The awkward silence was gone, replaced by a fragile bridge of conversation, tentative but real. The air hummed with unspoken history, with the ghost of what we once were, and the tantalizing possibility of what we could be again.

Buoyed by the unexpected ease, I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping, imbued with a hopeful vulnerability I hadn't felt in years. "Lucy," I began, my eyes holding hers, “now that we’ve had our fortuitous collision, and you’ve had a chance to absorb my overwhelming praise for your talent…Would you, perhaps, consider letting me buy you a drink after this is all over? A proper catch-up, perhaps?” The words were out, hanging precariously in the air, a plea, a hopeful whisper against the roaring backdrop of the gallery.

Her lips parted, a quiet breath escaping, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of that old warmth, that familiar spark in her eyes, as if she might say yes. My heart soared, a phoenix rising from the ashes of six years of despair.

Lucys smile faltered. "Oh, Jimmy, I ... I can't. I have to stay and help with the cleanup, make sure all the pieces get to the right buyers."

I nodded, understanding, forgetting that she was actually working. "Right. Of course. Well, what about tomorrow? Are you free?"

But before she could answer, a hand, large and possessive, snaked around her waist. A man, tall and impeccably dressed, appeared as if from nowhere, his presence jarring, intrusive. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, whispering something I couldn't discern, his gaze lingering on mine with a subtle, territorial warning.

Lucy’s expression shifted, a fleeting shadow passing over her face. She offered me a quick, apologetic glance, her eyes wide and regretful. "Jimmy, this is ... Frank. He's ... helping me with the exhibition."

Frank extended a hand, his grip firm and cool. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm a big fan of your music."

"Likewise," I said, voice clipped. I couldn't shake the feeling of jealousy that flared through me, a possessive pang that surprised me with its intensity.

Then, with a gentle but firm tug, the man whisked her away, merging into the moving current of the crowd.

I watched them go, my jaw clenched. I told myself it was just nostalgia, a fleeting moment of longing for a past that could never be reclaimed. But deep down, I knew it was more than that.

One moment she was there, framed in the soft glow of the gallery lights, her laughter echoing in my ears, the promise of a future hanging tangible between us. The next, she was gone. Vanished. As if she had never been there at all.

Finally, I went to pay for the drawing. As I handed over the money, I slipped a folded piece of paper to the gallery attendant. "Make sure she gets this. Personally." he nodded, wide-eyed, clearly recognizing me.

On the paper, Jimmy had written his hotel room number and phone number.

Lucy, he had scrawled beneath. Call me.

He left the gallery and stepped back into the humid New York night. The city lights blurred around him, and he felt a strange mix of hope and uncertainty.

....................................................

The ice in my glass clicked a final, solitary note as I swirled the amber liquid, the last remnants of a single malt scotch, mirroring the chaotic eddy of thoughts in my mind. Days. It had been days since the art exhibit, two to be exact, and the silence from the phone was a gnawing, insistent ache. The hotel suite, usually a sanctuary of quiet reflection, felt more like a gilded cage tonight, each plush surface amplifying the thudding of his own heart. Six years. Six long years since the last time I'd laid eyes on Lucy. Six years since she’d shattered my world into a million glittering, irreparable pieces.

Then, there she was. Unmistakable. The woman who haunted my dreams and fuelled my cynicism, standing confidently amidst the vibrant chaos of her own making. Her exhibit. Her art. It was a punch to the gut, a dizzying blend of admiration and raw, reopened wounds. She was beautiful, he conceded, perhaps even more breathtaking than he remembered. Time had etched a new maturity into her delicate features, a certain fierce grace that suited her. And to put her soul out there, raw and exposed on canvas for the world to scrutinize – that was bold. I had felt an unexpected swell of immense pride, an overwhelming sense of validation for the girl. Seeing her, all those carefully built walls around my heart had crumbled. She was more beautiful than I remembered, more poised, more captivating. And the moment we shared wasn't enough. I needed to know everything, and I needed to tell her so many things. But she hadn't called. The phone on the table remained stubbornly, cruelly silent. Embittered, yes, he certainly felt that. And confused. Had the unexpected rendezvous not gone as well as he thought it had? Had he misread the flicker in her eyes, the slight hesitation in her smile? Was it just polite pleasantry?

Then there was him. The man by her side, dark-haired and intense, his hand resting almost possessively on the small of her back as people milled around them. He’d seemed protective, his gaze lingering for a beat too long. Boyfriend? Husband? The thought twisted in my gut, a fresh, sharp pang of jealousy that tasted like ash and swallowed whiskey. Six years. Six years of telling himself he was over it, over her. Of building emotional walls, only to have them crumble like dust at the sight of her, at the resurgence of feelings he’d stubbornly tried to bury. He could feel them, hot and urgent, clawing their way back to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged. But that hadn't stopped him from feeling hopeful, the hope that maybe, just maybe, she felt something too.

Now, as he sat in his hotel room, the silence deafening and the whiskey warm in his hand, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had made a mistake. Perhaps the spark was one-sided, a figment of his imagination. With a growl of frustration, I slammed the whiskey glass onto the polished wood of the table. The liquid sloshed, threatening to spill. I pushed myself off the bed, a restless energy coursing through, and strode to one of the opened suitcases, tossing aside a neatly folded shirt, then another. I rummaged, tearing apart the careful packing, my hands frantic, searching for an item I hadn’t consciously thought about in months, but somehow insisted on bringing. Casual clothes, dress shoes, a forgotten travel guide – none of it. I swore under my breath, delving deeper, until my fingers brushed against something small, smooth, and distinctively soft.

Finally, I pulled it out. A small, black velvet box, slightly worn at the edges. My fingers fumbled with the clasp, my heart hammering in my chest. I snapped it open.

There it lay, nestled against the dark lining: the Celtic knot locket, its intricate silver loops intertwined, centered by the vibrant, calming turquoise stone. And when she’d given it back, when she’d walked out of his life, he hadn't been able to let it go. He had kept it, stubbornly, foolishly. It had remained untouched, the symbol of their love that had been returned to him like a forgotten book.

The locket had become a talisman of sorts, a silent companion through the trials and triumphs of his life. He had taken it with him to every corner of the globe, hoping that somehow, it would keep a piece of Lucy with him. Now, as he held it, the weight of his decision to leave it behind all those years ago settled heavily upon him. He had thought moving on would be easier without constant reminders, but here he was, unable to let go.

I picked it up, the cool metal a stark contrast to the burning heat in my palm. The turquoise seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light of the suite, a silent question, an unspoken plea. I closed my fingers around it, the sharp edges of the knot digging into my skin, a tangible reminder of a past that refused to stay buried.

The whiskey had done little to dull the ache in his chest, and he knew he wouldn't find sleep that night. Instead, he sat there, clutching the locket and staring at the phone, willing it to ring. The clock on the nightstand ticked away the moments, each one a cruel reminder that the past was untouchable. Yet, as the night grew darker, so did his thoughts.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun, a lazy, golden smear through the tall London windows, warmed my face. I was stirred from the deep thrum of sleep slowly receding, replaced by the familiar quiet of home. We’d spent the morning lingering over tea and the papers, then settled into a comfortable lull, I drifted off in my worn leather armchair, a half-read book resting on my chest, while Lucy curled up with a book, on the sofa.

I cracked an eye open, the world still a little hazy at the edges. I pushed myself up, the book on my chest slipped to the floor, forgotten, stretching out the kinks in my shoulders, and padded barefoot across the floorboards to be closer to her, to feel her warmth. The living room. This room held a special kind of gravity for him now. It was here, on that very floor, beneath the same ceiling, that we’d first shed our inhibitions, our clothes, and found something raw and beautiful in each other. Every time I was in this room, a quiet warmth bloomed in my chest, a poignant memory of skin on skin, whispered promises, and the profound intimacy that had irrevocably altered my world.

She was tucked into the corner, knees drawn up, a soft cashmere throw draped loosely around her. Her hair, usually a wild, untamed cascade, was gathered into a loose, artful bun, stray tendrils escaping to frame her delicate profile. In her lap, a small, leather-bound notebook was open, and her hand moved with a focused, almost meditative grace across the page. I watched her for a moment, the soft curve of her cheek, the way her brow was furrowed in concentration. Her hand moved with a delicate precision, a pencil scratching softly against the paper.

“Lost in the music, are we, love?” I murmured, my voice a little rough from sleep. He’d seen her do it before, scratching away at the paper letting the music flow from her, fully formed and brilliant. She had a way that resonated deep within him.

She didn’t startle, merely looked up, her eyes, crinkling at the corners. A slow smile spread across her lips, a smile that always seemed to promise mischief and warmth in equal measure. “Something like that,” she replied, her voice a low, husky purr that made a pleasant shiver run down my spine.

Reaching the sofa, I carefully lowered myself, gently nudging the throw aside and settling in beside her, angling myself so she could lean back against my chest. My arm went around her waist, pulling her closer until her head rested comfortably on my shoulder. I pressed a kiss to her temple, inhaling her scent.

“Let’s see what masterpiece you’re concocting,” I murmured, my fingers tracing the curve of her hip beneath the soft fabric of her dress. I shifted slightly, craning my neck to peer over her shoulder at the notebook.

My breath hitched, It was a drawing of a woman. And not just any woman. This was… explicit.

She was depicted in exquisite detail, lying on her back, her torso arched. Her breasts, full and high, were barely contained by a scrap of lace, a delicate band of fabric that did more to emphasize than conceal. Her hips flared, the curve of her belly leading down to a dark, tantalizing shadow beneath a barely-there thong. Her legs were slightly parted, one knee bent, the other extended, drawing the eye further.

But it was the details that truly held him. Her hands, delicate yet strong, were bound above her head, the ropes secured to something that lay outside the frame of the drawing. A strip of silk blindfolded her eyes, giving her face an expression of vulnerable surrender. Her mouth, full and parted, seemed to be gasping, or perhaps moaning, in a silent, suspended moment of intense sensation.

Lucy's pencil hovered over the page. I could see where she was about to add the final touches. They were small, almost imperceptible details, but I knew, instinctively, they would be the ones that tipped the image from merely suggestive to truly titillating.

My mind raced, a sudden jolt of surprise mixing with a slow, wave of heat spread through me, a primal instinctual response to the image and, more profoundly, to the woman creating it. To my woman, who was currently nestled so innocently in my arms, sketching such a potent scene. Curiosity, sharp and immediate, cut through the quiet hum of arousal. What was this? Why this? And why had she never shown me this side of her creativity? He’d known Lucy was sensual, passionate, but this… this was a different layer, a hidden depth he hadn't yet explored. I tightened my arm around her, my chin resting on her head.

“Well, well,” I said, my voice a low rumble, a little huskier than I intended. I felt the faint tremor that ran through her body. “That’s… not quite what I was expecting.”

A flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a delicate rose. She chuckled, a soft, breathy sound against my chest. “Oh? What were you expecting, then?”

“Definitely not… this.” I paused, letting my gaze linger on the drawing. “She looks… captivated.”

Lucy’s fingers, still holding the pencil, traced a line along the edge of the notebook. “She is. Or she will be, once I’m done.”

“Is this… something you draw often?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light, curious, rather than overtly shocked. I felt a profound shift in my perception of her, a new door opening.

She sighed, a soft, contented sound, and leaned back further into me, her warmth seeping in. ““Sometimes, when I have free time, I… I draw. And it’s usually fantasies. Things that come into my head. Its... Just… private. Usually.” She put the pencil down, carefully closing the notebook, but not before I caught a glimpse of another drawing on the facing page, less detailed, but clearly another woman, similarly restrained.

“Private, huh?” I repeated, my fingers gently tracing the curve of her collarbone. “And what is it, exactly, that you keep so private, Lucy?”

She turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting mine, and there was a glint of something in her eyes I hadn't seen before – a mix of vulnerability and a daring challenge. “Just… fantasies. Things I imagine. Sometimes they’re graphic, like that. Other times, not so much. Just… scenarios. Feelings. Desires.”

“Fantasies,” I echoed, felt a thrill, a jolt of pure intrigue. “Fantasies? So, that particular scenario…” I gestured vaguely at the closed notebook, the image still vivid in my mind.

She hesitated, her breath soft against my neck. “Sometimes. Yes.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “The idea of… letting go. the surrender. The trust. The knowing that even when your hands are bound, your safety is in someone else’s hands. Someone who cares. Being completely at the mercy of sensation. Of someone else’s will, just for a moment. It’s… intriguing.”

My grip on her tightened almost imperceptibly. My own mind was already racing, conjuring images, possibilities. “Intriguing,” I mused, leaning my head back against the cushion, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It’s a powerful thing, that. To surrender.”

“You’ve explored it?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost hesitant, but laced with a clear thread of curiosity.

I chuckled, a low, knowing sound. “A few times, yes ... It’s not for everyone, certainly. But there’s a… a certain liberation in it. A different kind of control, paradoxically. When you give up all control, you suddenly become acutely aware of every nerve ending, every touch, every breath.”

She reached up, her fingers lightly touching my jawline. “I’ve never… I’ve always been curious, but it’s not something you just… bring up in polite conversation, is it?” A small, self-deprecating smile touched her lips.

I chuckled my voice husky. “We could explore it, Lucy. At your pace, with your comfort always paramount. We could start with something simple. A scarf, perhaps. Or just a blindfold.” I leaned in, pressing my forehead against hers, my lips brushing her temple. “The idea of heightening your other senses, of guiding you solely through touch and voice… it’s incredibly stimulating, isn’t it?”

Finally, she exhaled slowly, her lips parting in a soft, almost imperceptible gasp. “Jimmy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I… I think I’d like that very much.”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across my face. I kissed her then, a deep, lingering kiss I pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, a question in mine. “So. When you were drawing this, were you thinking of… us?”

Her cheeks flushed again, but this time it was with a radiant, confident sensuality. She nodded slowly. “A little. Yes. I mean, the general fantasy… it’s always been there. But when I was drawing it today, with you here… safe and warm… yes. I suppose I was imagining it with you.”

A profound sense of wonder, intertwined with a fierce protective instinct and an eager, burgeoning desire, settled over me. This woman, my Lucy, was a universe of hidden depths. And I was privileged enough to be invited to explore them alongside her.

I reached for her hand, intertwining our fingers, the rough calluses of my guitar-playing fingers a contrast to her soft ones. “Then, my love,” I murmured, my voice a promise, “let’s explore.” The afternoon sun slowly dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the living room carpet. But for us, the light had only just begun to truly shine, illuminating a thrilling new path in the landscape of our ever-deepening love.

____________________________

Lucy is lying on Jimmy's bed, her heart pounding in her chest. The blindfold tied around her head makes everything feel more intense, more exciting. She can't see anything, but she can feel Jimmy's presence next to her, and that's enough. She could feel the coarse fabric of the bed sheets beneath her, the cool air of the room against her skin. Her wrists were bound to the bedpost, the rope biting into her flesh as she tried to move. Panic surged through her, but it was quickly replaced by a strange, tingling sensation. She heard footsteps, slow and deliberate, and then a presence loomed over her. A hand, rough and warm, brushed against her cheek, and she felt a soft, lingering kiss. She shivered, not from fear, but from a desire she couldn't comprehend.

"Are you going to be a good girl for me, Lucy?" Jimmy's voice is low and husky, sending shivers down her spine. She nods her head, her pussy already growing wet with anticipation. “You’ll be patient?” He asks. She nods again.

Jimmy's fingers intertwine with hers, and then his lips are kissing hers. The kiss is deep and intense, and she can't help but let out a moan as his tongue explores her mouth. Jimmy pulls back, leaving her breathless and wanting more. His hands slide down her arms and start exploring her body. He cups her breasts, massaging them gently before pulling at her nipples, making them hard little pebbles. She can't help but arch her back, trying to get closer to Jimmy's touch.

Jimmy's mouth is on her neck, licking and biting the skin at her throat. She lets out a soft gasp as his teeth graze the sensitive skin. She can feel the heat building up inside, her pussy growing wetter by the second. The hand trailed down her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. She could feel the heat of his breath on her skin, the intensity of his gaze. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, husky whisper. 'You're mine now, Lucy. Every inch of you.' She felt a jolt of fear, but it was mixed with something else, something primal and wild. She tried to speak, but her voice was caught in her throat.

She feels something cool and smooth running along her skin, and she lets out a small squeal, the hand on her shoulder tightened, and she feels the sharp sting of a riding crop against her skin. She cried out, the pain sharp and intense. But as she felt the heat of his body against hers, she realized that the pain was not the only thing she felt. There was pleasure, too, a dark, twisted pleasure that she couldn't deny. She could feel the heat between her legs, the wetness of her desire.

Jimmy runs the crop along her thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. She can feel the tension building up inside as she waits for the sharp thwack of the crop. When it comes, she can't help but let out a small scream, pulling against the ropes that bind her to the bed.

Jimmy continues to spank her with the crop, each thwack sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her pussy. She is breathing hard, her body trembling with each blow. She can feel the orgasm building up inside, and she knows it's going to be intense. She was lost, completely and utterly, in this twisted dance of pleasure and pain. And as the riding crop came down again, she knew that there was no escape. She was Jimmy's, completely and utterly. And she didn't want to be anywhere else. Lucy pressed her thighs together trying to alleviate some of the pressure, desperate for any kind of friction. He knows what he’s doing, he leans down and whispers in your ear. “You promised to be good.”

She nods, and breathes out "yes, I am." He leaves a kiss on her cheek and spreads her legs wide so she is completely open to him and hits the riding crop right on her clit making Lucy's body jump off the bed as she lets out a loud scream.

Jimmy's eyes feasted on the sight before him, his heart pounding in his chest as he drank in the raw, primal beauty of Lucy's exposed body. Her legs were spread wide, her pussy glistening with her arousal, a testament to the desire that coursed through her veins. He could see the wetness coating her folds, the way her clit swelled with need, and he felt a surge of primal satisfaction. Jimmy watched as Lucy's body writhed beneath him, her breath coming in short gasps. He could see the fear on her face, the confusion, the desire. He loved it. He loved the way she struggled against her bonds, the way she cried out when he touched her, when he punished her. He could feel his own desire growing, his body aching for her. He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers, his tongue exploring her mouth. She tasted sweet, like honey and sin. He could feel her body responding to his, her hips arching against him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He pulled back, a cruel smile on his lips. 'You want more, don't you, Lucy?' he whispered. 'You want me to fuck you, to take you, to make you mine.' She nodded, not able to form any words. He could see the desire, the need, the hunger. And he knew that he was right. He was her destiny, her fate. And she was his. He could feel it, deep in his bones. And as he raised the riding crop again, he knew that he would have her, completely and utterly. He would own her, body and soul. And there was nothing she could do to stop him.

He finally stopped and threw the riding crop down. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out to lick her slit, tasting her sweet juices. She moaned, her hips bucking against his touch, her body arching in desperate need. He could feel her heat, her wetness, and it drove him wild. He delved deeper, his tongue exploring her, tasting her, teasing her. He found her clit, that sensitive nub of pleasure, and he lavished attention on it, sucking and licking and biting until she was writhing beneath him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Lucy's body is shaking with each stroke of his tongue and as his tongue presses inside her pushing in and out of her tight passage, Lucy's thighs close around Jimmy's head, keeping him there. Jimmy could feel her body tensing, her muscles coiling like a spring ready to release. He knew she was close, so close to the edge. But he wanted to prolong her pleasure, to make her feel every inch of her desire. He pulled away, leaving her panting and desperate, her body shaking with need.

"Jimmy," she gasped, her voice hoarse with desire. "Please, don't stop."

He smiled, a slow, wicked smile that promised more pleasure than she could handle. "Don't worry love. I want to watch you come undone." he whispered, his voice a low, husky growl.

He trailed his fingers down her body, tracing the curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the red welts left behind from the crop. He could feel her heart racing beneath his touch, her body trembling with anticipation. He dipped his fingers into her wetness, coating them with her arousal, and then he brought them to her mouth. She licked them clean, her tongue swirling around his fingers as if they were the most delicious treat she had ever tasted.

He groaned, the sight of her licking his fingers driving him wild. He could feel his own desire building, his cock aching for release. But he wanted to prolong this, to make her feel every inch of her pleasure. He pulled his fingers from her mouth and brought them to her clit, rubbing it gently, teasing it, driving her wild.

She cried out, her body arching against his touch, her hips bucking against his hand. He could feel her body tensing, like a spring ready to release. He knew she was so close to the edge. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, husky whisper. "Come for me, Lucy," he whispered. "Let me feel you squeeze my fingers into your tight pussy."

And with that, he pushed his fingers deep inside her, curling them upwards to hit that spot that drove her wild. She cried out, her body convulsing as she came undone, her orgasm washing over her like a tidal wave. He could feel her body pulsing around his fingers, her juices coating his hand, and it was the most exquisite sensation he had ever experienced.

He pulled his fingers from her, his eyes never leaving her face as she rode out her orgasm, her body shaking with pleasure. He could see the satisfaction, the contentment, and he knew that he had given her what she needed. But he wasn't done with her yet. Not by a long shot. He had plans for her, plans that would leave her begging for more. And he intended to see them through, to make her his completely and utterly.

Jimmy, further aroused by seeing her like this, surges onto her body and presses himself against her capturing her in another kiss, his hands fully capturing her breasts kneading them, pulling her nipples between his fingers, drawing a sharp cry that was muffled by his lips. Jimmy sweeps his hands around her till they grab a hold of her ass, pressing their bodies closer together. His erection pressed against her stomach leaving a trail of moisture across her skin. Lucy lets out a soft mewl at the fact that he is so hard and aroused. She rolls her hips, pressing their stomachs tighter, trapping his cock, making him thrust spreading the moisture even more. He suddenly moves away breaking his ministrations, and yanks her thighs apart. He rubs his hard cock against her wet lips nudging them open and buries his cock in one deep thrust, filling her completely. He groaned, his head falling back, his eyes closed. He started to move, his hips thrusting against hers, his cock sliding in and out of her.

Lucy moaned, her body responding to his touch, her hips meeting his thrusts. He could feel her tightness, her body clenching around him. He thrust harder, his body slamming into hers, his cock pounding into her. It was a hard punishing rhythm, his hands gripping her thighs so tightly, practically lifting Lucy's body off the bed to meet his hips. Her arms were completely stretched from the headboard. He could feel the heat building, his body on the edge of release.

Jimmy was grunting from the exertion pounding into as hard as he could, so close to his own release. He could feel her pussy clench around him as she tries to milk his cock. Jimmy's body stiffens, his mouth open and eyes screwed shut as he spills everything inside of her.

Jimmy's breath came in ragged gasps as he collapsed on top of Lucy, his body slick with sweat. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, her breath hot on his neck. He rolled off her, his body still trembling from the force of his release. He looked down at her, her body glistening with their combined juices, he reached up to take the blindfold off. Lucy blinked a few times trying to adjust to the light. He smiled, a slow, satisfied smile that promised more to come.

Lucy's breath hitched as she looked up at him, her blue eyes filled with a mix of satisfaction and trepidation. She knew there was more to come, knew that Jimmy was far from done with her. She could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed as he looked at her, and she knew that he was already planning for more.

Jimmy reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a soft, gentle kiss. It was a stark contrast to the brutal fucking they had just shared, and it sent a shiver down Lucy's spine. She could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed as he looked at her.

"You're beautiful," he whispered against her lips, his voice a low, husky growl. "Absolutely breathtaking." He pulled back, his eyes never leaving hers as he reached for the riding crop that lay beside them. He ran the tip of it along her skin, tracing the curve of her breast, the flat of her stomach, the pubic hair covering her mound. She shivered at his touch, her body responding to him even as her mind screamed in protest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She knew what he was planning, could see it in his eyes, and it both terrified and excited her.

Jimmy smiled, a wicked, predatory smile that sent a shiver down her spine. "I told you, I'm going to make you mine, Lucy," he said, his voice a low, husky growl. "And I really do mean completely and utterly mine."

He brought the riding crop down, the leather snapping against her skin. She cried out, her body arching against the pain. But it was a good pain, a pain that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body. She could feel her clit swelling, her pussy growing wet again, and she knew that she was ready for more.

Jimmy chuckled, a low, satisfied sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "You like that, don't you?" he said, his voice a low, growl. "You like the pain, the pleasure, the way it makes you feel alive."

He brought the riding crop down again, this time on her other breast. Jimmy smiled, a slow, satisfied smile that promised more to come. "You're a natural, Lucy," he said, his voice low. "A natural at this game."

He brought the riding crop down again, this time on her stomach. She cried out, from the pain. And then he brought the riding crop down on her inner thigh, and then the lips of her pussy. She screamed more, the feeling of the crop hitting her wet lips made the pain sharper than the other times.

He brought the riding crop down again, this time on her clit. She cried out, her body convulsing as the pain and pleasure combined to send her over the edge. She came undone, her body shaking with pleasure, her juices coating her thighs. Jimmy watched her, his eyes filled with satisfaction, his body still trembling from the force of his own release.

"See, you just showed me that you're mine, Lucy," he whispered.

And as she lay there, her body still shaking with pleasure, her mind still reeling from the force of her orgasm, she knew that he was right. She was his, completely and utterly. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

JImmy finally moves to untie the knots that bind her wrists together. She can see the sweat dripping from his face. Jimmy leans down and kisses her softly, it was so much gentler than how he was moments ago. He takes her wrists and starts massaging them, making the blood flow back into the area.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Good,” she squeaks out, voice rasping. He kisses the corner of her mouth. Lucy slowly tries to sit up, realizing just how sore she was all over. Jimmy helps her into a sitting position rubbing her back. Lucy lets out a deep breath as she feels the combined juicies starting to dribble out of her pussy and onto the sheets below.

“I’ll be right back, alright?” Jimmy whispers against her hair before leaving a kiss. He returns with a warm, wet washcloth. Kneeling before her, he starts to clean up her thighs, cleaning her with a tender affection, making sure he doesn't miss any inch of her skin. When he finishes, he leaves a kiss on her forehead and leaves the room again. Lucy lays back down exhausted, barely able to keep her eyes open.

Jimmy comes back into the room and sets down a glass of water on the bedside table. He gets into the bed wrapping Lucy in his arms.

“I love you,” she tells him, fatigued, and overwhelmed with the emotion.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how much I love you,” Jimmy replies with affection. Lucy leans against him and kisses his chest, and he tightens his grip around her, burying his face in her hair.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thank you,” she murmurs back.

Chapter Text

The rumble of a passing Yellow Cab vibrated through my boots as I stepped out. The Drake Hotel loomed, a grand old dame of brick and limestone, its revolving doors spinning in an endless dance of arrivals and departures. My sensible canvas bag, stuffed with protective wrapping and flat, rectangular parcels, felt bulky, I adjusted the strap on my shoulder, letting out a quiet sigh. This was the last delivery, the final piece of the exhibition aftermath, and the one I’d been dreading—or perhaps, secretly anticipating.

My stomach, already a tight knot of nerves, cinched tighter. This wasn’t just any delivery; it was a reunion that I had been putting off for days. Jimmy Page.

It had been six years since I’d last seen Jimmy. The name still felt like a physical ache in my chest. Six years since we’d broken up, a lifetime in the chaotic, ever-accelerating world. Six years since his eyes had last crinkled at the corners in that way that made my chest ache, since his fingers had traced the line of my jaw, since his voice, typically so low and certain, had broken when I told him it was over. We’d moved on, or so I told myself. My music had flourished, found its voice, my art, well I was still exploring that. And he… well, he was Jimmy Page. Led Zeppelin. The living embodiment of rock mythology.

I still couldn't quite believe I had gone through with it. For years, my drawings had been a private indulgence, a hidden outlet for the thoughts and urges that my piano compositions couldn't quite capture. They were raw, often explicit, a stark contrast to the precise, elegant world i inhabited professionally.

And then there was Jimmy.

Seeing him that night had been ... a shock. A beautiful, disorienting shock. He was more handsome than I remembered, if that was even possible. The same incredible green eyes, sharp and intense, framed by those dark, wild curls. He carried himself with a new gravitas, a settled power that came with stratospheric fame, yet there was still that underlying current of restless energy, that hint of the mystical that had always drawn me to him. My heart had done a ridiculous little flutter when our eyes met, a silly, girlish reaction I thought I'd long outgrown.

Honestly, I was so incredibly proud of him. Led Zeppelin. It was monumental, wasn't it? Their music was everywhere, a thunderous roar that had redefined an entire generation. I'd never seen them perform live, strangely enough. My own life had been a whirlwind of smoky jazz clubs, writing music for variety of people, of endless practice hours and transcontinental flights. The demands of a classical pianist didn't often intersect with the raucous world of rock and roll arenas. Our paths had diverged so completely, yet, for a fleeting moment, they'd curved back together.

And the note. "Lucy - Call me. Jimmy Page." I'd found it tucked beneath the charcoal drawing he purchased. It was a bold move, utterly Jimmy, and it had sent a delicious shiver down my spine. The decision to come to the Drake, to personally deliver the art to its new owners, was my answer. I hadn't called, I wanted to see his face.

I took the elevator up, the numbers ticking over slowly, mirroring the frantic beat of my heart. I took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of my shirt. What did you say to a ghost from your past, a ghost who now commanded stadiums and legions of screaming fans?

The elevator hummed as it carried me up to the designated floor. My palms were a little sweaty, but beneath the nervousness, a quiet thrill pulsed. First stop: John Bonham. His pieces were easily identifiable by their ... theme. A series of five charcoal drawings, all variations on a man receiving a blow job. I'd drawn them in a moment of cheeky irreverence, never imagining anyone would actually buy them, let alone Bonham.

Room 712. I took a deep breath, the stale scent of old carpet and faint sweat filling my lungs. My knuckles rapped lightly on door. The sound echoed through the corridor, muffled by the thick velvet that adorned the walls. After a moment, it creaked open, revealing a burly roadie, his face tired but curious.

“Can I help you, love?” he asked, his voice thick with a English accent.

“Yes,” I managed, trying to sound more composed than I felt. “I’m Lucy Miller. I’m here to drop off some drawings Mr. Bonham purchased the other night.” I held up the portfolio as evidence.

His eyes widened slightly in recognition. “Right, the artist. Come in, then.” He swung the door open wider, and I stepped into a room that smelled strongly of stale cigarettes, whiskey, and something vaguely metallic, like an uncleaned instrument case. It was a typical hotel suite, but well-lived in, littered with half-empty glasses, overflowing ashtrays, and discarded clothes.

John Bonham was sprawled in an armchair by the window, a bottle of beer in his hand, a cigarette dangling from his lips, exhaling a plume of smoke towards the grey New York sky. A plate of bacon and eggs on the table in front of him. His eyes, heavy-lidded and bloodshot, fixed on me as the roadie announced, “Bonzo, the artist is here, with your drawings.”

Bonzo slowly pushed himself upright, his massive frame unfolding with surprising agility. He stubbed out his cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray on a nearby table, then ambled towards me. My heart thumped a nervous rhythm against my ribs. He stopped less than a foot away, his gaze sweeping over me with an unnerving intensity, from my sensible boots up to my tied-back hair. It felt less like a greeting and more like an appraisal. My skin prickled with discomfort. I shifted my weight, gripping the portfolio tighter.

“Hmm,” he rumbled, his voice a low growl. “So this is her.” He didn’t address me directly, but his eyes never left mine. Then, a slow, predatory smile spread across his face, and he finally spoke, a crude laugh rumbling in his chest. “At least Pagey’s got good taste in women.”

My mind went blank. The air left my lungs in a silent whoosh. What? What did he just say? My cheeks burned, a rush of mortification and anger washing over me, trying desperately to maintain my composure. She had never been one to discuss her personal life, especially not with someone as brash and intimidating as John Bonham.

Before I could even formulate a coherent thought, Bonzo pressed on, his voice dropping slightly, laced with a strange mix of sympathy and accusation. “He told us all about you, you know. How you broke his heart. Went on and on about you for months. Little bastard was a mess.” He shook his head, a mocking half-smile on his lips. “Honestly, if you weren’t so bloody talented, I’d say you were nothing but a little cunt.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, stripping away every shred of my composure. My jaw clenched so tight, it ached. Broken his heart? A little cunt? The audacity, the sheer, unadulterated gall of this man, this stranger, to speak to me like this. My relationship with Jimmy was a private scar, that no one, especially not a drunken drummer, had the right to casually dissect.

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to swallow the bitter retort that threatened to erupt. Never one to speak about my relationships, let alone to a stranger, I simply met his gaze, my expression, I hoped, utterly unreadable. A faint, almost imperceptible shrug was my only physical response, a dismissive gesture that said: This is none of your business, and your opinion means nothing to me.

“Mr. Bonham,” I said, my voice commendably steady, considering the turmoil within. I extended the portfolio, already half-opened to reveal the carefully wrapped drawings. “These are the pieces you purchased. Thank you for your business.” I kept my tone clipped, professional, a stark contrast to his vulgar familiarity.

He took the portfolio, his large fingers surprisingly gentle as they peeled back the protective tissue paper. I turned to leave, ready to get this day over with. Bonzo called out to her. "Hold on, let's have a look at what I bought, shall we?" He eagerly tore open the wrapping, his eyes lighting up as he pulled out the intricate drawings. My discomfort was replaced by a glimmer of pride as I watched him examine the artwork. "Ah, the masterpieces!" He pulled out the first one, a man with a look of blissful abandon on his face, a woman's head out of frame. "Bloody hell, Lucy! You're obsessed, aren't ya? Five different scenes of a bloke getting his rocks off! What's the story, then? Personal experience, is it?" He winked, completely uninhibited.

I laughed, a genuine, light sound. "John, Please! An artist observes and explores its various facets, its intimate moments. It's an exploration of pleasure and vulnerability."

He snorted, flicking a piece of bacon into his mouth. "Vulnerability, eh? Looks more like pure, unadulterated pleasure to me! and you drew this after a night on the tiles, didn't ya? Inspiration struck, right?" He pulled out another drawing, then another, scrutinizing each with mock seriousness, his eyes twinkling. "This one, the fellow on his knees, begging for it - that's a new one for me. You into the power dynamics, too, are ya?"

"It's about ... surrender," I offered, trying to keep a straight face.

"Surrender, she says!" He boomed, spinning around to address an imaginary audience, or maybe just his roadie, "Lucy here is a connoisseur of the, ah, oral arts! Who knew the quiet piano lady had such a naughty mind?" he was going on, being jovial and being a character, larger than life and utterly disarming. It was impossible not to be amused by him. He paid me in cash, peeling a wad of bills from a thick roll, barely counting. "You keep the change, love. Art like this deserves a premium."

I thanked him, tucking the money into my bag. "It was a pleasure, John."

"Anytime, Lucy! Come by later, we're having a few drinks. Maybe you can sketch us all in the throes of 'vulnerability'!" he roared with laughter, already turning back to his bacon.

"Perhaps another time." I said, retreating from the sensory overload, a smile still on my face. John was a force of nature, hilarious and utterly without filter, the smile faded, replaced by a nervous flutter in my stomach.

By the time I finally managed to murmur a polite goodbye and slip out the door, the flush on my cheeks had faded, replaced by a strange mix of lingering indignation and a faint, surprising flicker of relief. I felt, if not good, then at least a little better. Now, it was time to face the real challenge: seeing Jimmy again. I took the elevator to his floor, my heart racing once more as the doors closed, sealing me in with my memories. The floor number glowed ominously above, and I wondered if I was ready to confront the past.

A fresh wave of anxiety washed over me as I walked down the corridor towards Room 902. Bonzo’s words echoed in my head, a jarring, unwelcome soundtrack. “He told us all about you… How you broke his heart.” Jimmy. My breakup with him, six years ago, had been brutal, messy. I’d always believed I was the one who had taken the brunt of the pain, the one who’d had to rebuild. But had he truly been hurt as badly? Had he truly confided in the band? And if so, what did that mean for our meeting now? The short, awkward encounter at the exhibit suddenly made more sense. He hadn’t just shown up out of professional courtesy. He’d shown up because… he’d felt something. Something unresolved.

_____________________

Three soft, hesitant taps.

Just as I was about to retreat, convinced he was out or asleep, I heard a rustle inside, followed by a muffled groan. The door creaked open revealing him, leaning against the frame, a hand rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He clearly wasn't ready for the day. His dark hair was a glorious mess, sticking up in every direction, and he was wearing a faded t-shirt that looked like it had seen better days. It clung to his lean frame, and his eyes, usually piercing and intense, were still heavy with sleep, a hazy, unfocused green hue. He clearly had just woken up, the faint lines on his cheek suggesting he'd been face down on a pillow just moments ago. He blinked, once, twice, his eyes slowly focusing on my face.

And then, shock. Pure, unadulterated shock. His eyes widened, blinking slowly as if trying to process the apparition before him. His hand dropped, his jaw slackened slightly. "Lucy?" he rasped, his voice rough with sleep, a sound that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. "I ... I didn't think you'd come. I mean, I thought you probably wouldn't reach out."

A small, nervous laugh escaped.

His lips curved into a slow, sleepy smile, a familiar warmth spreading through the space between us. "Right." he said, pushing the door wider. "Well, don't just stand there. Come in, Lucy."

I stepped inside, the sudden warmth and comfort of the well-appointed suite a stark contrast to the hallway. The room was spacious, with a scattering of clothes on a plush armchair, hinting at a recent whirlwind of activity. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, lingering sleep, and something else... a faint, sweet aroma I couldn't quite place.

Jimmy closed the door softly behind me. "Sorry about the mess. Just woke up, obviously. You want something? coffee? tea? I was about to call room service anyway."

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," I said, my gaze sweeping around the room, taking in the details. It was decidedly more lived-in than Mr. Bonham's suite.

He picked up the phone, still looking a little dazed. "Anything else? Pastry?" I shook my head. He held the receiver to his ear. "Room service, please. And ... actually, can we get a pot of Earl Grey tea, two cups, and some of those little shortbread biscuits ... cookies." He paused, looking at me with a questioning eyebrow. I nodded subtly. "Thanks."

Room service arrived surprisingly quickly. A uniformed waiter wheeled in a cart laden with a silver teapot, delicate china cups, and a small plate of shortbread biscuits. JImmy waved him away with a tip, then poured us both a cup of steaming Earl Grey. The familiar aroma filled the air, instantly transporting me back to London, to shared moments over cheap tea in tiny cafes, lost in conversation, oblivious to the world outside.

"Here," he said, pushing a cup towards me, the delicate china warm against my palm. "Just like old times, eh?"

I took a sip, the warmth spreading through me, a small nervousness. "It's good," I said, perhaps a little too quickly. The shortbread was crisp, buttery. It was comforting, familiar, and yet ... Everything felt so radically different.

After a few minutes I spoke up “I have your drawing,” forcing a professional tone.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on my face. “Yes. Thank you for bringing it personally. It means… a lot.” His words were carefully chosen, but the weight behind them was palpable.

I unzipped the portfolio, pulling out the drawing. It was one of my favorites, I was quite surprised to find out Jimmy bought it “This is the one.”

He took it from me, his fingers brushing against mine. A faint spark, an echo of a thousand forgotten touches, shot through me. He carried the drawing to the window, the afternoon light illuminating the intricate details. He stood there, silent, studying it, his back to me.

The silence grew, stretched, filled with all the unspoken words of our past. My mind raced, Bonham’s crude pronouncements circling like vultures. He told us all about you… broke his heart. Was it true? Was it a drunken exaggeration?

Finally, he turned, the drawing held carefully in front of him. His expression was unreadable, his eyes shadowed. “It’s even more beautiful in person, Lucy." He paused, his gaze meeting mine. “It reminds me of us.”

My breath hitched. My carefully constructed wall of professionalism crumbled. “Us?” I whispered, the single word a question, a challenge, a plea.

He walked closer, stopping a respectful distance away, the drawing still held between us, a fragile bridge. “Yes. The chaos, the intensity… but also the fragile beauty. The quiet moments. It’s all there, in your work.” His voice dropped, becoming even softer, more vulnerable. “And it’s why I had to have it. When I saw it… it was like you’d painted it just for me, Lucy.”

He laid the drawing carefully on the table, turning to face me fully. “I know it was awkward the other night. I apologize. I shouldn’t have just… shown up like that. But a part of me, a very old part, just… wanted to see you. And then I saw your work, and it was breathtaking. It still is.”

The raw honesty in his voice startled me. It was so unlike the guarded, almost stoic Jimmy I remembered. “Bonham said…” I began, then hesitated. Should I? It might destroy whatever fragile bridge he was attempting to build. But the words were out, the hurt too fresh. “Bonham said you told the band about our breakup.”

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise, then something else, something akin to embarrassment, crossed his features. He ran a hand through his hair. “Bonzo. Of course he did.” A rueful, self-deprecating laugh escaped him. “He wasn’t wrong. I did tell them, I was heart broken. I was devastated. I was lost for a long time after you left. More lost than I let on.” He looked directly at me, his green eyes intense, searching. “I just… I didn’t know how to be without you, Lucy. You were my anchor, my calm in the storm.”

The admission hung in the air, heavy with unspoken regret. And suddenly, the defensive wall I’d built around my heart, brick by painful brick over six years, began to crumble. He hadn’t just moved on, completely detached. He’d hurt, just as I had.

“I was lost too, Jimmy. You know I was going through alot,” I confessed, my voice barely audible.

He took another step closer, until we were nearly touching. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the familiar, intoxicating scent. “When I saw your art the other night, Lucy, it was like finding a piece of myself I thought I’d lost forever. A piece of us. That intensity, that introspection… it’s what I loved about you. It’s what I still…” He stopped, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes. “It’s what I still admire.”

The pause hung there, pregnant with unspoken words. Love? Miss? Feel? I didn’t know.

“I should go,” I said, the words a hoarse whisper, a desperate attempt to regain control of the narrative, of my own heart.

He didn’t move. His hand, slow and deliberate, lifted, his thumb gently tracing the line of my jaw, a familiar touch, a devastating memory. “Do you have to?” he asked, his voice low, filled with an ancient plea. “Or could we… just talk? No expectations. Just… talk. About music. About life. About… anything.”

His thumb stroked my cheek, a featherlight touch that shattered the last vestiges of my resolve. The pain, the anger, the years of self-protection, they all dissolved under that simple gesture. He wasn’t the same man, and I wasn’t the same woman. But the connection, the undeniable, magnetic pull, was still there, dormant, waiting.

I looked into his eyes, seeing not just the rock god, but the boy I had loved so fiercely, the man who had truly been hurt. And the complex, flawed, brilliant artist he still was.

I took a shaky breath. “Okay, Jimmy,” I said, my voice barely steady. “We can talk.”

He smiled then, a slow, beautiful smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners just as I remembered. It was a smile of relief, of tentative hope.

"So Luce. It's been ... a while. What have you been up to? Beyond creating masterpieces for discerning wealthy rock stars, that is." His tone was light, but there was genuine curiosity in his eyes.

I took another sip of tea, considering my answer. How much to share? How much could I share without opening old wounds, or revealing vulnerabilities I'd spent years patching up? "Oh, you know," I began vaguely. "Life. Music. Art. Trying to stay sane in a chaotic world."

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Come on, that's not an answer. What's been your focus?"

"Well what about you?" I asked, turning the tables on him.

"Busy," he chuckled, a sound that brought back a flood of memories – the way his shoulders would shake when he really laughed, the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "Always busy. We’re on the tail end of the tour now, heading back to England in a few days."

"Right. I saw the billboards. You’ve… you’ve done incredibly well, Jimmy. I truly am happy for you."

"Thank you, Lucy. It’s… a lot. Sometimes. But it’s good." He gestured to the table. "Would you like some more tea? It's still warm."

I hesitated. Every fiber of my being screamed to bolt, to escape the suffocating weight of the unsaid. But then I looked at his eyes, the hint of vulnerability there, and something in me softened. "Yes, thank you. That would be lovely."

We sat opposite each other on the plush chairs, two teacups between us, acting as a flimsy barrier. The conversation remained light, hovering on the surface of our lives. We talked about the success of the exhibition, the weather, the absurdities of hotel life, the challenges of touring. He asked about my music, genuinely interested, and I found myself relaxing, describing the inspiration behind some of the pieces, carefully omitting any that might have been too deeply entwined with memories of him.

He listened intently, head cocked slightly, those intense eyes never leaving my face. It was unnerving, and yet, profoundly familiar. It was the way he used to listen, as if every word I uttered was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard. I remembered late nights, sprawled on my tiny flat floor, sharing dreams, fears, and the messy chaos of our young lives.

Just as the comfortable, yet emotionally charged, silence threatened to settle, there was a sharp rap on the door. Jimmy sighed, a subtle shift in his posture.

"That'll be the boys," he murmured, standing up. "Sound check in an hour."

He opened the door to a flurry of voices – a road manager, a security guard, a couple of band members calling out greetings. "Pagey, you ready? We're heading out!"

Jimmy held up a hand, his gaze still on me. "Almost. Just a minute."

He turned back, shutting the door most of the way, leaving just a crack. His voice was lower, more urgent now. "Look, Lucy, I… I know it's a long shot, but would you consider coming to the show tonight? It'd be good to see you again, properly."

My heart hammered against my ribs. A Led Zeppelin concert. With Jimmy. The idea was intoxicating, terrifying. A part of me, the part that still remembered the thrill of his presence, yearned to say yes. But another part, the part that had painstakingly rebuilt my life, whispered a warning. What would it be like? To see him on that stage, a god to thousands, knowing what we once were? The noise, the crowds… It felt too much, too soon, too dangerous.

"Oh, Jimmy," I said, forcing a regretful smile. "That’s… that’s incredibly kind of you. But I really can’t. I’m still knee-deep in exhibition clean-up. There are galleries to contact, returns to arrange, a whole stack of paperwork. I won’t be free until late, I’m afraid." The excuse felt flimsy, even to my own ears, but it was solid enough to hide behind.

A shadow passed over his face, his expression falling. The disappointment was palpable, a physical weight in the room. "Oh. Right. Of course." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I remembered well. "That's a shame. I was hoping..." His voice trailed off, then he rallied, a determined glint returning to his eyes. "Well, then. If not tonight, what about tomorrow? Or the day after? I'm here for a few more days before we fly back to England. I… I really don't want to leave without seeing you again, Lucy. Not like this."

The directness of his plea hit me hard. It was raw, vulnerable. It was the old Jimmy, beneath the layers of fame and distance. And it made my breath hitch.

I nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the sincerity in his voice. "Okay," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Okay, Jimmy. I understand." I fished in my bag for a small notebook and pen. "I’m staying at the Wellington, just a few blocks from here. Room 412. You can… you can call me."

He watched me write it down, his gaze intense. When I handed him the slip of paper, his fingers brushed mine, and a jolt, electric and unmistakable, shot up my arm. He folded the paper carefully, tucking it into his pocket.

We both stood, the unspoken weight of our past and the uncertain future pressing in. The tea party was over. The manager was tapping impatiently on the door.

He took a step towards me, and then another. I met him halfway. It was supposed to be a brief, polite farewell hug, a formal closing to an awkward reunion. My arms went around him, tentatively, and his arms wrapped around my waist, then tightened.

It wasn't brief. It was a sudden, fierce possessiveness that took my breath away. His grip was almost crushing, pulling me flush against his solid frame. The scent of him – the familiar blend of patchouli, Pantene, and something uniquely masculine – enveloped me. My cheek pressed against his shoulder, and I could feel the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. This wasn't a friendly embrace; it was a desperate clutch, a silent scream across six years of absence. My own arms tightened around his back, my fingers digging into the material, desperate to hold on, just for a moment longer, to this fragile connection. The heat of him seeped into me, a burning sensation that spread through my veins, igniting long-dormant embers. It was a hug of recognition, of longing, of unspoken regrets, and a poignant question: Why did we ever let this go?

I felt his lips brush my forehead, a soft, tender kiss that lingered, a brand on my skin. It was both a blessing and an excruciating farewell.

Slowly, reluctantly, he loosened his hold. I pulled back, my vision blurred, my lungs aching for air I hadn't realized I was holding. His eyes, when they met mine, were dark pools of emotion, unreadable and yet, so achingly familiar.

"I'll call you, Lucy," he promised, his voice low and firm.

I could only nod, a lump in my throat preventing any words from escaping. I turned, walking towards the door, feeling his gaze burning into my back. I didn't look back. I couldn't. I knew if I did, I would unravel completely.

The elevator doors closed, cutting me off from Room 902, from Jimmy Page, from the lingering scent of him. I leaned my head against the cool metal wall, trying to steady my racing heart. The brief, almost violent intimacy of that hug had stripped away the polite facade we’d both constructed. It had laid bare the raw, undeniable truth: six years, a continent, and unimaginable fame had done nothing to sever the invisible cord that still bound us.

Back in my own hotel room, it felt stark and empty. The silence was deafening after the hum of his presence. I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the edge of the bed, my fingers unconsciously tracing the spot on my forehead where his lips had touched. A tremor ran through me.

And now here we were, six years later, standing in a plush hotel room, two different people, yet still undeniably tethered by the ghost of who we once were. The burning hug, the kiss on my forehead – it wasn't just nostalgia. It was a recognition, a reawakening of something that had never truly died, only lain dormant.

My mind raced. He wanted to see me. He wanted to see me again before he left. The call. Would he call? Would I answer? What would we even talk about? Could we pick up the fragments of a shattered past and reassemble them into something new, something stronger? Or would we just hurt each other again, irrevocably, this time with the weight of adulthood and unresolved history pressing down on us?

The exhibition was done. The paperwork could wait. My excuse had been just that – an excuse. The truth was, I was terrified. Terrified of the raw emotion he still evoked, terrified of the world he inhabited, terrified of losing myself in him again. But underneath that fear, a tiny, insistent spark of hope flickered. A yearning for that profound connection, that feeling of being utterly seen and understood, that only he had ever truly given me.

The clock on the bedside table ticked loudly in the silence. It was almost nighttime. The city outside was humming with the prelude to party the night brings Somewhere, Jimmy was playing to thousands, becoming the wizard on stage.

Chapter Text

I had promised her that I would call, and as the clock ticked away, the anticipation grew stronger, my heart racing to the rhythm of the city below. Now, with my finger hovering over the dial, the phantom image of Frank’s arm around her waist sent a fresh wave of unease through me. Stupid, really. Of course she might be dating someone. I was a touring musician, here today, gone tomorrow. It was arrogant to assume otherwise. Yet, that spark in her eyes … it had felt like more than just friendly curiosity.

I took a deep breath, banished the doubt, and began to dial. Each click of the rotary dial was a drumbeat in my chest. Please, let it be her. Please. The phone rang once, twice, three times. My heart hammered against my ribs. And then, a click. Not the hurried, slightly breathless sound of a woman picking up, but a deeper, slower intake of breath.

“Hello?” a gruff, distinctly male voice answered.

My hand stiffened around the receiver. The blood drained from my face, then rushed back, hot and prickling. It was him. Frank. My throat tightened.

“H-hello?” I stammered, coughing a bit to clear the sudden constriction in my windpipe. A rock star reduced to a fumbling schoolboy. God, this was humiliating. “Is… is Lucy there?”

There was a pause on the other end, a beat of silence that stretched into an eternity, filled only by the distant city hum. Then, the man’s voice, annoyingly calm and collected. “She’s in the shower right now. Be a few. Can I take a message?”

The words hit me like a physical blow. In the shower. Meaning he was in the room. Meaning he was staying there, or at least stayed there. My stomach clenched. “No,” I managed, the word barely a whisper. “No, that’s… that’s alright. I’ll just… I’ll try again later.” I didn’t wait for a response, just slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, the plastic clatter echoing in the sudden, desolate silence of the room.

I stared at the phone as if it had personally betrayed me. A cold, bitter wave of jealousy washed over me, more potent than before. So, it was him. The same man from the art exhibit, the one who’d wrapped his arm around her. My mind raced, conjuring images of them together in that room, the intimacy of it, the quiet domesticity implied by a shared hotel suite and a man answering her phone while she showered. A cigarette. I needed a cigarette. My fingers fumbled through the pack, lit one with a trembling hand, and inhaled deeply, the harsh smoke doing little to calm the frantic beating of my heart. I paced my room, the carpet feeling rough beneath my feet. Fool. He should have asked if she was seeing anyone.

The hours that followed dragged by, each minute an agonizing eternity. Rehearsals felt hollow, the roar of the MSG crowd already building in my mind, yet it did nothing to stir the usual anticipation. Robert, ever perceptive, caught my distraction. “Lost in thought, mate?” he’d asked, a playful glint in his eye. “Some New York doxy got you down?” I’d just grunted, not trusting my voice, and buried myself deeper in my guitar, hoping the music would drown out the incessant questions in my head.

The battle raged within me: give up and preserve my bruised ego, or try again, no matter the inevitable pain? The image of her smile, the warmth of her eyes, ultimately won. I had to see her again.

Later that evening, as the backstage buzz began to build, as the roadies moved like ghosts setting up the stage, I found myself back in my hotel room. Getting dressed for the concert, I felt the familiar stage-ready swagger, but it was thinner, more fragile tonight. The scent of sweat and anticipation hung in the air, but all I could smell was the lingering phantom of cheap hotel soap and him.

I picked up the phone again, my thumb lingering over Lucy’s number. My stomach churned. This was it. One last shot. I dialled, each rotation of the dial heavier than the last. It rang. And rang. My heart climbed into my throat.

Then, the click.

Hello?” It was the same voice. Frank. My shoulders slumped.

“Is Lucy there?” I asked, my voice flat, devoid of the earlier stutter, accepting my fate.

“She’s still in the shower, pal. Look, I told you, I can take a message.” There was a hint of annoyance in his tone now, a possessive edge.

“No, I…” I started, then paused. Screw it. I wasn’t hanging up this time. I’d wait him out. “I’ll just… I’ll wait.”

Another pause, longer this time. I could almost hear him sigh. “Fine,” he bit out, and then I heard the muffled clatter of the phone being put down, followed by distant, indistinguishable sounds. My ears strained, trying to discern footsteps.

Then, faint at first, I heard voices. Muffled. An argument.

“Who is it, Frank?” Lucy’s voice, clear and sharp even through the distance.

“I don’t know, some English Lord, keeps calling,” Frank grumbled, his voice closer to the receiver, clearly not caring if I heard him.

An English Lord? My brow furrowed. What in God’s name was he talking about? I certainly hadn’t called myself a Lord.

Then, a rustle, and the sound of someone picking up the receiver. My breath caught.

“Hello?” Her voice. Clear, vibrant, a melody that cut through the lingering tension, instantly calming the storm inside me. It was her. Finally.

“Hello,” I managed, a smile involuntarily spreading across my face. Hearing her voice felt like coming home after a long, arduous journey.

There was a soft, melodious laugh on her end. “Jimmy? An English Lord, are we now?”

My chuckle rumbled in my chest, relief washing over me. “I never said I was a Lord, Lucy. I’m not sure where he got that impression.” The thought of Frank’s annoyance brought a flicker of vindictive satisfaction.

“Well, you certainly sound like one, calling from your castle,” she teased, her voice light and playful despite the overheard argument.

“Hardly a castle,” I retorted, suddenly feeling buoyant, the earlier jealousy a distant cloud. “Just a hotel room. Listen, the band and I are playing Madison Square Garden tonight. I was calling to see if you’d like to come.”

There was a moment of silence. I held my breath, the grandiosity of the concert suddenly feeling absurdly vulnerable.

“Tonight? Madison Square Garden? Jimmy, I would love to!” Her enthusiasm was genuine, infectious. My heart soared. “But… can I have a plus one?”

The words hit me like a splash of cold water. A plus one. My soaring heart plummeted, crashing back to earth. Of course. Frank. The man who shared her room, who answered her calls, who called me an "English Lord." The image of his arm around her returned with bitter clarity. My hopes of getting Lucy alone, of recapturing that immediate, intimate connection we’d had, of understanding the nature of her relationship with Frank, dissolved into thin air.

My jaw tightened. “A plus one?” I repeated, the question strained. It was less a question, more a statement of aching disappointment. I swallowed hard, the taste of ash still in my mouth from the earlier cigarette. This was not how I’d envisioned this conversation. Not how I’d envisioned seeing her again.

“Yes,” she said, the slight hesitancy in her voice indicating she might have sensed my internal conflict, though she couldn’t possibly have known the extent of it. “It would be really great, Jimmy, if I could.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing the scenario: me, putting my heart and soul into the performance, all the while knowing the man who made my gut clench with jealousy was sitting beside the woman I was so unexpectedly, intensely drawn to. It was a cruel twist of fate. But what was the alternative? To say no? To risk her not coming at all? The thought was unbearable. I had to see her. Even with him.

“Alright,” I finally said, the word coming out a little stiffer than I intended. “Of course. A plus one. No problem at all.”

“Jimmy, you’re the best!” Her voice was bright, seemingly oblivious to the internal turmoil she’d just caused. “What time should we come?”

I gave her the details, the instructions for VIP access, my mind already racing, plotting. How would I manage this? How would I navigate the evening with Frank as a constant shadow? The conversation ended quickly after that, a strange mix of excitement and simmering unease.

I hung up the phone, the receiver feeling heavier than before. The concert, the massive spectacle, the roar of the crowd, none of it mattered now. All that mattered was Lucy. And Frank. And the impossible chasm that seemed to stretch between us, guarded by the very presence I’d so desperately tried to avoid. Well, he was coming. And I would just have to figure out how to bridge that chasm. Or perhaps, how to burn it down.

_____________________

The air in Madison Square Garden backstage was a living current, a palpable hum of anticipation and raw energy. Roadies wrestled with monstrous equipment cases, staff shouted last-minute instructions, and management types, faces etched with a blend of stress and exhilaration, navigated the organised chaos. The roar of the crowd was a living thing, a beast that swelled inside Madison Square Garden, vibrating through the stage floor, up my spine, and into the very core of my being.

Before the show, the dressing room was a pressure cooker of anticipation. Robert, pacing, a panther ready to spring. Bonzo, already loosening up, a drumstick tapping against his thigh. Jonesy, smoking a joint, tuning his bass, a knowing glint in his eye as he occasionally caught my gaze. He knew, I think. He always did.

The stage manager, a balding man with a perpetually panicked expression, ushered us towards the entrance. "Five minutes, lads! Let's go!"

The roar hit me like a physical blow as I stepped into the blinding spotlight. The next few hours were a blur of sound and light, a sensory overload that left me breathless. The show was a spectacle, an explosion of sound and light. The loudness was unlike anything, a physical thing that pressed against your chest, hammered in your ears. The roar from the crowd reached a crescendo, a wave of sound that vibrated through the floorboards, through my very bones. And then, the first thunderous chord of ‘The Song Remains the Same’ ripped through the venue. There was only the music. The raw power of it, the intricate dance between us four, the sheer, unadulterated energy that flowed from my fingers to the fretboard, through the amps, and out to fifty thousand screaming souls. I lost myself in the blues, in the heavy riffs, in the soaring solos.

The light show was a masterpiece of artistry, painting the arena in swirling colors, accentuating every note, every gesture. The audience was a seething mass of bodies, united in their devotion to the music. The air was thick with sweat, marijuana smoke, and the primal energy of rock and roll. It was a Dionysian frenzy, a release of inhibitions, a collective surrender to the power of the moment. Midway through "Dazed and Confused," I caught a glimpse of her, just a flash of red under the stage lights, moving with a rhythm that was purely hers. She was dancing, swaying, lost in the music, just as I was, and a strange warmth spread through me. She looked beautiful. Ageless. And for a fleeting moment, the jealousy dissipated, replaced by a profound sense of pride. This was my music, reaching her.

When the final, deafening chords of ‘Whole Lotta Love’ faded, sustained by feedback, before dissolving into the thunderous applause. We bowed, sweat-soaked and spent, then stumbled off stage, the adrenaline still coursing through our veins.

Backstage, the usual pandemonium reigned. Roadies swarmed, offering towels, water, and the first celebratory drinks. Some wrestled with equipment. Staff murmured into headsets. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and ozone. Robert was already reaching for a cigarette, Bonzo guzzling a beer, JPJ wiping his brow with a towel. My own hands trembled slightly as I reached for a glass of something amber and cool.

But my mind wasn't on the drink, or the cigarette I craved. It was on her. I scanned the throng, my eyes darting through the organized chaos, searching for that splash of brown. She wasn’t where I’d last seen her. For a moment, a disorienting pang of doubt hit me. Had she been a figment of my imagination? A hallucination conjured by the sheer exhaustion and exhilaration of the show? But no, I’d seen her during the show, seen her dance. She was real. She had to be.

"Lost something, Jimmy?"

Richard Cole, our perpetually harried tour manager, materialized beside me, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He always seemed to know everything.

"Just… looking around," I mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant. Cole just chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. He gestured with his chin towards a corner of the backstage area, near a stack of guitar cases. "If you're looking for Lucy, she's over there. With Jonesy. And some bloke"

My stomach tightened. My eyes followed his gaze. There she was. Radiant, even in the dim backstage lighting, her face animated as she spoke, gesticulating with her hands. And him. Frank. He was listening intently, a soft smile on his face, occasionally interjecting. And JPJ, bless his diplomatic soul, was nodding along, joining in their conversation. It seemed like an animated conversation from what I could tell, far too animated for my liking. A casual intimacy that made my blood run cold.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, to project the nonchalant confidence of a rock god. But inside, I was a coiled spring. I walked over, trying to appear unconcerned, like I was merely passing by. As I drew close, I could hear Lucy's voice, bright and clear. "...and when Jimmy started that solo on 'Since I've Been Loving You', it was just... pure magic, Frank. Truly magic."

A wave of warmth, quickly followed by an icy current of possessiveness, washed over me. She was talking about me to him. My hand reached out, almost instinctively, and I placed it lightly on the small of Lucy's back.

She jumped, startled, a small gasp escaping her lips. Her head whipped around, those bright, expressive blue eyes locking onto mine. For a split second, recognition, then an explosion of pure joy lit up her face. With a huge, breathtaking smile, she unexpectedly launched herself into my arms, giving me a fierce, unreserved hug.

It was instantaneous. Muscle memory. My arms went around her, pulling her close, inhaling the scent of her hair, the faint, sweet smell of sweat and something uniquely Lucy. For that brief, wonderful moment, the world narrowed to just us two, and Frank, and the entire chaotic backstage world, simply ceased to exist. Reciprocating the embrace, I squeezed her tighter than I should have, a silent plea for her to stay.

We pulled back, though my hands lingered on her arms. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling. "Jimmy! Oh my God, Jimmy! That was… that was incredible! Oh my God, I’m so proud of you! What a show! The energy! You were just... phenomenal."

Her words, so genuine, so full of warmth, flowed over me, momentarily soothing the gnawing jealousy. But then, as she spoke, my eyes glanced over her shoulder, past her radiant face, to Frank. He was watching us, a neutral, almost amused expression on his face. The jealousy flared again, hotter this time. My fingers twitched, wanting to pull her back, to stake my claim.

Lucy noticed my stare, my gaze lingering on the man beside her. She separated a bit more from my arms, though her smile remained. "Oh! Jimmy, I'm so sorry! This is Frank. Frank, this is Jimmy." She beamed, as if presenting two of her favorite things to each other. "I sort of introduced you two at the exhibition the other night, but it was brief."

I extended my hand, my grip tightening into a vice as Frank reached for it. I meant to intimidate him, to convey a silent warning through the sheer force of my handshake. He was taller than me, broader, but I had the stage presence, the reputation, the raw power that had just captivated fifty thousand people. Surely he would crumble under the veiled threat.

But Frank just took my hand, his grip firm, unyielding but not aggressive. He shrugged off my apparent coldness, his smile calm and even. "Jimmy. A pleasure. That was truly an astonishing performance. I've been a huge Zeppelin fan for years, but tonight... it was something else entirely. Congratulations."

He meant it. I could tell. He wasn't bothered by my thinly veiled hostility. He was just a fan, genuinely impressed. It only served to annoy me more. How could he be so damn… unbothered? I mumbled a "Thanks," the word barely escaping my lips, yet not warming up to the man.

"Right then, lads! And Lucy! Let's get a move on! Limos are waiting! Hotel time!" Richard Cole popped up beside us, a whirlwind of efficiency, trying to usher everyone towards the exit.

I didn't hesitate. My hand went back to Lucy's lower back, pushing her gently but firmly towards the egress. It was a gesture of ownership, unmistakable. "Come on," I murmured, my voice low, just for her ears. "Let's get out of here."

But as we moved, I watched, my jaw clenching, as she reached for Frank's hand, her fingers intertwining with his, and gently pulled him along with us. She wasn't leaving him behind.

We piled into the spacious limousine – Robert, Bonzo, JPJ, Frank, Lucy, and me. I immediately took the seat opposite Lucy, Frank settling beside her. The space seemed to shrink, the air in the confined space crackled with unspoken tension. The hum of the limo’s engine was the loudest sound in the otherwise suffocating silence. Outside, the rain slicked the New York streets, reflecting the blur of neon lights. Lucy sat pressed against the plush leather seat, her knee occasionally brushing Frank’s. Bonzo, ever the talker, was animatedly recounting some backstage anecdote to Robert, whose nods were the only response. Frank and Jonesy talking about the show, about music – a conversation I desperately wanted to dominate, but found myself excluded from. Lucy sat between them, a silent barometer of the awkward atmosphere, occasionally interjecting a comment, her hand still loosely clasped with Frank's.

I leaned back against the leather, my eyes fixed on the passing city lights, my mind a tempest. Lucy. She was here. She was real. And she was with him. The past was suddenly a vivid, aching present, and the future, a tangled mess I had no idea how to untangle. I wanted her. I realized that with a clarity that shocked me. I truly, desperately wanted her back. And the man sitting next to her, so unassuming, so damn nice, was in my way. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Finally, the limo glided to a halt in front of the hotel. Before the door was even fully open, a tsunami of flashbulbs erupted, followed by a cacophony of shouts and screams. “Jimmy! Over here!” “Robert! Bonham!” The door swung wide, and we tumbled out into the blinding chaos. We practically ran a gauntlet from the curb to the elevator, my hand still firmly planted on Lucy's back, ushering her through the chaos.

They finally made it inside, past the velvet ropes and the burly security, into the relative calm of the polished lobby. As we were in the elevator, Lucy turned to me, her voice barely a whisper above the faint din. “Is it always like that?”

I chuckled, a low rumble. “Yeah, but you get used to it.”

The elevator doors binged, and they stepped out onto their floor. The afterparty was in a sprawling suite on one of the top floors, a decadent, chaotic extension of the Madison Square Garden stage. Music blared from a colossal stereo, a mix of Motown and classic rock that blended into the general din of a hundred conversations, all competing to be heard. The sound of a party, full-blown and unhinged, hit them like a physical force. The hallway was a scene of utter debauchery. Bodies pressed against the walls in various states of undress, some openly entangled in sex, oblivious to the world. The sweet, skunky scent of weed hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat and spilled drinks. People stumbled past, red-eyed and grinning, white powder smeared around their nostrils.

I still had my hand on her back, steered us through the bacchanal. “This way, love,” I murmured, leading her into one of the more packed rooms. The air inside was even thicker, a haze of cigarette smoke and something else – a metallic, chemical scent. People I didn’t recognize, faces blurring in the strobe of passing lights, laughed too loudly, their eyes darting wildly. Drinks flowed like water, and small mirrors with lines of white powder were passed around openly. I weaved us through the throng with an easy familiarity, guided her to an empty spot on a plush, slightly stained couch.

"I'll go and get us some drinks, stay here." I stated.

I returned a moment later with two tumblers, handing one to her. “Here, something for the nerves.” I settled beside her, stretching out my legs. I watched her, a slight smirk playing on my lips as she took a tentative sip of the amber liquid. She seemed apprehensive. “Never been to a party like this before, eh?”

Lucy laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. “Well, I’ve been to parties, sure. But usually, I’m far more inebriated from the start, and there are more people I actually know.” She gestured vaguely at the swirling mass of strangers. “I don’t really like being around a bunch of strangers” I seemed to be the only person she truly recognized besides the faint glimpses of Robert and Frank heading for the bar or Bonham’s booming laugh from across the room.

I smiled, a reassuring warmth. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to bother you.” I leaned in conspiratorially. "Here." my voice a low drawl against the din, pushing a small mirror with two neat lines of white powder towards her. "A little pick-me-up. Loosen you up."

Lucy’s gaze flickered from the mirror to his face, a faint, unreadable smile playing on her lips. Without a word, she picked up the rolled dollar bill. I expected her to take one line, perhaps even hesitate. Instead, she bent, snorted the first line with a decisive sniff, then, without missing a beat, inhaled the second. Her eyes, briefly watering, cleared almost instantly. She straightened, picked up the half-empty glass of whisky on the table, and slammed the rest of it down, the ice rattling against the bottom.

I blinked, genuinely surprised she had taken all that. "Whoa, Lucy. Take it easy there."

She giggled, a low, throaty sound that surprised him even more. "Honey," she purred, her eyes dancing with a newfound sparkle, "this ain't my first rodeo." She winked, and for a moment, the old Lucy, the one he knew, was back.

Lucy giggled, the sound light and carefree. The party raged on, an opulent, decadent tableau of excess. Lucy, invigorated, moved with an uncharacteristic abandon, a whirl of movement and laughter. She danced, her body swaying sensuously to the music, her eyes bright and unburdened. Trays of champagne and spirits were replenished with uncanny speed, and piles of white powder seemed to appear on every mirrored surface, quickly disappearing. The air grew heavier, thicker, with the scent of sweat, perfume, and illicit substances.

I couldn't help but watch her, she truly was beautiful. I found myself walking towards her and placed a hand on her arm.

“Come on, Luce, I want to show you the view from the balcony,” I murmured and steered us away from a rather animated conversation she was having with some bird.

The balcony offered a breathtaking panorama of the glittering jewels of city lights. But I barely registered it. I turned to face her, my hands on her shoulders, my eyes searching hers in the relative quiet.

“So, ‘Frank’,” I drawled, my voice low, a hint of something dangerous in it. “He’s… new.”

She blinked a few times, a blurry confused expression on her face. "New? I'm not sure what you mean." her voice slurring from the drinks and coke and whatever else she may have taken.

I sighed, pulling away slightly. "How long has it been going on?” My tone was laced with disdain, as if it was an insult to even ask.

“What? Look, Jimms, I'm not sures what you're getting at, we broke ups, 'members?” she retorted, suddenly exasperated and very wasted.

“I remember,” I said, my voice dropping, darkening. “I remember every single goddamn second of it, Lucy. And I remember, you wanted… a normal life. Is that what Frank is? Normal?”

My words stung, hitting too close to home. I could see it on her face “He’s kind, Jimmy. He’s stable. He’s there.”

“Kind? Stable? There?” I scoffed, a dark laugh escaping me. “Lucy, we had fire. We had something that burned so bright it scorched everything around it. Are you telling me you’re happy with… lukewarm?” I stepped closer, invading her space, and I could smell the familiar scent of her perfume, of whiskey, and sweat. That unmistakable, intoxicating scent. “Is that what you call it? Or is it safe? Because for you, Luce, safe was always the enemy of everything you truly desired.”

She tried to push me away, physically and mentally, I could see the frustration on her face, her eyes beginning to tear up. “Don’t, Jimmy. Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” My voice was a low growl now, dangerous and alluring. “Remind you of us? Remind you of what we were? What we could be? I ... I miss you. Every single day, I miss you. You think I didn’t see you out there tonight? How you looked? How you felt the music? You belong here, Luce. With me.”

I reached out, My hand gently cupping her cheek. My thumb traced the line of her jaw. “Please, Lucy. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

The silence stretched between us, punctuated by the distant throb of the party inside. She pulled back, her face palling, a hand going towards her stomach, "I don't feel so good." she sprinted off into the crowded room. I tried to run after her, but someone came up to me, stopping me.

After what felt like an eternity, I was finally able to step away from the huddle, looking for Lucy. A prickle of unease started to spread through the cocaine-induced euphoria. I walked from room to room, my eyes scanning the chaotic faces, the dancing bodies, the scene grew progressively more unsettling. In one room, a tangle of limbs writhed on a couch – an orgy in full swing, oblivious to the world. In another, a man slumped over a gilded table, his face pale green, a puddle of vomit growing beneath him. Bodies lay sprawled on the floor, passed out in various stages of undress, some snoring, others with disturbingly still faces. The glamorous veneer of the party had peeled away, revealing its ugly underbelly.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at him. Where was she? He pushed open the door to a small, nondescript bathroom, and there she was. Lucy. She was standing in front of the mirror, her hands braced on the porcelain sink, her face ghostly pale under the harsh fluorescent light. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, staring into her own reflection, as if trying to piece together a fragmented image. She seemed to be mumbling, though no discernible words escaped her lips.

"Lucy?" My voice laced with concern.

She startled, her eyes snapping to mine, still unfocused. She swayed slightly. "Jim… Jimmy? What… what time is it?"

"Doesn't matter," I said, moving quickly to her side, my hand gently grasping her arm. Her skin felt cold and clamy. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Lucy was not staying at the hotel, and getting her back to his room was a struggle. She was heavy, her limbs loose and unresponsive. I half-supported, half-dragged her through the increasingly derelict party, past the unconscious forms and the lingering smells of debauchery. I felt a strange mix of protectiveness and exasperation, a sense of responsibility I hadn't anticipated.

Finally, they stumbled into the relative quiet of his private suite. The main party noise was a distant thrum here. "Alright, Luce," I murmured, guiding her towards the king-sized bed. "Get comfy. I'm gonna get you some water."

I helped her onto the mattress, and she collapsed bonelessly, her eyes already fluttering closed. I peeled off her shoes and set them on the floor. By the time I returned from the small bar with a glass of water, Lucy was completely passed out, sprawled on the pristine white sheets, wearing only her panties. When had she taken her clothes off?

I froze, the glass in my hand. It had been a very long time since he'd seen Lucy this nude, this vulnerable. My breath hitched as I tried to keep it together, but a hot wave washed over. I set the water down on the nightstand with a soft clink and reached out, intending to pull the soft duvet over her. As I did, she rolled onto her side, exposing her breasts – soft, pale, and much fuller than I remembered them from six years ago. My eyes lingered on them for a beat too long, recognizing the subtle changes that time and life had wrought.

With a final, concerted effort, I managed to pull the blanket over her, tucking it gently around her. I then moved to the other side of the bed, slipped off my own clothes, and slid under the covers.

Sleep, however, refused to come. Not with Lucy practically naked beside me, soft snores escaping her lips, maddening rhythm in the dark. My mind drifted back, unbidden, to those nights in my old flat, years ago. Lucy spending the night, curled up against me, our bodies entwined. The lazy mornings, the hushed whispers, the eager hands exploring, the passionate make-out sessions until they were both breathless and aching. I remembered the feel of her skin beneath my fingertips, the taste of her lips, the unique way her body fit against mine.

I found myself truly, desperately missing those nights. And now, here she was, back in bed with me, albeit in a completely different, unreciprocal way.

A slow heat began to spread through me. My breathing grew shallow, quickening almost imperceptibly. I felt myself growing hard, my cock straining against the fabric of the underwear. He tried to ignore it, telling himself it was just his body's natural reaction to being near someone so beautiful, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted more. I found my hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to my groin, pressing lightly against my clothed hard cock, throbbing to get relief.

Giving in to temptation, I slid my hand under the band of the underwear, freeing my hard cock and began to jerk it slowly, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, my thoughts consumed by the memories of their past trysts. He moved his hand faster, the friction sending waves of pleasure through his body. I turned my head, looking at her in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, her hair fanned out on the pillow.

Driven by an impulse I couldn't control, I reached out with my free hand, letting my fingers lightly brush against one of her exposed breasts, squeezed her nipple gently, watching as her breath hitched in her sleep. He knew he should stop, that he was crossing a line, but he couldn't help himself. His hand moved of its own accord, tracing the curve of her hip before sliding up to her waist, teasing the elastic of her panties. my finger slipping under the elastic band, pulling it taut against her hip, feeling the softness of her skin. Her body remained still. My jerking quickened, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I was close, so close. My finger, still under the band, grazed her pubic hair, a jolt of electricity shooting through me. With a groan, I let go, cutting loose, my cum spurting hot and thick over my hand and stomach. I looked over at Lucy, still passed out, blissfully unaware of what had just transpired. I felt a mix of guilt and satisfaction, the line between right and wrong blurred by my desire for her. I cleaned myself up and laid back down, trying to push my raging hormones aside and focus on the fact that she was okay. But as I watched her chest rise and fall with each breath, the memory of their past and the potential for their future played out in his mind like a never-ending concert, keeping sleep at bay for a long while to come.

Chapter Text

The morning after the party, a dull thrumming behind my eyeballs served as the first warning sign. The second, far more pleasant, was the warmth pressed against me. It wasn’t just warmth; it was a practically naked body, soft and yielding, the curves of a hip and thigh moulded into mine. My arm was draped, possessively, around a slender waist.

A low groan rumbled against my chest, and the body shifted. Their rounded ass rubbed against my cock, and instantly, life, or at least a significant portion of it, surged into me. My own groan was involuntary, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated through the mattress. I pressed back, tightening my hold, letting the raw, physical friction of skin on skin send shivers through me. The stimulation was exquisite, a dizzying mix of lingering alcohol haze and primal instinct.

Then, the squirming began in earnest. A hand, surprisingly firm given the apparent state of the owner, grabbed my arm and tugged it away. My eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep and something else – anticipation, maybe? The first thing I saw was a messy pile of auburn hair, then the curve of a shoulder, and finally, a woman sitting up. It was Lucy.

Her hands were already moving, rubbing at her eyes, then massaging her temples, a clear sign of the headache that now seemed to be radiating from her. God, I knew that feeling. I sat up too, the sheet pooling around my waist, baring my chest. “You okay?” I asked, my voice a little rougher than I intended, reaching out a hand to rest gently on her arm.

Her head snapped up. Her eyes, usually a vibrant blue, were wide, alarmed, darting around the unfamiliar room before they landed on me. For a split second, pure panic was etched on her face. Then, recognition dawned, and the alarm softened, though a deep weariness remained. “Jimmy?” she mumbled, her voice hoarse. “What… what happened?” She shook her head, wincing. “I don’t remember much after… after the concert.”

I chuckled, a dry sound. “Yeah, that concert was just the warm-up act. We had a bit of a party back here afterwards, remember?”

She nodded slowly, still rubbing her forehead. “The party… Right. That’s where things get fuzzy. After we got back here, right?”

“Very fuzzy for you, I think,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, but a knot was forming in my stomach. She was really out of it. “You drank… a lot. And you did a lot of coke. I wasn’t sure if you’d taken anything else, honestly.”

Lucy groaned again, a sound of pure misery. “Ugh. No wonder.” She paused, then her eyes, still blurry, widened as she finally took in our surroundings, and then, herself. And me.

I was bare-chested, only boxers on. She looked down at her own body, and I saw her take a sharp, surprised breath. She was in just her underwear too. Her gasp was loud in the quiet room, and she instinctively yanked the sheet up to her chin, pulling it tight around her. She spun on me, her eyes flaring with fresh alarm and accusation.

“You!” she hissed, slapping my bare chest, a surprisingly firm whack. “You undressed me? What did you—what happened?”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on!” I said, raising my hands in a placating gesture. “Calm down, Lucy. Nothing happened. Seriously.” I grabbed her wrists gently, stopping her from hitting me again. “You were the one who undressed yourself. I just… helped you find the bed.”

It was true, mostly. She had taken her clothes off. And I had helped her, guided her, laid her down. But I wasn’t going to mention the part where, seeing her naked, sprawled out beside me, I’d been unable to resist touching her, running my hands over her skin. And I definitely wasn’t going to mention the part where I, unable to sleep with her perfect, practically naked form beside me, had found a quiet release, my mind filled with her. Nothing happened, I repeated internally, clinging to it like a life raft. Nothing happened between us.

“Water’s on the bedside table,” I said, gesturing with my chin. “I’m gonna go find some paracetamol. Probably need a truckload of it, actually.”

But before either of us could move, a seismic pounding erupted on the door, rattling the frame.

“JIMMY! GET UP, YOU LAZY BASTARD!” Cole’s voice, rough and urgent, screamed from the hallway. “LUCY’S BOYFRIEND IS LOOKING FOR HER!”

Lucy froze, her head cocked, eyes wide and confused. “Boyfriend?” she whispered, the syllable laced with genuine bewilderment.

I turned to her, equally confused. “Yeah, Frank,” I said, as if it was obvious. “He sounds pretty pissed, too.”

Lucy stared at me, her expression a mix of bewilderment and something else, something I couldn’t quite decipher. “Frank?” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. “Frank isn’t my boyfriend.”

Then it was my turn to be dazed. “Isn’t your…?” My mind scrambled, trying to make sense of her words. “What are you talking about? He is too! We had a whole conversation about it last night, remember?”

She was shaking her head slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if even that slight movement hurt. “I… I don’t remember that at all.”

Another wave of pounding echoed through the room. “JIMMY! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”

Adrenaline finally kicked in. “Shit,” I muttered, scrambling out of bed. “We gotta get dressed. Now.”

Lucy, still looking utterly bewildered but spurred by Cole’s frantic shouts, started fumbling with her clothes, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to pull on her bra. I grabbed my own jeans and a t-shirt, pulling them on in a frantic rush. The air in the room, already thick with the scent of stale booze and something else unidentifiable, suddenly felt charged with panic and confusion.

“Hold your horses, you animal!” I croaked, my voice gravelly. My limbs felt like lead weights, my entire body protesting the very concept of movement as I shuffled towards the door, each step a precarious tightrope walk.

The pounding intensified, “Jimmy!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I snapped back, more to myself than to him. My hand clamped around the doorknob, cool metal against my clammy skin. I yanked it open, ready to unleash a tirade on the inconsiderate bastard. “Cole, for Christ’s sake, calm down! Do you have any idea what time it is? Or how loud you are? I’m seriously not in the mood for your brand of morning enthusiasm.”

But my words died in my throat as Cole didn’t just step in; he barged into the room, a whirlwind of energy, Frank trailing quietly behind him. Cole didn’t even acknowledge my complaint, his eyes wide and agitated. Before I could process his presence, my gaze flickered past him, scanning the hotel suite.

And then I saw them.

Lucy and Frank.

She was there, standing in the living room portion of the suite, wrapped in Frank’s arms. Not just a casual, friendly hug, mind you. This was a full-body embrace. His hand was tangled in her hair, fingers gently caressing her scalp as he whispered something I couldn’t hear into her ear. His other hand rubbed slow, soothing circles up and down her back, her own arms clasped tightly around his waist.

A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through me, instantly cutting through the fog of my hangover. The headache was still there, a dull throb, but it was eclipsed by a fiery heat that spread through my chest. Not her boyfriend? Then what the fuck is this!?

I looked Frank over again, then back at Lucy, snug and protected in his embrace. My brain short-circuited. That conversation last night on the balcony – the way she’d leaned into me, my confession of missing her, the way I’d felt a sudden, desperate possessiveness for her resurface after all these years – it was leaving me thoroughly, utterly confused. I suppose she had looked very wasted, swaying on her feet like a sapling in a storm. And judging by her current state, she clearly didn’t remember much from last night at all.

I sighed, a long, weary exhalation that felt like it carried the weight of the world. I dragged a hand down my face, scrubbing at my tired eyes. The possessive grunt that ripped from my throat felt less like a conscious decision and more like an involuntary animalistic sound. Jealousy. It flared through me again, a familiar, unwelcome guest I thought I’d locked away. Not her boyfriend? Then what in the name of God’s green earth was that kind of hug!? That wasn’t a platonic hug. That was the kind of comfort you gave someone you shared a bed, or at least a deep, unspoken bond, with.

I walked over to where Cole was standing, already lighting a cigarette, exhaling a stream of smoke that curled towards the ceiling. “Got one of those for me?” I asked, my voice still rough. I needed the bite of nicotine, something to cut through the confusion and the sour taste of last night’s decisions.

Cole, ever the enabler, produced a fresh cigarette and lit it for me without a word, his eyes still wide and a little manic. I took a deep drag, the harsh smoke scraping against my throat but offering a strange, fleeting sense of calm. I needed this. Needed it after all the confusion from last night, from this morning, from seeing Lucy in Frank’s arms.

Finally, Lucy disentangled herself from Frank, pushing gently away. She turned, her eyes red-rimmed and a little hazy, and saw me. Her posture stiffened slightly, a hint of apprehension in her stance as she walked over. My gaze trailed Frank, who, now that Lucy was no longer cradled against him, seemed to melt back into the background, observing us placidly. He was a quiet one, that Frank. Too quiet.

“Hi,” Lucy said, her voice small. She ran a hand through her dishevelled hair. “I… I suppose I should thank you. For taking care of me at the party last night.” She paused, looking down at her feet. “I’m not sure what got into me. I usually never get that wasted.”

I shrugged, forcing a casual air I didn’t feel. “It’s fine. Seriously. We've all been there.” My eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of that old spark, that familiar connection. “I hope you feel better.”

She nodded, a faint blush creeping up her neck. Then she turned, as if to make her escape. Before she could, an impulse, strong and undeniable, seized me. My hand shot out, grabbing hers. Her skin was surprisingly soft, cool against my palm. She looked at me, her eyes wide, a question in them.

“Hey,” I began, trying to keep my voice even, “would you… Would you want to get some breakfast? Might make you feel better. Get some starch in your system.” As I glanced behind her, my eyes landed on Frank. He was still standing there, watching us. That same possessive growl threatened to rumble in my chest again. The thought of him going off alone with Lucy was intolerable. “Frank too, of course,” I added, forcing a cordial tone I didn’t feel. “Join us.” Plus, it might give me a chance to really see what their weird relationship was.

“Oh, man, I’m starving!” Cole piped up immediately, ever hungry, ever oblivious. “I know a diner just a few blocks from here. Best damn greasy spoon in the city. I’ll take you guys.”

So, it was decided. The four of us. The elevator ride down was silent, thick with awkwardness. I could practically hear the tension humming in the small space. The walk to the diner was no better. The city noise was a dull roar, but it couldn't drown out the silence hanging between us.

And then it happened. Frank, without a word, reached out and took Lucy’s hand. He simply laced his fingers through hers, a natural, unthinking gesture, and continued walking as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Not a boyfriend? The thought screamed in my head again, echoing the frustration from earlier. What kind of fucking relationship was this, then!? Clearly, one that had some type of intimacy, a casual closeness that made my gut twist into knots. That thought, that image of their intertwined fingers, was like a hot poker to my insides.

I let out a low growl, more audible this time. “Cole,” I bit out, my voice tight, my hand already outstretched without needing to check if he was watching. “Another one. Now.”

Cole, surprisingly, didn’t comment on my tone. He simply pulled out his pack, extracted a cigarette, and lit it for me. “Relax, man,” he muttered, his voice lower than usual, almost conciliatory. “I mean, she’s your ex. Why do you care? Are you trying to get back with her? I thought she broke your heart.”

My head snapped towards him, a cold dark glare that promised pain. “Shut your fucking mouth, Cole,” I hissed through gritted teeth, the cigarette dangling precariously from my lips. His eyes widened, and he wisely clamped his jaw shut. He knew when he’d pushed too far.

We finally entered the diner. It was semi-crowded, the air thick with the smell of sizzling bacon, burnt coffee, and something vaguely like disinfectant. The clatter of plates, the murmur of conversations, and the distant clang of the kitchen filled the space, a welcome cacophony after the oppressive silence of our walk. Cole, ever the navigator, quickly spotted a booth in the back corner, tucked away from the main rush.

“Here, this one!” he announced, already heading towards it. Lucy scooted in first, taking the seat by the window, letting the morning light stream onto her face. Frank moved to slide in beside her, but before he could, I popped up, my voice just a little too loud, a little too eager.

“Oh, hey, Frank, actually, how about I sit there?” I said, trying to sound casual. “I kinda prefer to have my back to the wall, you know, surveying the room and all that.” It was a lame excuse, but it bought me the spot.

Frank, bless his quiet heart, simply shrugged. He didn’t argue. He just moved to the opposite side of the table and sat down beside Cole. A small, almost imperceptible flood of relief washed over me. I slid into the booth next to Lucy, our knees brushing slightly. Even that fleeting contact sent a jolt through me.

A waitress, with a pen tucked behind her ear, came over and took our orders. No conversation was held, really. Everyone felt the lingering effects of a hangover and desperately needed sustenance. The food arrived quickly – a mountain of pancakes for Cole, scrambled eggs and bacon for me, hash browns and toast for Frank, and a modest plate of fruit and oatmeal for Lucy.

About halfway through the meal, the silence finally started to lift, helped along by the comforting warmth of the coffee and the solid weight of food in our stomachs. Frank, true to his nature, was the one who broke it, his voice calm and even.

“So, what are everyone’s plans for the day?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

Cole, mouth full of pancake, swallowed enthusiastically. “We got another concert performance tonight. Have to get our gear ready, do a sound check.” He looked at me. “Tonight's the final show, and then we are headed back to England .”

I nodded, feeling a spark of my usual anticipation for a show. “Yeah, it's been a great tour.”

Lucy, who had been quietly picking at her oatmeal, finally spoke up. “I’m just going back to my hotel room,” she said, her voice still a little soft. “Resting. I’m flying out tomorrow. Back home.”

Her words hit me like a physical blow. My head snapped to look at her, my fork clattering against my plate. Tomorrow!? Why didn't she say something before? I knew we both lived in different places, of course. I was based in England and she was… wherever she was. I guess I really should have been asking more questions about what she's been up to. But we’d just reconnected. After six long, agonizing years of silence, of wondering, of trying to forget. I couldn’t say goodbye right now. Not again. Not so soon. My heart sunk to my stomach, a cold knot of dread forming.

Before I could even articulate the panicked thoughts swirling in my head, before I could beg her to stay, to give us more time, Lucy continued. “I have to go home and pack, actually. I have a special trip planned for Scotland in a few weeks.”

Scotland? My ears perked up, a flicker of interest overriding the surge of despair. Scotland. That was… interesting.

“Scotland, huh?” I said, my voice rising slightly in excitement. “I have a house there. Boleskin. Right by Loch Ness. If you are near there you should come visit.” My mind raced, already formulating a plan.

Lucy’s eyes widened, a genuine surprise lighting them up. “Boleskin? Really?” She looked genuinely intrigued. “Wow. I knew that place was once owned by Crowley. And there are all those rumors about it being haunted." she giggled, a smile brightening her face "I should have known you would have bought that place. That’s… a terribly tempting offer.” She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I’m actually going to be in that general area. I was planning to do some hiking, explore the Highlands.”

“Well then,” I said, a wide grin spreading across my face, the first genuine smile I’d worn all morning. All the tension, the jealousy, the hangover and the fear of her leaving, seemed to dissipate, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated hope. “You absolutely have to stop by. My place is right on the loch. It’s got some incredible views, and I’m sure I could clear out a room for you. It’s a bit rustic, but it’s got… character.” I winked at her, feeling a lightness I hadn’t felt in years.

She smiled back, a real, radiant smile that reached her eyes. “I would definitely stop by, Jimmy. Thank you. That sounds… incredible.”

The rest of the brunch went by joyously. The awkwardness that had hung between us like a thick fog finally lifted. Conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter as we talked about Scotland, what Lucy would be doing there, the best hiking trails, the myths and legends of the loch – even Cole chipped in with a story about a particularly bad Scottish tour he’d once done. My earlier jealousy and confusion about Frank faded into the background, a distant hum compared to the vibrant connection Lucy and I were suddenly sharing.

I was very happy. So incredibly happy. I was going to be seeing her. We were going to be spending more time together. And this time, it wouldn’t be a chaotic party. It would be Scotland. It would be Boleskin. It would be something new, something real.

Chapter Text

The Checker Cab, the yellow beast smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and sweat drove down the crowded street of Manhattan. “Madison Square Garden, driver, just past the main entrance, please,” she chirped, the words tumbling out with a giddy lightness. Jimmy had been so charming on the phone, after I had woken up from a nap that afternoon, still recovering from the night before. “Come again, Luce,” he’d said, “You know you want to. And bring… Frank.”

The memory of that invitation still made her wrinkle her nose. Frank. Her jaw tightened for a moment. Frank, who was practically her brother, the one who’d she shared their childhood home for years, who’d taught her how to shoot a gun and play jacks.

“Honestly,” she muttered to herself, feeling a blush creep up her neck even as she was alone, “how could he possibly think Frank was my boyfriend?” It was ridiculous. She and Frank had practically grown up glued at the hip. His parents had been her caregivers after… well, after. He was family, blood or not, and now he was also her assistant, helping with ... well everything. She was sure, absolutely certain, she’d told Jimmy all about Frank back when they had dated. It was baffling. Utterly, ridiculously baffling. They’d talked about everything, late into the London nights, sharing secrets, dreams, even their childhood scars. Perhaps it had been a fleeting comment, lost in the haze of their intense, short-lived affair. Or maybe, Jimmy Page, even then a nascent rock god, just assumed any male in a woman’s orbit had to be a romantic rival. The thought almost made her smirk. He was always so… confident. So sure of himself.

But tonight, Frank was nowhere in sight. He was probably off at some dive bar in the Village, arguing with a bunch of drunks. Lucy was flying solo, and a delicious thrill coiled in her stomach.

The cab screeched to a halt, and she paid the driver, “Keep the change,” she said, her hand already fumbling for the VIP pass tucked into her purse. The air outside MSG was thick with anticipation, a palpable hum of thousands of eager fans. The crowds were thicker tonight, a sea of bell-bottoms, long hair, and denim jackets, all surging towards the various entrances. But Lucy was heading the other way, towards the service entrance, a world away from the clamoring masses.

She flashed her pass to a burly security guard, who gave her a quick nod and waved her through. The air immediately changed, thick with the smell of sweat, ozone, stale beer, and something else… raw electricity, the scent of a machine about to hum to life. Roadies, built like brick houses, wrestled with monstrous speaker cabinets. Technicians, wires snaking from their pockets, darted between towering stacks of amplifiers. Stagehands yelled instructions. The backstage area was a maelstrom of controlled chaos, a hive of activity where every frenzied movement converged on a single purpose: unleashing the beast that was Led Zeppelin.

Lucy navigated the labyrinthine corridors, a smile playing on her lips. She could hear the faint, muffled roar of the crowd growing louder as the minutes ticked by. Then, a sudden surge, a flurry of movement, and the band members themselves were practically shoved onto the stage, a collective roar erupting from the arena that vibrated through the very floor beneath her feet.

John Paul Jones, cool and collected, adjusting his instrument. John Bonham, a mountain of a man, already radiating percussive power. Robert Plant, a golden mane of hair, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a wild animal scenting the wind. And Jimmy. He appeared almost last, a dark silhouette against the sudden burst of spotlights, a wizard’s posture, guitar already slung low.

Lucy found herself a spot behind the monitor mix, a relatively unobstructed view of the stage from the wings. When Bonham’s opening beat of “Rock and Roll” slammed through the arena, it hit her with a physical force that rattled her bones. The loudness wasn’t just loud; it was an immersive, all-encompassing experience, a palpable entity that vibrated through her chest, her teeth, her very soul. The lights, green and red and brilliant white, flashed and swirled, carving out the figures of the musicians in stark, heroic relief.

It was more than a concert; it was a ritual. Plant was a shaman, drawing primal screams from the crowd. Bonham was the heartbeat, the very pulse of the universe. Jones was the anchor, the quiet genius binding it all together. And Jimmy… Jimmy Page. He was the sorcerer, his fingers a blur on the fretboard, coaxing impossible sounds, weaving spells with every note. He was less a musician and more a conduit, channelling an ancient, powerful energy. Every solo was a journey, every riff a declaration.

Lucy felt it, deep in her gut. The sheer, unadulterated sexual energy. It was a tangible thing, swirling from the stage, emanating from the thousands of bodies in the audience, and resonating within her own. Her skin prickled. A warmth spread through her lower belly, a familiar ache she hadn’t felt in a long time. She found herself swaying, her eyes fixed on Jimmy. He was more than attractive; he was mesmerizing. The way he moved, the way he held his guitar, the intense focus in his gaze even as he seemed to float above the stage. Six years had only honed the edges, sharpened the allure. He was leaner, perhaps, a haunted intensity in his eyes that hadn't been there when they were just two young people trying to make sense of a burgeoning rock scene in London. Now, he was a legend in the making, and the power he commanded was intoxicating. It reeked of sex, of rebellion, of pure, unbridled desire. And Lucy, caught in its undertow, found herself undeniably, breathtakingly horny. Her mouth felt dry, her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs, mirroring Bonham's relentless beat. She was horny, gloriously, shamelessly horny, lost in the primal rhythm of it all. This wasn't just music; it was an act of seduction, a grand, public, carnal invitation.

The show was an incredible, almost religious experience. Each song built upon the last, rising to a crescendo of sound and emotion. When the final chords of “Whole Lotta Love” reverberated through the Garden, followed by the deafening roar of the crowd, Lucy felt like she’d been put through a wringer, gloriously, utterly wrung out.

As the lights came up slightly, and the roar slowly began to subside, the band members, sweat-soaked and triumphant, began to make their way off stage, disappearing into the controlled chaos of the backstage area. Lucy watched, her eyes still fixed on the spot where Jimmy had been.

It didn't take long. A flurry of roadies, a few security guards, and then, cutting through the throng like a dark shark through water, Jimmy was there. He was still radiating the raw, sexual magnetism of the stage, his shirt damp with sweat, his hair a beautiful, tangled mess. He moved with the coiled energy of a predator, his eyes, dark and sparkling, scanning the crowd, his heart pounding in his chest, until he saw her. Lucy was walking towards him, her eyes locked onto his, a smile playing on her lips. He felt a surge of relief and desire as she reached him, her body pressing against his in a tight, possessive hug. his arms going around her instantly, pulling her into a tight, crushing embrace that lifted her slightly off her feet, pulling her flush against his sweat-dampened body. Lucy hugged him back just as fiercely, burying her face slightly in his shoulder. "Jimmy," Lucy whispered, her breath hot on his ear. He could feel the heat of her touch through his jacket, and it sent a shiver down his spine. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her cheek, a soft, lingering kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through him. He could see the desire in her eyes, a reflection of his own. It was a dangerous game they were playing, a dance of jealousy and attraction, but one they both seemed eager to continue.

“Luce! You made it!” His voice was a low rumble against her ear, still thick with the adrenaline of the performance.

“Jimmy! Oh my God, Jimmy, that was insane! Truly. It was… amazing. Better than last night, even! if that’s even possible!”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling against her ear. “Yeah? You really think so?” He squeezed her tighter, and she could feel the power in his arms. He didn't release her fully, just shifted slightly, his hand, almost as if on autopilot, travelling lower, settling on her butt. His fingers splayed, giving it a gentle but firm slap, then a lingering, tight squeeze. Lucy, already reeling from the show’s energy and the sudden intimacy, couldn't help but let out a soft, involuntary moan. It was a small sound, barely audible over the receding hum of the crowd and the backstage chatter, but it escaped her lips before she could truly register it.

Being pressed against him, feeling his body, the heat radiating off him, the sheer physical chemistry they had always shared – it all came flooding back. The emotions, suppressed for years, rose to the surface, raw and potent. Jimmy was an attractive man. More than attractive. He was compelling, devastatingly so, perhaps even more than he had been six years ago when they were just kids playing at love. And in that moment, in his arms, feeling his hand on her, she felt undeniably, completely turned on. She was acutely aware of the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her hip through his pants.

Jimmy groaned, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through his entire body, a direct response to her moan. His eyes, when she looked up, were dark, hungry, mirroring her own sudden, burning desire.

“We should get going,” he murmured, his voice a little strained, his gaze locked with hers. “Limos are leaving soon. Don’t want to miss our ride.” He didn’t wait for an answer, his hand slipping from her butt to grasp her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, a possessive grip as he tugged her through the throng of people, pulling her along in his wake towards the exit. He pulled her along, tugging her gently but decisively, weaving through the remaining crew and security towards an exit that led to the waiting vehicles.

“Where are we going?” Lucy asked, her voice a little breathless as she matched his stride, her hand still firmly clasped in his larger, warmer one. The air outside was fresher, still cool, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins made her oblivious to the chill.

They reached a sleek, black stretch limo. A door swung open as if on cue. Jimmy didn’t release her hand until they were both inside, the plush leather interior swallowing them in a luxurious silence that was almost deafening after the stadium’s roar. He didn’t sit opposite her, but next to her, the close quarters of the limo making their proximity unavoidable. This time they were the only two in the limo.

"So," he began, his voice a low purr as he draped an arm around her shoulders, his fingers idly tracing the line of her collarbone. "Better than last night, huh? You really think so?"

Lucy leaned into his warmth, a sigh escaping her lips. "Jimmy, it was… transcendent. You were absolutely on fire. The whole band was. I swear, at one point, I thought the roof was going to blow off." She turned her head, her gaze meeting his in the dim light. "Seriously, it was like nothing I've ever experienced. The energy... it was just incredible."

He grinned, a flash of white in the darkness and leaned back, his arm resting along the top of the seat behind her, effectively caging her in, though not in an aggressive way. More like… a claim. "Glad to hear it. Yeah, it was good. Tonight felt… charged. Last show of the run, you know? Always a bit more juice. Everything just comes together.” His eyes, held a knowing glint, a challenge. “But I think you’re maybe feeling a little of that charge yourself, aren’t you, Luce?”

Her cheeks flushed. She hated how easily he could read her, always had. “I… well, it’s hard not to, isn’t it? Being there, feeling it all.” She tried to sound casual, but her voice still had a slight tremor. “You were incredible, Jimmy. Really.”

He allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile, then finally looked out the window, though his arm remained where it was, his fingers occasionally brushing her hair. “You know, I was surprised to see you tonight. Thought you’d be… occupied.”

Lucy stiffened slightly. “Occupied? Jimmy, what are you talking about?”

He turned his head back, his brow furrowed slightly. “Your… your chap. Frank.”

She stared at him, genuinely bewildered. “Frank? My chap?” She let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Jimmy, Frank is… he’s almost like a brother to me. He’s family. His parents raised me for a good chunk of my childhood. He’s my best friend. He’s not my ‘chap’.”

A slow understanding spread across Jimmy’s face, followed by a wry, almost mischievous grin. “He’s… family? Like a brother?” He leaned back slightly, his eyes twinkling. "Well, you know, I saw you two together the other night. You were all... cozy. And he seemed rather protective. Fiercely so. Figured he was staking his claim."

Lucy rolled her eyes, but a smile played on her lips. "Cozy? We are extremely close, but that's just due to everything we have been through. Jimmy, he's family. Always has been. I swear I told you all this back in the day."

He feigned a thoughtful expression, running a hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair. "Hmm. Must have slipped my mind. A lot of things were a blur back then, Luce. You know how it was. Long nights, short memories." His gaze softened, becoming more intense. "But I do remember you. Always. And I remember thinking you were utterly captivating."

Her cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with the limo's heating. "You always did have a way with words, Mr. Page."

"Only when they're true," he murmured, his hand which had been resting on the seat top, now drifted lower, his fingertips brushing her shoulder, then tracing a path down her bare arm. His touch was light, feather-soft, but it sent shivers spiralling through her. His hand kept sliding down, this time sliding onto her denim covered thigh edging closer to her center that was becoming drenched. The unspoken invitation hung in the air, thick and potent. "So, Frank's out of the picture, then? Good to know." he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Because I was starting to think I’d have to have a chat with Frank. Being a rock star is all well and good, Luce, but I don’t like competition, plus I always get what I want."

Lucy’s breath hitched. Her heart was hammering against her ribs again, a frantic drum solo. “Competition?” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

He leaned closer, his scent enveloping her, intoxicating. His eyes were dark pools, pulling her in. “You know exactly what I mean, Luce. All those years ago… we had something, didn’t we? Something real. And now …” He paused, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw. "And now it feels like it never even went away.” He moved even closer, his leg brushing hers, his body heat radiating, his gaze unwavering. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She couldn’t speak. Her lips parted slightly, breath catching in her throat. The memory of his mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, the way his body had felt pressed against hers… it all rose up, vivid and potent. And the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. Not at all. The show had ignited something, but it was his presence, his touch, that had fanned it into a roaring fire.

“Lucy,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low, “you felt it tonight, didn’t you? When I held you backstage? That moan you made…” He leaned in further, his lips just inches from hers, brushing against them, His thumb began a slow, deliberate caress on her inner thigh, sending delicious shivers through her.. “You wanted it. Still do, don’t you?”

Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, a silent admission. When she opened them, his gaze was insistent, demanding. “Jimmy…” she started, but the word died in her throat.

His fingers inching higher, closer to her clothed center. "I never forgot you. Not really. When I saw you a couple of nights ago, it was like… like no time had passed at all. Still the same captivating Lucy."

He leaned closer, his scent, a heady mix of musk and the faint lingering sweetness of marijuana, enveloping her. His gaze dropped to her lips. "And I still want to know everything about you, Luce. Everything you've been doing. Everything you're thinking right now."

Lucy's heart hammered against her ribs. The sexual energy from the concert, already simmering, was now threatening to boil over. His touch was igniting a fire she hadn't realized was still banked so deeply within her. "Right now?" she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "Right now, I'm thinking about how much I missed this. How much I missed you."

His eyes darkened, a predatory glint entering them. "Is that so?" His thumb found the apex of her thigh, a feather-light touch that promised so much more. "Because I'm thinking about how soft you are. How good you feel beneath my hand. And how much I want to feel all of you."

He leaned in further, his lips just a breath from hers. "You were right, Luce. The show was… spectacular. But it was just a warm-up. The real show starts now."

And then his mouth was on hers, a hungry, possessive kiss that stole her breath away. It was wild and reckless, tasting of sweat and desire and the intoxicating thrill of forbidden fruit. Her hands went to his hair, clutching the silken strands as she kissed him back with an urgency that mirrored his own. The years melted away, leaving only the raw, undeniable chemistry that had always existed between them.

Their kiss was a collision of passion and longing, a dance of tongues and teeth. He could feel the heat of her, her body pressing against his.

He broke away, his breath ragged, his eyes locked onto hers. "Lucy," he growled, his voice thick with desire. He grabbed a handful of her hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands, and tugged her head back. His lips trailed over her face, his five o'clock shadow scratching against her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He heard her moan, a soft sound that sent a jolt of electricity through him. He continued his exploration, his lips moving down her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin.

Lucy's hands were not idle. They roamed over his body, her fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, playing with the hair that peeked out from his open jacket. She could feel the heat of his skin, the sweat that had accumulated during the concert, her touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. She moaned again, her head falling back, her body arching into his touch.

The limo came to a halt, the driver's voice cutting through the haze of their passion. "We're here, sir," he said, his voice stern. Jimmy looked up, his eyes meeting Lucy's, a question in his gaze. She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. He turned to the driver, his voice low. "We'll be a while," he said, his hand reaching out to close the privacy screen. The driver nodded, his expression unchanging, and the limo pulled away, circling the block, leaving them alone in the dimly lit cabin.

Jimmy turned back to Lucy, his eyes filled with a hunger that mirrored his own. He leaned in again, his lips capturing hers in a fierce kiss, tongues dancing and teeth clashing. His hands roamed over her body, his touch urgent and possessive. He could feel her responding to him, her body arching into his touch, her breath coming in short gasps.

Jimmy's hands slid over Lucy's denim-clad ass, squeezing and giving a sharp slap that echoed through the dimly lit room. Lucy's hands roamed over Jimmy's body, her fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, playing with the hair that peeked out from his open jacket. She could feel the heat of his skin, the sweat that had accumulated during the concert, her touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. She moaned, her head falling back, her body arching into his touch.

She pushed Jimmy's jacket off, feeling more of his skin. She could feel his heart racing, his breath hot on her ear as he whispered, "Lucy." She shivered, her body responding to his touch.

Jimmy felt a surge of frustration as he realized how many layers of clothes Lucy was wearing. He broke away, his eyes filled with a hunger that mirrored his own. "You're driving me crazy," he murmured, his voice low and husky. He grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one swift motion. He tossed it aside, his eyes feasting on the sight of her. She was wearing a bra that barely contained her heavy breasts, her nipples already hard and erect. He reached out, his hands cupping her breasts, his fingers tugging the cups down to free them, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. He leaned in, his lips capturing one taut peak, his tongue swirling around it. Lucy moaned, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

Jimmy's hand trembled as he pulled away from Lucy's breast, his mind racing with memories of their past. He could still feel the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body pressed against his. The room was filled with the sound of their ragged breaths, the air thick with the scent of their arousal. He looked at Lucy, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips slightly parted, and he knew he couldn't resist her any longer.

He slid his hand back down her body, his fingers working to undo her jeans and pull them off her, his fingers moving to trace the edge of her panties. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the dampness seeping through the thin fabric. He hooked his fingers under the band, pulling them down slowly, revealing the dark curls that lay beneath. Lucy's breath hitched, her hips lifting slightly to meet his touch. He slid his fingers through her wetness, feeling the slickness that coated her. She was ready, and so was he.

Jimmy felt Lucy's hands on his belt, her fingers fumbling with the buckle. He grabbed her wrists, his eyes locked onto hers. "Let me," he growled, his voice low and husky. He pushed her hands away, his own fingers working to unbutton his pants. He pushed them down, just enough to free his hard cock, his eyes never leaving hers. He pushed her back onto the bench seat, his body covering hers. He grabbed her hands, pushing them above her head, their fingers intertwining.

They kissed again, their bodies pressing together, their breaths coming in short gasps. Jimmy's cock was hard and ready, pressing against Lucy's stomach. He could feel her heat, her body aching for him.

Jimmy positioned himself between her legs, his cock pressing against her wet entrance. He guided himself to her entrance, feeling the heat and the wetness as he pushed inside. He groaned, his head falling back, his eyes closed. He started to move, his hips thrusting against hers, his cock sliding in and out of her wet heat. Lucy gasped, her fingers digging into his back as he began to move. He was slow at first, allowing her to adjust to his size, but as her moans grew louder, he increased his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more insistent.

Lucy moaned, her body responding to his touch, her hips meeting his thrusts. He could feel her tightness, her body clenching around him, her nails digging into his back. He thrust harder, his body slamming into hers, his cock pounding into her. The limo filled with the sound of their fucking, the moans, the creaking of the leather seats, the wet sounds of their bodies coming together. Jimmy could feel the tension building in his body, the heat coiling in his belly. He leaned down, his lips finding hers in a passionate kiss. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

Jimmy thrust harder, his body slamming into hers, his cock pounding into her. He could feel the heat building, his body on the edge of release. He looked into her eyes, his breath coming in short gasps. "Lucy," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "I'm close."

Lucy nodded, her eyes filled with a desire that matched his own. "Come for me, Jimmy," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I want to feel you come."

Those words were all it took. With a final thrust, he buried himself deep inside her, his body shuddering as he came. He could feel the heat of his release, the pulsing of his cock as it emptied into her. Lucy's body tensed, her own orgasm ripping through her as she cried out his name.

They lay there for a moment, their bodies entwined, their breaths slowly returning to normal. Jimmy sat up off her, pulling her close so they could sit side by side. He could still feel the aftershocks of his orgasm, the warmth of her body pressed against his. He looked at her, her eyes closed, a small smile on her lips. He knew he should feel guilty, that he should be worried about the consequences of their actions, but all he felt was a sense of peace, of rightness.

They gathered themselves and got dressed, trying to make themselves presentable.

The limo glided to a halt outside the grand, imposing facade of the Drake Hotel, the streetlights glinting off its polished surface. Inside, the lingering warmth of their recent passion still clung to the plush leather seats, a faint perfume of sweat and sex and exhilaration. Lucy, still flushed, ran a hand through her disheveled hair, a soft, satisfied smile playing on her lips. Jimmy, beside her, was already reaching for the door handle, a restless energy returning to his lithe frame, though his eyes still held that dreamy, distant quality she loved.

“Ready for the real world again?” she murmured, teasingly.

He chuckled, a low, husky sound. “For a moment there, I almost forgot it existed.” He pushed open the door, and the humid Manhattan air, tinged with exhaust fumes and the distant wail of a siren, instantly replaced the intimate bubble of the car. The sound of distant traffic, the city’s pulse, suddenly felt very loud.

They stepped out, blinking slightly in the brighter lights of the hotel’s entrance. The usual discreet elegance of the Drake’s lobby was shattered. A discordant hum of voices, sharper than usual, met them. Lucy’s smile faltered, a prickle of unease rippling through her. The air in the opulent, wood-paneled space felt…charged, almost electric with an unspoken tension.

Her gaze swept across the scene. Near the grand marble reception desk, a cluster of dark suits – two unmistakably police officers, their uniforms stark against the muted tones of the hotel staff, stood talking in hushed, intense tones. Hotel management, looking pale and harried, gestured with frantic hands. And then she saw them.

Peter Grant, a mountain of a man even when subdued, was towering over a nervous-looking hotel manager, his face a mask of barely suppressed rage. His usually booming voice was pitched low, but the sheer force of its delivery made the air vibrate. Beside him, Richard Cole, the band’s road manager, looked utterly distraught, his typically brash demeanor replaced by a bewildered, almost tearful expression. He was running a hand through his already wild hair, his eyes wide and unfocused.

“Bloody hell,” Jimmy muttered, his earlier languor instantly evaporated. His grip on Lucy’s hand tightened, a subconscious reflex.

Lucy squeezed his hand back, a knot forming in her stomach. “What is it, do you think?” she whispered, though she already knew, with a chilling certainty, that it was nothing good. Peter’s face was the kind of red that hinted at an impending explosion, and Richard looked as if the world had just ended.

As they moved closer, Peter caught sight of them. His head snapped up, his eyes, usually glinting with a shrewd amusement, were now blazing with an unholy fury. He barked something impatiently to the policeman, then stomped towards them, a man on a mission. Richard, seeing Jimmy, seemed to deflate further, a look of profound guilt and misery etched on his face.

“Jimmy! There you are, thank Christ,” Peter rumbled, his voice still low but vibrating with an intensity that made Lucy involuntarily flinch. He didn’t even spare a glance at Lucy, his focus entirely on the guitarist. He grabbed Jimmy by the elbow, his grip like iron. “We need to talk. Now. Alone.” His eyes flicked pointedly to Lucy, a silent dismissal.

Lucy felt a hot flush of annoyance, but the gravity of Peter’s tone and the sheer desperation in Richard’s eyes kept her from retorting. She just stood there, watching, trying to piece together the fragments of overheard words: “…safe…broken in…three hundred grand…” The numbers felt enormous, impossible.

Jimmy’s eyes met hers for a fleeting second, a flicker of apology and deep concern in their depths, before he was practically dragged away towards a more secluded corner of the lobby, near the elevators. Richard followed them, head down, shoulders slumped.

Lucy hugged herself, feeling suddenly cold despite the warmth of the lobby. She watched the three men huddle together, their voices dropping to urgent, hushed tones. Peter’s imposing figure shielded them somewhat, but she could still see the agitated gestures, the way Richard kept running his hands through his hair, the way Jimmy’s shoulders, usually so relaxed, had stiffened, and his head was slowly shaking from side to side. It looked like a scene from a bad movie, but the tension was palpable, real, and sickening.

Her mind raced, trying to connect the dots. The police, the hotel staff’s panic, Peter’s raw fury, Richard’s devastation, the whispered numbers. Three hundred thousand dollars. That was an astronomical sum, especially in cash. It was the band’s money, the tour money, the money for the crew, for the plane, for everything that kept the massive Led Zeppelin machine running. A cold dread seeped into her bones. This wasn’t just a minor incident; this was monumental.

She saw Jimmy’s face change as Peter finished speaking. The initial shock gave way to a grim set of his jaw, a hardening around his eyes that she rarely saw. He ran a hand through his own wild hair, a gesture of disbelief, then nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on some distant point. Richard looked utterly defeated, his head bowed.

The huddle broke. Peter clapped Jimmy’s shoulder, a gesture that was more about command than comfort, his face still thunderous. Richard, looking like a ghost, retreated towards the reception desk, where one of the police officers now stood, notepad in hand.

Jimmy walked back towards Lucy, his steps heavier than when he’d left her side. His face, usually so expressive, was now a carefully constructed mask of control, but she could see the tension etched into the lines around his eyes, the tightness of his lips. He didn’t say a word, just reached for her hand, his fingers lacing around hers with a fierce possessiveness. His grip was almost painfully tight as he tugged her decisively towards the elevators, not waiting for her to fully register what was happening.

“Jimmy?” Lucy finally managed, her voice barely a whisper, as they stepped into the thankfully empty elevator car. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, cutting them off from the chaotic lobby. He leaned back against the polished wood paneling, his eyes closed for a brief moment, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping his lips.

“What happened? What was all that?” she pressed, her heart thumping against her ribs. She smoothed his fringe back from his forehead, her thumb brushing against the taut skin.

He opened his eyes, and they looked utterly drained, aged by a sudden, immense weariness. “It’s Richard,” he began, his voice low and hoarse, betraying the tight control he was exerting. “His suite…it was robbed. While we were on stage.”

Lucy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Robbed? Oh my god… But how? How could that happen? I mean, security…” Her mind reeled. The Drake was one of the most secure hotels in the city. The band, especially, would have had extra precautions.

Jimmy shook his head slowly, a bitter laugh escaping him. “That’s what everyone wants to know. They broke into his safe. The one where he kept… all the cash.” He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above the door as the elevator ascended. “Three hundred thousand dollars, Luce. Gone. Just like that.”

Her eyes widened in horror. Three hundred thousand dollars. The full weight of the sum, and what it represented, crashed down on her. “Three hundred thousand… The payroll? The tour money? Everything?” The thought was staggering. The sheer audacity of it, to do it during their last show, while the city’s attention was on them.

“Every bloody penny,” Jimmy confirmed, his voice laced with an icy fury that was barely contained. “He was supposed to pay off the roadies tonight, all the final wrap-up expenses for the tour. It’s all gone.”

“But… who?” Lucy whispered, her mind racing through possibilities, none of them making sense. “How could anyone even know where it was, or when to do it?”

He shrugged, a dismissive, frustrated gesture. “That’s what the police are trying to figure out. And the FBI, apparently. Everyone’s getting interviewed first thing in the morning.” He rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the grim reality. “They think it was an inside job, of course. Someone knew too much.”

The elevator chimed softly, announcing their floor. The doors slid open to a quiet, dimly lit hallway. The contrast with the chaos below was stark, but the tension he carried seemed to follow him like a shadow.

They walked in silence to his suite, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. He fumbled with the key, his hands uncharacteristically unsteady. Once inside, he didn't bother to turn on the main lights, just flicked on a small table lamp, casting warm, intimate glow that immediately felt at odds with the darkness in his mood.

He dropped his jacket onto an armchair, then walked to the large window, staring out at the glittering cityscape, oblivious to its beauty. He let out another deep sigh, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of the entire debacle.

“God, Luce,” he said, his voice softer now, tinged with a raw vulnerability. He turned, his eyes finding hers in the dim light. “We were having such a lovely evening, weren’t we? Such a beautiful end to the tour… And now this. I just… I just want to forget it all for tonight. Just for a few hours. Forget the police, forget the money, forget everything. I just want to relax.” His gaze was pleading, seeking solace and escape in her presence. The weight of the world, and the band, seemed to rest squarely on his shoulders. Lucy walked to him, taking his hand, and squeezed it gently, understanding perfectly.

"Come, lets have a drink and forget about this."

Chapter Text

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across Jimmy’s opulent suite. It was a chaotic symphony of luxury: heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the city lights, the faint scent of expensive cologne mingling with burning beeswax, and an obstacle course of luggage, some open with clothes spilling out like fallen treasure. Lucy, having shed her boots with a sigh of relief, was already curled on the plush sofa, watching Jimmy at the bar. He moved with a practiced ease, clinking ice, pouring amber liquid. The distant thrum of the after-party in other suites seemed a world away. This was their bubble, just them, for what they both knew was their last night.

Jimmy turned, two crystal tumblers in hand, and approached the couch. The bottle of whiskey he carried seemed to glow in the dim light. He sat down beside Lucy, the springs of the sofa giving a soft groan under his weight, and handed her one of the drinks.

“Here you go, love.” His voice was a low rumble, richer than the whiskey itself.

Lucy took the glass, the cool crystal a welcome sensation in her hand.

Jimmy raised his own glass, the light catching the gold on his rings. His eyes, dark and intense even in the dimness, met hers. “To us, Luce.” A slow, fond smile spread across his face. “To reunion, and to the future we will most certainly spend together.”

Lucy’s hand froze, mid-air, the glass inches from her lips. Her eyes, wide and surprised, darted from his confident, hopeful face to the swirling liquid in her glass. The air in the room, already thick with the scent of candles, suddenly felt heavy. The future? She hadn’t dared to think beyond tonight, beyond this breathless, stolen few days. She didn't think that having sex with Jimmy in the limo earlier would mean anything but that, a release. A blush crept up her neck, and in an attempt to dissipate the sudden, uncomfortable tension, she brought the glass to her lips and slammed back a substantial gulp. The fiery burn of the whiskey hit her throat, making her cough slightly.

Jimmy chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. “Whoa, easy there, tiger. Don’t want a repeat of the other night, do we?” He winked, recalling the incident where she’d gotten a little too exuberant after a few too many drinks.

Lucy cleared her throat, trying to regain some composure. Her mind raced, searching for an escape route from the 'future' conversation. “Right, yes.” she managed, forcing a laugh. “Anyway… I mean, six years, Jimmy. Six years. Tell me about England. What’s it been like? What have you been up to, besides… well, besides being a rock god?” She gestured vaguely, encompassing his entire persona, the faint echoes of cheering crowds still resonating in the back of her mind.

Jimmy leaned back, taking a slow sip of his own drink, a glint in his eye as she successfully diverted the conversation. “England, huh?” He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “Well, besides Boleskine, I’ve… I bought another place. Further south. Plumpton Place.” A softness entered his voice, a hint of pride. “It’s quite something, Luce. An old manor house, Grade I listed. Eleventh-century church of St. Michael and All Angels right next door, literally adjacent to the west. And Plumpton village, just half a click or so to the east.”

He took another sip, his gaze unfocused as if looking through the walls, seeing his beloved property. “There’s this entrance, see? Two cottages designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens, with a Palladian porch… it’s grand. And then it leads you to this modern bridge, over the moat. Yes, a moat! And the gardens… rolling lawns, ancient trees, lakes. Proper lakes. It’s… it’s incredibly peaceful. A real sanctuary.” He smiled, a genuine, relaxed smile that made him look younger. “I’ve been spending a lot of time there when I’m not on the road.”

Lucy was captivated. Her initial discomfort forgotten, she listened, picturing the grand estate. “Wow. That sounds… incredible, Jimmy. Really. A moat? Lakes? It’s like something out of a storybook.”

He nodded, a contented sigh escaping him. “It is, a bit. You’ll have to come and stay sometime, Luce. Really. Explore it all. There’s so much to see, so many quiet corners.” He paused, his gaze softening even more, and he took a slow breath. “My daughter, Scarlet, absolutely adores it there.”

The name hung in the air, sudden and unexpected. Lucy blinked. “Your… your daughter?” She knew Jimmy had lived a full life, had heard whispers and rumors over the years, but she’d never connected it to a child. A man who had undoubtedly slept with hundreds of women? Yes, that made sense, but it still caught her off guard. She shouldn't be surprised, but she was.

Jimmy’s expression shifted, a mix of tenderness and wistfulness. “Yeah. Scarlet. She’s… she’s two now. Growing up so fast.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. “It’s tough, you know? Being on the road, missing so much. Birthdays, first steps… big milestones. You try to make up for it, but you can’t get that time back.”

A pang of sympathy went through Lucy. She hadn’t considered the personal cost of his fame. “Oh, Jimmy… I can only imagine. That must be incredibly hard.” She leaned forward. “Can I… can I see a picture?”

“Of course!” Jimmy’s face brightened, his previous melancholia giving way to parental pride. He untangled himself from the sofa, navigating the maze of suitcases. He rummaged in one, muttering to himself, “Now, where did I… ah, here!” He pulled out a worn leather wallet, opening it carefully, he extracted a small, slightly creased photograph.

He handed it to Lucy. She took it gently, her eyes widening as she looked at the image. A little girl, smiled brightly at the camera. She had startlingly big, intelligent eyes that seemed to sparkle, and a charming cascade of blond ringlets framed her sweet face.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Lucy breathed, genuinely charmed. “She’s absolutely adorable. A real cutie.” She traced the outline of the little girl’s face with her thumb. “She has your eyes, I think. But those blond curls… and that smile. Who’s her mother?”

Suddenly, a shadow crossed Jimmy’s face. The earlier joy drained away, replaced by a dark, pensive look. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He took a long swallow of his whiskey before responding, his voice lower, more guarded. “Her mother… Charlotte.” He paused, as if weighing his words. “A model. Met her after a Zeppelin show, back in ‘70. She was quite… striking.”

Lucy nodded, taking it in. “Ah. Well, that’s where little Scarlet gets her looks from then,” she joked, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy mood.

A small, mirthless chuckle escaped Jimmy. “Yeah, I suppose so.” He took another drink, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “We’re not together anymore. Haven’t been for a while, actually. It just… it got too difficult. Too much arguing, too much fighting. We just couldn’t make it work.” He shrugged, a weary gesture. “Now we just… try to co-parent. For Scarlet’s sake.”

Lucy’s smile faded. She could only imagine the difficulty of that, especially with the added complexities of his fame and constant travel. She nodded slowly, handing the picture back to him. “Co-parenting with someone you don’t get along with… that sounds incredibly draining.”

He tucked the photo back into his wallet, a distant look in his eyes. “It is. But you do what you have to do, right?” He cleared his throat, pushing the uncomfortable topic aside. “So, enough about my domestic woes. What about you, Luce? Six years. Tell me about it. Tell me about everything. Your life. What have you been up to these past few years?"

Lucy hesitated, unsure how much to share. The past few years had been a whirlwind of triumphs and heartbreaks, of intense dedication to her craft and quiet solitude. Opening up fully felt too vulnerable, too soon. "Oh, you know," she began vaguely, staring at her glass, "the usual." she paused, then decided to offer a little more, something that she knew would genuinely interest him as a fellow musician. "I've also been really immersed in a new project. Something quite ... ambitious."

His eyes lit up with curiosity. "ambitious? You've got my attention."

"i've been working on building a piano," she said, watching his reaction. "from scratch. Not just assembling parts, but truly crafting it. Sourcing the wood, shaping the soundboard, meticulously winding the strings, designing the action ... everything."

Jimmy’s eyes widened, genuine excitement sparking in them. He leaned forward, all traces of his earlier melancholy gone. “A piano? From scratch? That’s… that’s incredible, Luce! How do you even begin? Is it a grand piano?"

She nodded, a small, proud smile touching my lips. "a concert grand, actually. It's been a monumental undertaking. Sourcing the perfect spruce for the soundboard, ensuring the precise grain. I spent months just researching the ideal tension for the strings, the perfect blend of copper and steel for the bass registers. Then there's the action, the hammers, the keys ... each component has to be perfectly balanced, weighted, regulated. The process of voicing the hammers alone is an art form unto itself. Tiny needle pricks to soften or harden the felt, to shape the timbre of each individual note."

He was utterly transfixed. "Good God, Lucy. I've heard of master craftsmen doing such things, but I've never actually met anyone who has. What possessed you?"

"A fascination with sound." she explained, gesturing with her hands, warming to the subject. "And a desire to understand the very essence of how music is born, not just how it's played. The mechanics of it, the physics, the artistry in its construction. There's a profound connection between the visual art of a drawing and the sonic art of an instrument. Both are about precision, about expressing an unseen force, about creating something beautiful from raw materials. I wanted to feel that connection in a different way."

"But the sheer complexity!" he marvelled, shaking his head. " I mean, I'm a guitarist, I know instruments, but I've never even dreamed of making one from scratch. The precision, the patience ... how long has it taken you?"

"Three years," she admitted, "on and off, between other commissions. It's been incredibly challenging, incredibly frustrating at times. There were moments I wanted to give up, when the soundboard wouldn't vibrate just right, or a key felt sticky, or the action was sluggish. But then you make a breakthrough, and the pure joy of hearing a note ring true, knowing you created the very vessel for that sound ... it's unlike anything else."

"And you've actually finished it?" he pressed, his eyes wide.

"Almost," she said, a slight tremor in my voice. "The final tuning is scheduled for next month. Then, it will be complete."

"That's ... that's astounding, Lucy. Truly. I'm completely blown away. I have so many questions. What kind of wood did you use for the rim? How did you bend it? Did you forge the frame yourself? Tell me about the iron plate, the bridge placement, the pinblock ..."

His questions tumbled out, rapid-fire, revealing a deep, almost childlike curiosity. This was the Jimmy she remembered from their younger days – intensely focused, passionate about anything that involved creation and intricate detail.

They talked for what felt like hours, the conversation flowing easily between them, jumping from Lucy’s piano project to Jimmy’s latest recording ideas, from their shared memories of six years ago to the vastly different lives they led now. It truly did feel like old times, comfortable and easy, punctuated by laughter and the occasional clink of ice in their refilled glasses. The initial awkwardness of the ‘future’ conversation had long dissipated, replaced by the familiar warmth of their connection.

But then, as the candles burned lower, their flames flickering in their pools of melted wax, Lucy felt a profound exhaustion settle over her. Her eyelids felt heavy, and the room, once so cozy, seemed to close in around her with the late hour.

“Jimmy,” she said, stifling a yawn, “it’s getting really late. I think I should head back to my hotel. I still have to finish packing for my flight tomorrow.” She made a move to sit up, a sense of practical urgency pushing through her fatigue.

Jimmy’s relaxed demeanor instantly stiffened. He sat bolt upright, his hand reaching out to touch her arm, a sudden, almost desperate grip. His brow furrowed, a disgruntled look replacing his earlier contentment. “What? No. No, Luce, don’t be daft. Why would you go back there? Just stay here.” His voice was low, almost a plea. “You can pack in the morning, or I can have someone bring your bags over. It’s… it’s our last night.”

Lucy sighed, her exhaustion deepening. She didn’t want an argument, not now. But she also didn’t want to give in simply because he was being stubborn. “Jimmy, it’s not just packing. I just… I need my own space, my own things. It’ll be easier.”

He wasn’t hearing it. His grip on her arm tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes, in the dim light, were raw with emotion. “Easier for what? Lucy, please. Don’t go. I’ve really… I’ve really missed you. I’m not ready to say goodbye, not yet. Not like this.” His voice was husky, vulnerability creeping in.

She looked at him, at the genuine pain and longing in his eyes. She was bone-weary, mentally and physically, but she couldn’t ignore the sudden, palpable sadness radiating from him. The thought of arguing, of fighting him on this, felt like climbing a mountain. She just wanted peace.

Lucy closed her eyes for a moment, letting out a slow, tired sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the last six years, and the uncertainty of the next. “Okay, Jimmy,” she conceded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Jimmy’s face, chasing away the disgruntled shadow that had momentarily darkened his features. He reached out and gently took her hand, his thumb tracing circles on her knuckles. “Good,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Really good. I just… I need more time. Six years is a long time, Luce.”

He squeezed her hand, then released it, rising to tend to their glasses.

Lucy watched him, her mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts. Exhaustion warred with a strange, melancholic sweetness. Part of her just wanted her own bed, the quiet solitude of her hotel room, to process everything. But another part, a deeply buried, nostalgic part, recognized the familiar pull of Jimmy’s magnetic presence. It did feel like old times, even with the new layers of fame, a daughter, and a past relationship that had come to light.

He turned back from the bar, his eyes, reflecting the candlelight, holding hers with an intensity that made her catch her breath. “Come here,” he said softly, holding out a hand to her.

She rose from the couch, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, and walked towards him. He enveloped her in a loose embrace, not tight or demanding, but comforting. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath the shirt he had thrown on earlier.

“I really did miss you,” he whispered into her hair, his voice thick with emotion.

The night folded around them like a heavy velvet curtain. The conversation, which had flowed so easily moments before, dwindled into comfortable silence. They shared another drink, the whiskey a warm burn down Lucy’s throat, dulling the edges of her anxieties. Jimmy put on some music, something soft and bluesy, not his own, but music that spoke of longing and distant shores.

He spoke briefly about the Plumpton Place gardens again, almost dreamily, as if already picturing her there, wandering among the ancient trees. He touched on Scarlet once more, the warmth in his voice palpable as he described her latest antics, her bright curiosity. Lucy found herself feeling a strange mix of tenderness and distance. This was his life now, full and complex, so different from her quiet pursuit of crafting and music.

She found herself drifting off, lulled by the whiskey, the warmth of the room, and the comforting rhythm of Jimmy’s breathing beside her. He noticed, gently pulling her closer. “Sleep, Luce,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “We can talk more in the morning.”

The morning. The word hung in the air, a silent reminder of the impending departure, the separate planes, the continent that would divide them once more. She closed her eyes, trying not to think about it, trying to just exist in this candle-lit bubble, a borrowed moment in time with a man who felt both intensely familiar and entirely new. She knew, deep down, that agreeing to stay had less to do with avoiding an argument and more to do with her own reluctance to let go of this fragile, beautiful echo of their past, knowing it might well be the last time.

Chapter Text

The early morning light, filtered through heavy velvet curtains, did little to brighten the opulent New York hotel suite. I woke to the comforting weight of Jimmy’s arm, wrapped possessively around my waist, pulling me snug against him. His breath, soft and rhythmic against my hair, was a familiar lullaby from a lifetime ago. For a fleeting moment, a dangerous warmth spread through me, a sense of belonging I hadn't realized I craved. Then, the alarm bells started ringing.

This wasn’t my life. This wasn’t my bed, and this man, despite the intimacy of his embrace, was a potential hurricane I was trying to escape.

Carefully, I began to wriggle. First, my hip, then my arm, then the slow, deliberate untangling of his fingers from my shirt. He stirred, a low murmur escaping his lips, but didn’t wake. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. Success. With a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, I slipped from the bed, the sheets cool against my skin where his warmth had been.

The room smelled faintly of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and something uniquely Jimmy – a mix of cologne and raw energy. My bag lay strewn across a chaise lounge, a chaotic testament to the previous night’s hurried discarding. I gathered it quickly, my fingers fumbling with the straps, it was my lifeline. I located my crumpled airline ticket, my wallet, and headed for the door.

The door clicked shut behind me with a soft, final sound, sealing off the rock-and-roll dreamscape I had briefly inhabited. The hotel hallway was hushed, the carpeted floors swallowing the sound of my hurried footsteps. I didn’t look back.

Downstairs, the lobby was a ghost town at this early hour, the concierge nodding sleepily as I passed. Outside, the city was just beginning to hum awake. A yellow cab, already cruising, spotted me instantly, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. I practically dove into the backseat.

“The Wellington, please,” I mumbled, giving the address of the much more modest establishment I’d been staying at. The driver, a weathered man with a bushy mustache, simply grunted in response, pulling away from the curb with a slight jolt.

As the cab wound its way through the waking streets of Manhattan, I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of color. My mind, usually so organized and pragmatic, felt like a chaotic kaleidoscope. New York. This trip had been meticulously planned as a brief respite, then, a chance encounter, a phone call, and suddenly, six years had evaporated.

Seeing Jimmy again. It had felt like a scene from some impossible movie. The initial shock, the undeniable pull, the dizzying rush of the Led Zeppelin concerts, the raw, electrifying energy of him on stage, commanding thousands. Then, the private moments, the late-night talks, the sex in the limo, the way his eyes still held that wicked spark, that flicker of recognition for the person I once was to him. He’d talked of futures, of reconnecting, of a life we could build. It seemed insane. Utterly, completely, irrationally crazy.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to anchor myself, to find the solid ground that felt like it had dissolved beneath my feet. What the heck was going on with my life? One minute, I was Lucy, owner of a quirky record shop in rural Mississippi, writing music in my basement office. Then next, I was Lucy, sharing a bed with my ex, who just happened to be the world’s biggest rock star, having conversations about a future that felt utterly impossible.

The cab pulled up to my hotel, I paid the driver. The lobby was empty here too, a comforting silence. My suite felt small after Jimmy’s sprawling luxury, but it was mine. I threw my bag onto the worn armchair, the thud echoing in the quiet room. My clothes came off in a heap on the floor, the shirt and jeans I’d worn the night before feeling almost alien against my skin.

I stepped into the shower, turning the faucet to scalding. The steam quickly filled the small bathroom, blurring the edges of the tiled walls, blurring my own anxious reflection. I stood under the forceful spray, letting the hot water sluice over my skin, trying to wash away the scent of him, the lingering phantom touch, the disorienting memories of the past few days. I wanted to cleanse myself of the anxiety that had coiled itself tight in my gut, a nervous knot of questions.

Why now? Why had Jimmy, out of all the people on earth, come roaring back into my life? He had a child now. He was still the quintessential rock star, living a life of excess and constant touring. I knew that he slept with a lot of women. It was part of the lifestyle, a constant presence around him. So what did he want from me? A relic of his past? A brief diversion? Or… did he genuinely mean what he’d said about a future? The thought was terrifying, exhilarating, and deeply, deeply confusing.

I scrubbed my skin until it was pink and tingling, as if I could physically scour away the uncertainty. I washed my hair twice, letting the shampoo lather and rinse away, taking with it the echoes of stadium cheers and whispered confessions. Emerging from the shower, I wrapped myself in a thick, white towel, the quiet of the room a stark contrast to the cacophony of the last few days.

Dressing in my familiar jeans and a plain cotton t-shirt, I felt a faint sense of normalcy return. My suitcase sat open on the bed, a gaping maw waiting to consume the few belongings I’d brought. Pack, airport, home. That was the plan. Simple. Linear. But as I stared at the empty suitcase, I found myself lost. Lost in the sheer, overwhelming unknown of what the future held in store. The thought of seeing him again in a few weeks, in Scotland, for my hiking expedition, was a constant, low thrum beneath my skin.

Frank met me at the airport gate, looking rough around the edges, his usually neat hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. Most certainly hungover. Our conversation was minimal, a few grunted acknowledgements, a shared fatigue. We didn’t need to talk. We just wanted to board the plane and get home, away from the glittering, overwhelming chaos of New York. Frank was a reliable constant, and seeing him there, looking as tired and disoriented as I felt, offered a strange kind of comfort. He knew enough of my history with Jimmy, knew enough about the rockstar orbit, to understand the silent tension that hummed between us, even in the quiet of an early morning flight.

The journey back to Mississippi was a blur of cloudscapes and hushed cabin noises. I spent most of it staring out the window, occasionally dozing off, my mind a relentless echo chamber of fragments: Jimmy’s laugh, the roar of the crowd, the dizzying height of the hotel suite, the feel of his calloused fingers on my skin. I tried to mentally construct a wall between that life and the one I was flying back to, but the mortar wouldn’t hold.

The Delta sky, a vast, bleached canvas, sagged low over Mississippi. It wasn't the crisp, sapphire vault Lucy had left behind in New York, where the air hummed with a thousand electric nerves. Here, the air was a thick, breathing thing, heavy with humidity and the ghost of forgotten cotton. Lucy stepped out of the cab, the fine, red dust of her hometown rising to greet her like an old, persistent friend. It clung to the hem of her jeans, a quiet defiance to the clean lines of Manhattan, a terrestrial whisper of her origins.

This town, nameless in the grand atlas, less a dot and more a smudged fingerprint on the map, existed in a perpetual ochre haze. The Mississippi River, a muscular, indifferent titan, flowed not far off, yet its verdant banks felt a world away. Here, green was a memory, a wish, a promise the wind had forgotten to whisper. The earth was mostly just dust—fine, pervasive, ancient dust that coated everything: the stoops of general stores, the tired leaves of magnolias, the faded paint of cars parked askew under the unforgiving sun. It sifted into the cracks of her soul, a granular reminder of where she truly belonged, even after the years she spent away.

In 1967, the year the Summer of Love bloomed elsewhere, Lucy had returned not for a celebration, but for a solemn duty. She’d been a girl of fourteen when she'd first fled this dust for the promise of a healthier life, and a fresh start. A life that had her blossoming. But then, the phonecall. Their sudden passing, a double blow of grief and duty that had pulled her back, a reluctant prodigal, to the parched earth of her beginnings. The city’s towering anonymity suddenly felt like a cage, and the quiet desolation of her childhood home, a strange solace.

The funeral, a muted affair under the same relentless sun, blurred into a haze of sorrow and legalities. It was in the quiet aftermath, sifting through the remnants of a life, that she found him again. Frank. He was leaning against the peeling porch railing of her adoptive parents’ house, just as he had been when she left, a silent sentinel against the world. His face, etched with a quiet understanding, held no trace of the boy she’d so carelessly cut away. She'd been young, adrift in a new metropolis, convinced that severing ties to her past was the only path forward, that New York, with its towering ambitions and anonymous crowds, demanded a complete transformation. But Frank, with his steady gaze and unshakeable loyalty, had never truly left, a silent ember in the hearth of her memory

He forgave her. Not with grand pronouncements, but with a simple nod, a shared silence, a helping hand that never wavered as she navigated the labyrinth of their parents' estate. He simply was there, a constant against the shifting sands of her grief. As they reminisced about old times, Lucy realized that the bond they had shared as children had grown into something much deeper. The understanding in his eyes and the gentle way he spoke to her made her feel seen in a way she hadn't felt in years. Despite her fears of rejection, she had confided in him about her life in the bustling city and the dreams she had left behind. To her surprise, Frank had not only forgiven her for cutting him off but had offered to help her reconnect with the place she had once fled. It was through him, through the effortless rhythm of their rebuilt connection, that the dust began to settle differently within her. He was the anchor she hadn't known she needed, and slowly, gently, he helped her see the shimmering mirage of home in the very place she had once fled. The echoes of a simpler time, of barefoot summers and shared secrets, began to drown out the city’s roar.

Mississippi, she realized, wasn't just a physical locale; it was the echo of her own heart, a deep, resonant chord that had never truly been silenced. The grand, bright promise of New York still beckoned, but it now felt hollow, an empty stage. Here, in the quiet hum of crickets and the scent of honeysuckle struggling against the heat, was where her truest self could bloom. A fresh start. The words felt like a cool balm on her parched spirit, a promise whispered by the very wind that stirred the dust.

So, Lucy stayed. She bought a house, a modest, sun-baked structure on the edge of town, and poured her heart into it, brick by careful brick. First came the guest house out back, a small sanctuary that soon blossomed, under her hands and vision, into a private home studio. Here, amidst the quiet hum of amplifiers and the scent of aged vinyl, she curated her life, mixing the echoes of her past with the vibrant melodies of her future, crafting new soundscapes within old walls.

But it wasn't enough to build a personal haven. The town, in 1967, had been a husk, its storefronts boarded, its spirit leached dry by economic tides and the slow drift of ambition elsewhere. Lucy saw not decay, but potential, a canvas waiting for color. A rundown storefront in the town center, its windows opaque with years of grime, called to her. Music was the deepest current in Lucy’s life, a constant river within her, and she had always found solace and joy in the dusty, hallowed halls of record shops during her travels. It was an impulse, a yearning, more than a business plan. She bought the store.

"The Vinyl Dust," she called it, a nod to the paradox of her existence: beauty born from desolation, rhythm from the silence. It wasn't about profit, not primarily. It was a cathedral built for sound, a shrine where her esoteric, painstakingly acquired collection of rare and special albums could breathe and sing. The shelves, custom-built from reclaimed barn wood, groaned under the weight of jazz, blues, folk, psychedelic rock, classical, and the avant-garde, each record a story waiting to unfold. Frank, ever the steady hand, became her assistant, his quiet efficiency the perfect counterpoint to her passionate, sometimes scattered, artistic vision. He handled the invoices; she talked about the subtle texture of a 180-gram pressing, the nuanced depth of a forgotten b-side.

It was during one of her many trips to the town’s only diner, a glint of defiance caught her eye. A young woman, all sharp angles and restless energy, was flipping through the jukebox selections with an intensity that bordered on aggression. The girl was all of sixteen, with a sharp tongue. Jessica. Cute, yes, with eyes that held a surprising depth, but radiating a prickly aura that promised no easy conversation. Yet, Lucy saw a kindred spirit in the way her fingers flew across the titles, a silent communion with the power of music. She offered her a job. Jessica, to Lucy’s surprise, accepted, settling into the record store with the wary grace of a stray cat finding a warm corner, her infrequent smiles precious and hard-won, like rare coins.

The next few days were a whirlwind of catching up on work. My record store, “The Vinyl Dust” was an old building on Main Street, easily mistaken for not occupied if you didn’t notice the small ‘OPEN’ sign in the window. Its brick façade was crumbling in places, the paint peeling, giving it a charmingly derelict appearance. Inside, however, it hummed with a quiet energy, a labyrinth of dusty crates and spinning turntables. I’d poured my heart and soul, into this shop. It specialized in rare and unique albums – forgotten blues legends, obscure folk artists, experimental jazz, first pressings of classic rock. When I traveled, I always ventured into local record shops, hoping to unearth hidden gems to bring back to my shelves. It was my passion, my quiet rebellion against the world.

Even though I had people to run the shop while I was away, there always seemed to be a mountain of things to do when I returned. Phone calls to return, orders to place, new acquisitions to catalog. My office was in the basement, a cozy, somewhat cluttered space filled with towering shelves of records, a turntable, and a perpetually messy desk where I both managed the business and, more importantly to my soul, wrote my own music.

The bell above the door jingled with a melancholy, rusty whine, announcing Lucy’s return. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight that speared through the grimy front window, illuminating stacks of forgotten treasures and the gentle hum of an ac unit. The scent of aged paper and vinyl, familiar and comforting, wrapped around her, but even that couldn’t fully penetrate the fog of anxiety that clung to her. She dropped her worn travel bag just inside the door, its thud echoing slightly in the quiet space.

Behind the counter, a bleach-blonde head snapped up from behind an issue of Rolling Stone. Jessica, all sharp angles and perpetual disdain, fixed Lucy with a gaze that could curdle milk. She wore a faded band tee and had a pen tucked aggressively behind her ear. At 19, Jessica was a walking paradox: fiercely competent, utterly indispensable, and a complete nightmare. And Lucy, in her current frayed state, was not looking forward to the inevitable encounter.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Jessica drawled, her voice a low, gravelly rumble that belied her age. It wasn’t a greeting, more a statement of fact, delivered with the welcoming warmth of a mortician. She didn't smile, didn't shift, just watched Lucy, her pale blue eyes dissecting.

Lucy managed a weak, almost imperceptible nod. She felt every minute of the past few days, every sleepless hour, every unresolved question clinging to her like a second skin. Her muscles ached from the travel, but it was the exhaustion in her mind that was truly crippling. She cleared her throat, forcing a semblance of normalcy into her voice. “Hey, Jess. Everything… okay here?”

Jessica slowly folded the magazine, placing it with meticulous precision on the countertop. “Define ‘okay.’ Did the roof cave in? No. Did a flood wipe out the entire opera section? Also no. Did some idiot try to haggle over an original pressing of 'Something Else' like it was a 25 cent used paperback? Oh, you bet your ass they did. But I handled it. As always.” Her gaze was unwavering, piercing. “Unlike some people, I actually do my job.”

The thinly veiled barb wasn’t new. It was Jessica’s usual modus operandi, a constant undercurrent of passive aggression that often tipped into outright hostility. Today, however, it grated more than usual. Lucy felt her jaw tighten. She walked over to the counter, leaning against it, trying to project an air of calm she was far from feeling. “Good to know the shop’s still in one piece. And that you’re still a ray of sunshine.”

Jessica’s lips twitched, a fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk. “Someone has to be the realist around here. You think I don’t notice the state you’re in, Luce? You look like you went ten rounds with a badger and lost.” She pushed a thick, neatly folded stack of papers across the counter. It was held together with a paperclip. “Here. Phone messages, invoices, inventory updates, a new policy on returns because apparently, people think this is a library. Frank tried to explain half of it, but he just kept drooling on the paper. You know, more than usual.”

Lucy picked up the stack. It was heavy, both literally and metaphorically. Each page represented a demand, a task, a reason to ground herself back in the mundane reality of Mississippi. And right now, mundane felt like a desperate need. “Thanks, Jess. I’ll get to it. How was Frank? He seemed… rough when I saw him at the airport.”

Jessica snorted, a derisive sound. “Rough? He looked like a refugee from a zombie apocalypse. Smelled like a brewery.” She leaned forward on her elbows, her eyes narrowing. “You two have a wild trip or something? Because you both look like you’ve been living on cheap coffee and bad decisions.”

Lucy felt a flicker of heat in her cheeks. It was the last thing she needed – Jessica prying. She couldn't tell Jessica about the gilded cages of NYC, the unexpected reunion, the concerts, the man who still had the power to turn her world upside down. That wasn't just “bad decisions”; that was an existential crisis wrapped in a silk sheet.

“It was New York, Jess,” Lucy said, trying for a dismissive tone. “It’s always a little… much. Lots of walking, late nights. You know.” She avoided eye contact, flipping through the top few pages of the document. The sheer volume was daunting.

“Uh-huh.” Jessica’s voice was laced with disbelief. “Right. ‘Lots of walking.’ As in, walking right into trouble? Or trouble walking right back into your life?” Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, seemed to bore into Lucy, dissecting the layers of her forced nonchalance. “You’ve got that look. The one you get when you’ve been doing something you know is profoundly stupid, but you did it anyway because, for some reason, you couldn’t help yourself.”

Lucy’s hand instinctively went to her pocket, searching for her cigarettes. Empty. She’d smoked the last one on the cab ride here. The craving hit her with an almost physical ache. “It was a work trip, Jess. Art exhibit, a few meetings. A concert or two. Nothing scandalous.” The lie felt clumsy on her tongue, heavy and ill-fitting. The art exhibit was real, yes. The meetings, not so much. And the concerts… well, they certainly weren’t work-related.

“Right. Because you always come back from ‘work trips’ looking like you’ve been chewing on glass. And with that scent on you.” Jessica took a slow, deliberate breath, her nostrils flaring slightly. “Perfume. Expensive. And… something else … something musky. Very rock-and-roll. Did you suddenly decide to take up groupie culture for the benefit of the shop’s rare album collection?”

Lucy’s stomach clenched. She’d showered, tried to wash it all away, but clearly, the scent of the past few days, of him, still clung to her. She felt exposed, vulnerable. “That’s enough, Jessica,” she said, her voice low, a warning note vibrating beneath the surface. “My personal life is not your business. Nor is my choice of perfume.”

Jessica merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Oh, it’s my business when it affects your business. You walk in here looking like you’re about to spontaneously combust, and you expect me to just ‘not notice’? You think I don’t see the way you’re practically vibrating with… what is it? Excitement? Dread? Or are you just trying to scrub the memory of some rock star’s hands off your skin?”

The words hung in the air, a venomous current. Lucy froze, the papers in her hand clutched tight enough to wrinkle them. The mention of “rock star” was too close, too pointed. Was Jessica just guessing, or did she know something? It had to be a cruel coincidence, Jessica’s particular brand of brutal honesty hitting a raw nerve.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lucy managed, her voice tight, barely above a whisper. Her mind was racing, a whirlwind of the past week: Jimmy’s intense gaze across the gallery, the electricity of his hand in hers, the unexpected confessions in the quiet of the hotel suite, his arm wrapped around her this very morning. Then the jarring reality of his world – the fame, the women, the child she hadn’t known about, the six years of silence. And his insane idea of a future.

“Don’t I?” Jessica leaned back, a smug satisfaction playing on her features. “You forget, I’ve been working for you for three years. I’ve seen you come and go. I’ve heard the whispers, seen the way you shut down when certain names come up. You think I haven’t noticed the way you never talk about your past? Or the way you get that haunted look in your eyes whenever some rock album comes in through the door?” She tapped the counter rhythmically with her fingertips. “You practically chain yourself to this place, Miss Lucy, like you’re hiding from something. Or someone. And now you go to New York, and come back looking like this? Not a good look, Luce. Not a good look at all.”

Lucy felt a cold knot form in her stomach. Jessica was too perceptive, too direct. It was unsettling. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “I came back from a busy trip, Jessica. I’m tired. That’s all.” She knew it sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

“Tired of what? Running?” Jessica scoffed. “You’re off to Scotland in a few weeks, aren’t you? Another grand ‘expedition.’ More escaping, I suppose?” There was a challenge in her voice, a dare for Lucy to deny it, to pretend.

The Scotland trip. Another layer of the complicated future. She was supposed to meet him there again. The thought made her both tremble and rage. “It’s a hiking expedition, for God’s sake. People go on those.”

“And people don’t usually feel the need to practically self-immolate with anxiety before them,” Jessica countered, her eyes flicking to Lucy’s empty hand, then up to her face. “You’ve been through a whole pack already this morning, haven’t you? I can smell it. Your usual brand. You only smoke that much when you’re about to crack.”

Lucy clenched her fists at her sides, digging her nails into her palms. The desire for a cigarette was overwhelming. To just step outside, away from Jessica's relentless scrutiny, and light one, let the nicotine calm the frantic drumbeat inside her chest. But that would be a concession, a sign of weakness.

“I’m not cracking, Jessica,” Lucy said, her voice dangerously quiet, “I’m catching up on weeks of work. Work that you prepared for me. Which I’m about to go do. In my office. In the basement. Where I can actually get some peace and quiet.” She shifted her weight, making it clear she was about to move.

Jessica didn’t back down. “Oh, I know. Your little cave. Where you write your songs and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist. Where you try to wash away whatever it is you’re trying to forget. You think I haven’t heard the snippets? The sad ones. The angry ones. All about… well, you know. Him.”

The unspoken name hung in the air, heavy with history and unspoken pain. Him. Jimmy. It had always been him. Lucy felt a wave of nausea. Six years. Six years she’d spent burying him, burying that part of her life, trying to build something new, something stable, here in this quiet corner of Mississippi. And in one week, he’d torn it all down again, unearthed every buried feeling, every doubt. His insistence on a future, his complicated life, his fame, the women… the sheer audacity of it. What did he really want? And why now?

“You’ve overstepped, Jessica,” Lucy said, her voice barely a whisper, but laced with an icy edge that usually got through to even Jessica. “You’re an employee. This is a workplace. What I do or who I see in my personal time is not your concern. And if you continue to make it so, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

Jessica’s expression finally flickered, a subtle shift in her hard facade. She held Lucy’s gaze for a long moment, a silent battle of wills playing out. Then, she let out a slow, deliberate sigh. “Fine. Just saying, you look like hell. And I’d rather you didn’t have a nervous breakdown on my watch. This place almost runs itself, but not quite.” She picked up her magazine again, pointedly opening it. “The reports are on top. I marked the urgent ones with a red star. You’ll need to approve the new order for the rare blues section before noon. And that guy from Memphis called about that Chet Atkins original. Told him you’d be back.”

The abrupt shift back to business was jarring, a typical Jessica maneuver. She’d pushed, she’d probed, she’d left Lucy raw and exposed, and then she’d simply retreated, leaving the emotional wreckage in her wake. It was a tactical retreat, not a surrender. Lucy knew it. Jessica knew it.

Lucy gripped the stack of papers tighter, her knuckles white. She didn't respond, couldn’t. Her mind was a chaotic tangle of Jimmy’s face, the image of his arm around her, the questions about his intent, and the suffocating weight of her own uncertainty. It seemed crazy. All of it. The idea of them, after all this time, after all the silence, after everything.

She turned away from the counter, the jangling bell above the door a distant memory. The quiet hum of the old refrigerator, the scent of vinyl, usually a balm, now felt like an elaborate camouflage. She walked past the rows of carefully curated albums, down the narrow steps to the basement, each footfall heavy, echoing the dull throb in her temples. The air down there was cooler, darker, heavier, the smell of damp earth mixing with aged paper.

Her office was a small, cramped space, overflowing with sheet music, instruments, and more records. She dropped the formidable stack of papers onto her desk, where it landed with a soft thud. Her fingers were trembling. She rummaged through her desk, pulling out an almost empty pack of cigarettes, her last lifeline. With a practiced flick, she lit one, inhaling deeply, letting the harsh smoke fill her lungs, a temporary reprieve from the gnawing anxiety.

She sat down, slumping into her worn office chair.

She took another drag from the cigarette. She was home. Back in MS. Back to work. But home offered no escape. The anxiety hadn’t washed away in the shower, and it certainly wasn’t going to dissipate in the dusty quiet of her basement office. Jessica's words, sharp and cutting, had only carved deeper into the wound. What the heck was going on with her life? And why, after all this time, had Jimmy Page come back? What did he want from her? What was she supposed to do now? The future, stretching out before her, was a vast, terrifying blank.

Chapter Text

The wind, a raw breath off Loch Ness, bit at my cheeks, but I barely felt it. I was at Boleskine House, my sanctuary, my refuge, and lately, my personal crucible of anticipation. The ancient stones of the house loomed behind me, solid and enduring, yet my own thoughts felt as ephemeral as the mist that often clung to the hills. My mind, as it had been for three weeks now, was a revolving door of ‘Lucy.’ Lucy was due to be here tomorrow. Tomorrow. The word tasted like a promise on my tongue, but also a question mark, sharp and unyielding.

I traced a well-worn path through the grounds, my shoes crunching on the gravel, the crunch a counterpoint to the chaotic static in my head. I found myself thinking about the last time we saw each other, three weeks ago in New York City. The memory was vivid, almost painfully so, a technicolor dream sequence that ended abruptly in monochrome.

It had been after the Madison Square Garden show. The roar of the crowd was still buzzing in my ears, the adrenaline a potent intoxicant. The air backstage was thick with sweat and triumph and the particular kind of exhaustion that only comes from leaving every atom of yourself on a stage. And then, there she was. Lucy. Leaning against a doorframe, a quiet smile playing on her lips, her eyes, those incredible, deep pools of blue, finding mine in the chaos. My chest had done that familiar, uncomfortable flip. It had been too long. Far, far too long.

We’d slipped away, somehow, into the waiting limousine that smelled of leather and stale cigarettes and the faint, lingering scent of champagne. The city lights had blurred past the tinted windows, a kaleidoscope of neon and motion, but all I could see was her. We talked, at first, But the undercurrent, the unspoken tension that had always hummed between us, was undeniable. It wasn’t just the past we were tiptoeing around; it was the present, crackling with an electricity only she seemed to ignite in me.

And then, the conversation had shifted. From the surface chatter, we’d plunged. We’d touched on the past, the missteps, the years we’d spent apart, orbiting each other but never quite colliding. And, blessedly, we’d resolved the Frank situation. That had been a weight lifted, a shard of ice melting from my heart. I’d looked at her, truly looked at her, and seen not just the girl I’d known, but the woman she had become – resilient, beautiful, fiercely intelligent.

One thing led to another, as it always did with us. The unspoken became spoken, the tension broke, not in anger, but in a sudden, overwhelming rush of desire. The seats of that limousine, the plush leather and the rocking motion of the car, became our world. It was glorious. Utterly, completely glorious. The kind of sex that wasn’t just physical, but soul-baring, a desperate reconnecting of two halves that had been adrift for too long. Every touch, every kiss, every shuddering breath felt like a promise. A promise of continuance, of a future re-stitched from frayed threads. I remember thinking, in the hazy, post-coital warmth, that this was it. This was us, finally, irrevocably back on track. We'd even talked about the future. Hadn't we?

The memory, so intoxicating just moments ago, curdled. Because the next morning, I woke up alone. The hotel room was silent, the curtains drawn against the intrusive light of a New York dawn. Her side of the bed was cold. I’d blinked, confused, then sat up, the sheets pooling around my waist. No note. No whispered goodbye. Not even a ‘see you in Scotland.’ Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if she had simply evaporated into the thin morning air, leaving behind only the lingering scent of her perfume on my pillow and a gaping void inside me.

The confusion had been immediate, a cold, sharp knife to the gut. It deepened into a gnawing emptiness, a pervasive sense of betrayal that felt all the more brutal because of the intimacy we’d shared just hours before. I really thought things were going well between us. Really. We had discussed the past, we had cleared the air, we had touched on the possibility of a future. Wait. Did we talk about the future? Or was that just my desperate, longing interpretation of a shared, intensely passionate moment? I had a hard time focusing during my interviews with the police and the FBI that morning. Lucy didn't even give me a good luck kiss.

I stopped by the edge of the small, secluded graveyard on the property, my hand rubbing down my face, the stubble scratchy against my palm. The chill of the air seeped into my bones, mirroring the confusion that still clung to me. It made no sense. Why would she leave like that? After everything? After the raw honesty, the shared vulnerability, the sheer physical and emotional explosion of being together again? Had I misread it all?

The thought was a venomous whisper, one I tried to shove down, but it persisted. The fear that it had all been a beautiful, tragic mistake on my part, that I had opened myself up only to be left exposed, clawed at the edges of my composure. I had called her, of course. For days. No answer. I’d convinced myself she was busy, that she needed space, that maybe… maybe she just wasn’t ready to face me again so soon after such intensity. Bullshit. It was bullshit, and I knew it. Lucy wasn’t a coward. If she wanted out, she’d tell me. Wouldn’t she?

The only reason I even knew she was still coming to Scotland was because Frank had answered the phone one time. The conversation had been terse, awkward, and profoundly humiliating on my part. “Is Lucy still coming to Scotland?” I’d mumbled, feeling like an idiot, a jealous lover, a teenager. Frank, bless him, had been surprisingly gracious. “Yes, Jimmy. She’s still planning on it. She is really busy at the moment."

But he had confirmed it. She was coming. And that confirmation, however brief and devoid of further explanation, had been enough to ignite a fragile spark of hope within me. I just hoped, with a fervent ache in my chest, that this trip to Scotland would be good for them. For us. If it wasn’t for Frank’s confirmation, I honestly would have thought that I might never see her again. The thought alone was unbearable.

I continued to walk, observing the scenery of my wild domain. The gnarled trees, bowing under the weight of the years, their branches twisted like ancient dancers. The dark, brooding waters of the loch in the distance, promising secrets and stillness. This place, Boleskine, was my escape, my sanctuary from the ceaseless demands of the road, the screaming crowds, the endless interviews. Here, I could be just Jimmy. And I wanted, more than anything, to be just Jimmy with Lucy.

I almost wondered what life would be like if Lucy were to live with me here at Boleskine. I pictured her, curled up by the roaring fire in the great hall, a book in her hand, the lamplight glancing off her hair. I imagined us walking these grounds together, sharing secrets amidst the ancient stones, the wind picking up the words and carrying them out over the loch. Waking up next to her, not in a sterile hotel room, but in my own bed, the morning light filtering through the heavy curtains, her breath soft against my neck.

I chuckled, a short, humorless sound that got lost in the wind. What was I doing to myself? Torture. Pure, unadulterated torture. To dream of something so exquisite, so perfect, when the reality was a three-week-old wound of confusion and abandonment. My mind, ever the sadist, painted the picture in vivid detail, laying bare my deepest desires. But even as I tried to dismiss it as a self-inflicted torment, the wish persisted, stubborn and resilient. I did wish for it to come true. I wished for it with every fiber of my being. More than anything, I think. More than another platinum album, more than the roar of a hundred thousand fans.

The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in fiery oranges and deep purples. A chill, deeper than before, snaked through the air, reminding me that the day was fading, and tomorrow, with all its hopes and anxieties, was drawing ever closer.

I turned back towards the house, its silhouette a familiar comfort against the darkening sky. There was work to be done. Preparations. Practical things to distract me from the churn in my gut. I headed back to the house to make sure everything was ready for Lucy’s arrival, going from room to room, a restless spirit in my own fortress.

The great hall was first. I ran my hand over the dark, polished wood of the long table, imagining it set, not just with a solitary meal for me, but with two places. A bottle of her favourite red wine – I’d made sure it was stocked. The fire, a crucial element in a Scottish house, needed to be laid, ready to roar to life with a single match. I knelt, carefully arranging the kindling and logs, the scent of woodsmoke and dried leaves filling my nostrils. This fire would chase away the chill, both from the room and, perhaps, from her heart, if indeed there was any chill directed at me.

I moved into the drawing-room, checking the lamps, plumping cushions on the worn leather sofas. I even opened the grand piano, running my fingers over the keys, a silent arpeggio hanging in the air. Would she play? She used to, sometimes. A fleeting smile touched my lips at the memory.

Upstairs, the master bedroom. My bedroom. I stood in the doorway, suddenly hesitant. This was where she would sleep. Or… where we would sleep. The freshly laundered sheets, crisp and white, gleamed in the fading light. I’d picked out the thickest blankets, knowing how the Scottish nights could be.

My gaze drifted to the bathroom. Fresh towels. Her favourite soap, a subtle jasmine scent. I’d bought it specially, remembering a casual comment she’d made years ago. Little details. Little offerings. Would she notice? Would she care? Or would they just feel like an attempt to buy her affection, to manipulate her into staying? The thought brought a fresh wave of self-doubt.

I wandered into the guest room next, almost automatically, checking it, too. Just in case. My logical mind, which had been in a state of self-imposed exile for the past three weeks, nudged me. What if she wants her own space? What if she’s not ready to… to share a bed yet? The very idea twisted my gut. But I had to be prepared for anything. This was Lucy. She was unpredictable, beautiful, and sometimes utterly inscrutable.

As I walked back through the quiet halls, the house felt enormous, echoing with my unspoken questions. I tried to focus on the practicalities, on the logistics of her arrival. Picking her up from Inverness airport. The drive back, just the two of us, in the car. What would we talk about? Would the silence be comfortable, or would it be thick with unspoken resentments and confusions?

My mind raced, running through scenarios like a frantic film reel. Would she be angry? Cold? Distant? Or would she be the Lucy who had melted into me in that limo, the one who had truly, genuinely seemed to be reconnecting? I wanted to believe in the latter. I needed to believe in the latter. But the memory of that empty, cold bed in New York was a persistent phantom, a chilling reminder of her enigmatic departure.

I stopped in the library, the scent of old books and dust a comforting presence. I absently ran my hand over the spines, my fingers lingering on a volume of Aleister Crowley. Irony. I was standing in the house of the Great Beast, a place of power and mystery, and here I was, reduced to a lovesick fool, utterly powerless over the woman I wanted.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. This wasn’t just about sex, or even the intense connection we shared. It was about something deeper. Lucy brought a sense of groundedness to my chaotic life, a quiet understanding that few others possessed. She saw past the rock star, past the myth. She saw me. And I, in turn, saw her, truly saw her, beneath the layers she presented to the world.

Tomorrow. The word echoed in the quiet house, no longer just a promise or a question, but a crucible. The next 24 hours would determine so much. I could only hope that the ancient, mystical energy of Boleskine House, or perhaps just the sheer, overwhelming force of my own longing, would be enough to guide us back to where we needed to be. I wanted her to stay. I wanted her to unpack her bags and never leave. The torture of that particular fantasy was exquisite, and I allowed myself to indulge it, just for a moment, before the cold reality of my uncertainty snapped me back.

I had done all I could. The house was ready. My heart, however, was a tangled mess of hope and fear, poised on the precipice of tomorrow. Let it be good, I thought, looking out the window at the deepening twilight. Let it be good for us. Please.

_____________________

The recycled air of the cabin had been a stale, nauseating companion for what felt like an eternity. My stomach still churned with the residual turbulence, a queasy reminder that even solid ground couldn’t immediately banish the ghost of a transatlantic flight. I’d never been a fan of flying, not even when the destination promised something exciting. And this time, the destination, or rather, the company at the destination, was a whole different kind of turbulence.

Finally off the plane, I shuffled along with the stream of tired passengers, my gaze fixed on the baggage claim carousel. Three weeks. Three weeks since I’d slipped out of that hotel bed in NYC, leaving Jimmy there, tangled in the sheets, a silent apology for the abrupt departure echoing in the quiet room. God, the limo. The windows fogged with our breath and the heat of our desperate, impulsive connection. It had been reckless, exhilarating, and utterly undeniable. A firestorm in a leather-seated box, a desperate, passionate goodbye I hadn't known I needed until it was over.

What was there to say after something like that? After something so raw, so unplanned, so… Jimmy. I hadn’t known how to process it, much less how to articulate it. So I’d done what I always did when confronted with overwhelming emotion: I’d fled. back home, back to my somewhat ordered life, back to anything that wasn’t the chaotic, magnetic pull of Jimmy Page.

I knew, though, that Frank, my ever-efficient and sometimes-too-involved assistant, had been in communication with Jimmy. Frank was privy to everything – my schedule, my moods, and my destination. He’d even been the one to confirm my flight details to Jimmy, a detail that prickled at my already frayed nerves. My original plan, meticulously arranged through Frank, had been to stay in a quaint little boutique hotel on the outskirts of Inverness. A neutral zone. A place where I could collect myself, figure things out, and then, maybe, arrange to meet Jimmy. But that booking, inexplicably, had been “cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances.” And then Frank, with a tone that bordered on apologetic certainty, had informed me that Jimmy had offered his place. For the entire duration of my trip.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cool Scottish air filtering into the terminal. Staying with Jimmy. After three weeks of ghosting him. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. A part of me, the part that hated confrontation, wanted to scream. Another part, the part that still remembered the warmth of his hand in mine, felt a strange flutter. I had a nagging suspicion that there had been some form of clandestine communication, a carefully orchestrated deception between Frank and Jimmy. Maybe even a well-intentioned one, but deception nonetheless. I pushed the thought away, offering an inward shrug. It was done.

My suitcase finally trundled into view, a sturdy black rectangle amidst a sea of identical luggage. I grabbed it, hoisting my carry-on onto my shoulder, and navigated my way towards the exit. The automatic doors hissed open, releasing me into a gust of crisp Scottish air, shockingly clean after the stuffiness of the plane. And then I saw him.

My breath hitched. He looked… good. Better than good. His dark curls, a beautiful mess, were tousled by the gentle breeze, catching the pale sunlight. He was wearing a thick, cable-knit cardigan the colour of heather and a pair of faded jeans that hugged him in all the right places. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, but his posture was expectant, his gaze scanning the exiting crowd. He spotted me, and a bright, familiar smile broke across his face. It was instantaneous, radiating warmth, a smile so contagious I felt my own lips curving upwards without conscious thought.

My legs, which had felt like lead moments before, propelled me forward. I walked towards him, a strange blend of trepidation and longing swirling inside me. As I neared, his arms opened, an unspoken invitation. I let go of my bags with a soft thud, abandoning them on the pavement, and allowed myself to be enveloped.

Gosh, he smelled good. A clean, earthy scent, mixed with something uniquely Jimmy – a hint of his favourite cologne, perhaps, or just his inherent warmth. He always was the best hugger. My face was pressed against his chest, and I could hear the rapid thrum of his heart, a frantic drumbeat that I knew was mirroring my own. We stayed like that for a long moment, the world around us fading, until the chill of the air and the awareness of other people forced us apart. He pulled away slightly, his hands still on my shoulders, his thumb stroking my arm. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing my forehead, a soft, tender kiss that sent a fresh wave of heat through me.

“Welcome to Scotland, Luce,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me.

"Hey, Jimmy," I managed, my voice a little breathless, a little shaky. My eyes drifted to my abandoned luggage. "Unless you're planning on carrying these yourself, we should probably get them."

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound. "Right. Priorities." He scooped up my suitcase with ease, then reached for my carry-on. "The car's just over here."

We made our way to a dusty, dark green Land Rover, a vehicle that looked as if it had seen many adventures. Jimmy tossed my bags into the back, then opened the passenger door for me. As I settled into the worn leather seat, circled the hood and settled into the driver’s seat. He adjusted the mirror, and I couldn't help but giggle. It was a nervous, slightly hysterical sound, but it was honest.

“I just hope this ride is a lot smoother than the one six years ago,” I said, remembering with a wince the terrifying afternoon I’d tried to teach him to drive an old stick-shift. It had involved more stalling, lurching, and near-misses than I cared to recall.

Jimmy chuckled, a deep, resonant sound, and gave me a mischievous look. “No promises, Luce. I never did get my license.”

The giggle died in my throat. My eyes widened, and I stared at him, my jaw probably somewhere around my knees. He couldn’t be serious. He was just driving around illegally? In a country he hadn’t lived in for years? Was I actually going to survive this trip? The question was rhetorical, but my mind was already racing, cataloguing potential traffic violations, imaginary sirens wailing.

My mouth fell open. "You what?" I stared at him, my mind scrambling to process the information. My voice rose with a mix of disbelief and growing panic. "Are you actually trying to get us killed, James Patrick Page?"

He only laughed, a deep, unrepentant sound, and then, with a dramatic peel of tires, he shot out of the airport car park. My head snapped back against the headrest. So much for a smooth ride. The building receded behind us, replaced almost instantly by the breathtaking, sprawling landscape of Inverness. Rolling green hills carpeted with heather stretched out to the horizon, dotted with ancient, gnarled trees and the occasional flock of sheep. A grey, brooding sky hung low, pregnant with the promise of rain, yet it only added to the wild, untamed beauty.

My initial panic over his lack of license was momentarily eclipsed by the sheer spectacle of it all. It was so vastly different from the concrete canyons and endless yellow cabs of New York or the dusty roads back home. Here, the air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of damp earth and something indefinably wild. My shoulders, which had been hunched tight around my ears for weeks, began to relax almost imperceptibly.

“So,” I said, turning to him, my voice still a little breathless, “you’re basically a fugitive from the Scottish Department of Motor Vehicles?”

He grinned, his eyes fixed on the road, but I could feel the warmth of his smile. “Something like that. Call it… a calculated risk. For you.”

“For me?” I scoffed, though a small, traitorous part of me felt a blush creep up my neck. “You could have gotten a taxi, Jimmy.”

“And miss this grand reunion?” He glanced at me, his eyes sparkling with an unreadable mix of amusement and something deeper. “Besides, I’m perfectly capable. Learned from the best, didn’t I, even if my ‘instructor’ did abandon me.”

That last part hit me, a subtle jab, delivered with a playful tone but leaving a faint sting. He was referencing that infamous driving lesson, but the subtext was clear: you abandoned me. It was the first direct acknowledgement of the elephant in the car, and it hung in the air, thick and heavy despite the open road ahead.

I turned my gaze back to the passing scenery, admiring a distant loch shimmering under the overcast sky. “It’s beautiful here, Jimmy,” I deflected, buying myself time. My mind raced, trying to formulate an answer for why I’d left. An answer that felt both honest and not utterly devastating.

“It is,” he agreed, his voice thoughtful. “I’d forgotten how much I missed it.”

The drive was long, the conversation meandering between comfortable silences and sudden bursts of shared memories. As we ventured deeper into the Highlands, the landscape grew wilder, more remote. The road narrowed, winding through ancient Caledonian forests, past isolated crofts and shimmering stretches of water. It was beautiful, hauntingly so, and I could feel the city-grit starting to loosen its hold on me.

"So, Boleskine House," I finally ventured, picking at a loose thread on my jeans.

He sighed, a soft expulsion of air. “Yeah. Frank called. Said there’d been some ‘unforeseen complication with the booking system.’ Very official. He sounded quite distressed, actually.”

“Distressed?” My eyebrow arched. Frank was rarely distressed. Annoyed, perhaps. Exasperated, certainly. But distressed? That was a new one. “And you just jumped at the chance to have me move in?”

“Well, you need somewhere to stay, Luce,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He didn’t meet my gaze as he said it, though, and I caught the tell-tale slight flush on his cheeks. “Besides, I had already invited you to stay back in New York, Remember? Plus it’s not exactly a sprawling mansion, but it’s got a spare room. And a working kettle.”

“A spare room,” I repeated slowly, letting the words roll around my tongue.

He laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that cut through my anxieties. “Relax, Luce. It’s a proper cottage. A few bedrooms. You won’t have to sleep on the sofa, unless you really want to. Though it is a rather comfortable sofa.”

He glanced at me, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "And it's… an interesting place."

"Interesting how?" I asked, a mix of apprehension and curiosity. I knew his fascination with the occult, with Aleister Crowley. Boleskine House had been Crowley’s former residence. I’d had vague, unsettling images in my head, but nothing concrete.

He just shrugged, his smile widening. "You'll see. It has a certain… atmosphere."

He turned off the main road, navigating a narrow track that wound through a cluster of trees. After a few more twists and turns, we emerged into a small clearing. And there it was.

A picture-perfect stone cottage, nestled amongst a small grove of birch trees. Its walls were a soft, muted grey, with deep-set windows framed by climbing roses. A wisp of smoke curled from its chimney, despite the mild weather, suggesting a welcoming, lived-in warmth. There was a small, well-tended garden, overflowing with late-summer blooms, and a rustic wooden bench tucked under an old oak tree. It looked like something out of a fairytale, impossibly charming and utterly unlike anything I’d expected Jimmy to live in.

“Wow,” I breathed, staring.

Jimmy pulled the Land Rover to a stop, the engine sighing into silence. The only sounds were the distant bleating of sheep and the gentle lapping of the loch against the shore. A chill, both from the air and from a sudden realization, ran down my spine. This wasn't just a place to sleep. This was a statement. A proposition.

He turned off the ignition, plunging us into a deeper twilight. The air grew heavy with unspoken questions, with the weight of three weeks of silence, with the lingering heat of a tryst that had set us both ablaze.

He looked at me, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. "We're here, Luce."

I took a deep breath, the scent of damp earth and something distinctly ancient filling my lungs. The apprehension was still there, a tight knot in my gut, but so was something else. A spark. A dangerous, irresistible curiosity. There was no going back now. My hotel, my escape route, was gone. I was here, with Jimmy, in his bizarre, beautiful, possibly haunted home. The deception, if it was one, had worked. And I wasn't entirely sure I regretted it. "Right," I said, forcing a casualness I didn't feel. "Let's see this... atmosphere."

He got out, retrieved my bags, and led the way to the sturdy wooden door. The air here was even fresher, laced with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. As he fumbled with a large, ornate iron key, I noticed the single potted heather plant by the door, its purple blooms a vibrant splash against the grey stone.

The interior of the home was just as charming as its exterior. Low ceilings with exposed wooden beams, a large stone fireplace dominating one wall, and worn but comfortable-looking furniture draped with soft, colourful throws. Bookshelves overflowed with titles, an eclectic mix that I recognised some.

He caught my gaze, and a slow, lopsided smile broke through the intensity, a smile that had always had the power to disarm me. “Come on, let’s get you settled. I figured you'd prefer your own space tonight, given the journey.”

He didn't need to specify. The unspoken hung heavy between us – the simmering, unresolved tension that had been a constant companion since our paths had crossed again. A tension pulled taut by six years of absence and a history that was far from simple. He knew, and I knew, that the last thing either of us needed after such a long estrangement was to tempt fate by sharing a bed on the very first night. Even if, as my own body silently acknowledged, the temptation was very much there.

We climbed a wide, creaking staircase, the wood groaning beneath our combined weight. The banister was carved with serpentine forms, their scales worn smooth by countless hands. My guest bedroom was at the end of a long, narrow corridor, its windows offering a captivating view of the darkening loch. The room itself was smaller than I’d anticipated, but cozy, with a four-poster bed draped in heavy, dark fabrics, and a fireplace where unlit logs lay waiting. A small wooden desk sat against one wall, beside an armchair draped with a tartan blanket. On the bedside table, a small vase held a sprig of purple heather. And next to it, a worn copy of Wuthering Heights, one of my comfort reads, lay open face down.

A lump formed in my throat. He’d thought of everything. Or rather, he’d remembered everything.

“Here we are,” Jimmy said, setting my bags down. “The guest of honour’s suite.” He gave a small bow, a playful glint in his eyes. “Get settled. I thought we’d just have a quiet night in tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll show you around, proper.”

I nodded, the offer of a restful evening sounding like paradise. “A night in sounds perfect, Jimmy. Thank you.” My voice was a little rough with fatigue.

He lingered for a moment, his gaze sweeping over me, as if searching for something. “Anything you need, just shout.” Then, with a nod, he was gone, leaving me to the silence of the room, punctuated only by the distant whispers of the house itself.

I unzipped my largest suitcase, pulling out a few essentials and my toiletries. A quick splash of cold water on my face, and a brush through my hair, did little to erase the weariness etched into my bones, but it was enough to feel presentable. Before heading back downstairs, I allowed my curiosity a brief leash. I stepped into the hallway, peering at the strange murals and dark tapestries I’d glimpsed on the way up. One particular painting caught my eye: a grotesque, horned figure, half-man, half-beast, seemed to writhe and contort on the canvas, its eyes following me with unnerving intensity. I shivered, despite myself, and hastened my steps towards the distant murmur of activity – the promise of warmth and companionship.

The aroma of frying onions and garlic led me like a homing beacon to the kitchen. It was a large, utilitarian space, surprisingly modern in some aspects, yet still retaining a rustic charm. Jimmy stood at a large butcher block, his back to me, rhythmically chopping vegetables with an almost surgical precision. The sight was so incongruous with my rock star image of him, it almost made me laugh.

“Need a hand?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He turned, a broad smile spreading across his face, his eyes lighting up. “Lucy! Perfect timing. Come in, come in. I was just getting started.” He gestured with the knife. “You can get on with these carrots and onions while I sort out the mince.”

I walked over, took the knife he offered, and started methodically slicing the orange rounds. “What exactly are we making?” I asked, a hint of playful suspicion in my tone.

“Cottage pie,” he replied, a touch of pride in his voice.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Cottage pie? Jimmy, your cooking skills must have undergone a rather dramatic improvement since last time I was in a kitchen with you. Or you’re incredibly brave.”

He laughed, a rich, full sound that filled the kitchen. “A little bit of both, I think. Necessity, the mother of invention, and all that.” He turned back to the task of browning the mince, the sizzle and pop filling the comfortable silence between us.

We cooked together, a practiced rhythm quickly falling into place despite the years. The conversation flowed easily, a comfortable mix of catching up, shared anecdotes, and gentle teasing. A bottle of red wine, already uncorked, sat on the counter, and we both savoured its warmth as the rich aroma of the cottage pie filling began to permeate the kitchen.

As the pie, golden and bubbling, waited its turn for the oven, Jimmy leaned back against the counter, swirling the wine in his glass. “So, you’re wondering about the house, aren’t you?” he began, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone.

I looked at him, surprised he’d read my mind so easily. “Everything about it.”

“Boleskine,” he said, his gaze distant, as if seeing beyond the stone walls. “It called to me. You know my… fascination with Aleister Crowley.”

I did. His obsession with the infamous occultist was a part of his mystique. He had been an avid and obsessive buyer of Crowley artifacts for years.

“When the opportunity came to purchase this place, I just… jumped on it. It had been left to rot, really. Needed extensive repairs, a lot of love.” He paused, taking a slow sip of wine. “But I poured myself into it. Every stone, every plank, every brushstroke on those murals you saw. It’s my sanctuary. My… temple, in a way.” His eyes, when they met mine, held a strange, fervent light. “Crowley himself lived here, you know. Performed his rituals. Sought to summon his demons.”

A shiver, this time not from cold, went through me. “Which brings me to the rumours. Is it true? Is it haunted?” I asked, my voice a little softer than I intended.

Jimmy chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Ah, well, you’ll find that out during your stay here, won’t you, Lucy?” He smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes that did little to soothe my rising apprehension. “But I have noticed some interesting occurrences. Things moving, odd sounds, a presence, perhaps. Nothing overtly menacing, just… a feeling. As if the house itself has a spirit.”

By the time he finished talking about Boleskine’s dark history and his own spiritual connection to it, the pie was calling. I retrieved plates and silverware from a nearby cupboard that Jimmy pointed to, setting the heavy wooden table in a small dining nook off the kitchen. A new bottle of wine was opened, its ruby liquid catching the dim light.

The cottage pie, much to my surprise and Jimmy’s evident pride, was rather decent. Hearty and warming, it hit exactly the right spot after the long journey and the chill of the Scottish evening. The wine, paired beautifully, enhancing the earthy flavours of the meal. The conversation drifted to lighter topics, the familiar comfort of old friends sharing a meal.

“That was superb, Jimmy,” I said, leaning back as I finished my last bite, feeling a pleasant warmth spread through me. Scotland was chillier than I’d anticipated, and the food had been a welcome antidote.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” he replied, a contented smile on his face. “Now, would you like that tour tonight? I could show you some of the… more interesting nooks and crannies.”

I let out a long, unbidden yawn, my eyelids heavy. “Oh, Jimmy, as tempting as that sounds, I think I’ve reached my limit. My body clock is utterly bewildered.”

He chuckled, understanding. “Right, the tour can definitely wait until tomorrow then. You look like you’re ready to fall asleep standing up.”

“Just a bath,” I confessed, pushing myself up from the table. “And then a very long sleep.”

“Good night, Lucy,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer than necessary.

“Good night, Jimmy.”

I walked up the creaking stairs, the house groaning softly around me, each step a protest against my presence. The same dark murals seemed to watch me, their details even more obscure in the encroaching shadows. My guest room was a haven of sorts, a patch of familiar comfort in the ancient, foreign house. I closed the door behind me, the heavy wood muffling the sounds of the house.

I undressed quickly, my travel-worn clothes discarded in a pile, and made my way to the bathroom, a small en-suite attached to the room. The vintage claw-foot tub looked inviting, promising warmth and relaxation. I reached for the faucet, a gleaming brass contraption, and turned it. Nothing. I tried again, twisting it harder. Still nothing. I tried the other handle. A trickle, then silence. It seemed I couldn’t figure out the antiquated plumbing. How embarrassing.

Sighing, I wrapped myself in the thick, fluffy bathrobe I’d found hanging on the back of the door. There was only one person to ask. His room was just down the hall, a few doors past mine. I padded softly along the ancient floorboards, the chill of the air raising goosebumps on my arms.

When I reached his door, I hesitated, my hand raised to knock. Before my knuckles could make contact, I heard his voice, muffled but clear. “Come in, Lucy.”

He must have heard me approaching. A blush crept up my neck. I pushed the door open, stepping inside. His room was larger than mine, more opulent, filled with books and instruments and the distinct scent of patchouli and something uniquely Jimmy. He was propped up against a pile of pillows on his enormous bed, a thick, leather-bound book open in his hands, lamplight casting long shadows across his face.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I began, feeling suddenly very awkward, very exposed in just the bathrobe. “It’s just… I can’t seem to work the bath. The faucet… it’s a bit beyond me, I’m afraid.”

He put his book down, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He already knew, of course. “Ah, the old pipes. A bit temperamental. Come on, I’ll show you.” He rose from the bed, his movements fluid and graceful, and followed me back to my room.

The bathroom felt smaller with both of us in it. The air was already charged between us, a low hum of unspoken desires, a tension that had been building for weeks, years even. He knelt beside the tub, his fingers deft on the brass faucet. A small twist, a gentle pull, and with a groan, the pipes came to life, a steady stream of hot water gushing forth.

“There you go,” he said, looking up at me, his eyes dark and intense. “Sometimes they just need a bit of coaxing.”

“Thank you,” I managed, my voice a little breathless. I pulled the bathrobe tighter around me, acutely aware of the warmth of the room, the rising steam from the bath, and how utterly naked I was beneath the thin fabric. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of our shared history and the undeniable, reawakened chemistry between us.

He stood, towering over me for a moment, his gaze unwavering. “Anything else?” His voice was a low murmur, a question that held more than one meaning.

I shook my head, my throat suddenly dry. “No. No, I think I’ll be fine now.”

He nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, then turned and left, the closing of the door a soft thud against the silence.

I wasted no time. The robes fell to the floor, and I sank into the steaming water, a sigh of pure relief escaping my lips. The warmth was a blissful antidote to the cold outside and the chill that had lingered in my bones. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. The air was heavy with the rich, comforting scent of jasmine and gardenia bath salts. I slid further down, letting the water embrace me completely, my muscles unraveling their knots, my mind finally quieting.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been there, adrift in the soothing oblivion of the bath, when it happened.

A touch.

Soft, tentative, yet undeniably present. A hand, cool at first, then warming, slid between my wet knees, which were just breaking the surface of the water. My eyes were still closed, my body in a state of deep relaxation, almost a trance. The hand caressed, moving slowly upwards, along my inner thigh, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver through me – not of fear, not yet, but of a strange, intoxicating surprise.

It continued, moving further, slipping beneath the water, the sensation now both intimate and disorienting. A stroke, slow and deliberate, under the surface, exploring, testing. I felt stuck, almost paralyzed, as if I couldn’t open my eyes or move, couldn’t even summon the will to question what was happening. But a strange, burgeoning desire, an almost primal response, was unfurling within me. The touch was exquisite, illicit, and it made me want more. My legs, as if of their own accord, parted slightly, inviting the mysterious hand to move closer to my core, to the very centre of my being.

Just as the sensation intensified, just as my breath hitched and my body arched almost imperceptibly, a loud thump echoed through the house. It was a jarring sound, a sharp crack against the ancient silence, like something heavy had fallen further down the hall, or perhaps directly above me.

My eyes snapped open. I sat bolt upright in the tub, heart hammering against my ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm in my chest. The trance, or whatever it had been, shattered instantly. My gaze darted around the small bathroom, searching, scrutinizing every shadow, every corner. Empty. Utterly, completely empty.

Where was the person? Was this house truly haunted? Had I just been… groped by a ghost? The thought was absurd, terrifying, and strangely, horrifyingly exhilarating all at once. My skin, still tingling from the phantom touch, felt suddenly cold, despite the hot water.

I scrambled out of the tub, dripping water onto the faded floor tiles, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. Grabbing a towel, I dried myself off with frantic, almost violent motions. I just wanted to be in bed, under the covers, safe from whatever strange entity lurked in the shadows of Boleskine House.

Perhaps it was all just an illusion, a trick of an overtired mind, the residue of a vivid dream blurring into reality. That had to be the answer. Exhaustion, the unfamiliar surroundings, Jimmy’s tales of Crowley and hauntings… it had all conspired to create such a potent fantasy. Yes, that had to be it.

Wrapped in a plush towel, she tiptoed back to the guest room, the cold floorboards sending shivers down her spine. She quickly donned her nightgown, the cotton clinging to her damp skin As I slipped into the cool, crisp sheets of the four-poster bed and reached to turn off the lamp, I took a deep, shuddering breath. The silence of the room settled around me, but it was no longer comforting. It felt watchful, pregnant with unseen presence. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for whatever this mysterious, ancient house, and my time here in Scotland, had in store.

Chapter Text

The first rays of the morning sun, though weak and watery through the thick Scottish clouds, still managed to pierce the heavy curtains of Lucy's bedroom at Boleskine House. She stirred, a long, languid stretch that ended with a sigh. Semi-refreshed was the best she could describe it. The exhaustion from yesterday's long journey still clung to her, a phantom weight in her limbs, but it was something else that truly occupied her mind.

Had it been real? The question had been looping in her head since the moment she'd stepped out of that claw-footed bathtub last night. The warmth of the water, the steam rising, the quiet of the ancient house… and then that distinct, cool pressure on her inner thigh. A hand. She was sure of it. Was she? A shiver traced its way down her spine despite the warmth of her duvet. A ghost? Here, in this infamous house, a place steeped in the occult and dark legends? Or had it simply been the accumulated stress, the strange new environment, her overactive imagination playing tricks on her in the dim light? She’d convinced herself it was the latter, blaming the fatigue, but a persistent prickle of doubt remained, a tiny, unsettling seed.

With a mental shake, Lucy pushed the thought aside. She had a day of Scottish exploration ahead, a day with Jimmy Page, the man who owned this magnificent, eerie place. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet finding the cool wood floor. After a moment of indecision, she pulled on a pair of comfortable, sturdy jeans, a thick wool jumper, and her hiking boots. Practicality over style, especially with the promise of hills and lochs.

She made her way downstairs, the old house groaning and settling around her. The kitchen, with its rustic charm, was a welcome sight. She opened cupboards, searching reflexively for the familiar scent of coffee. Nothing. She rummaged a bit more, her brow furrowing. "No coffee," she muttered to herself, a small, disappointed sigh escaping her lips. "Well, tea it is, then." She located the kettle, a sturdy, dark iron affair, and set it on the stove, the flame hissing as it ignited beneath.

Just as the water began to hum, a resonant voice broke the morning stillness. "Good morning, Lucy."

She turned, a slight jump in her chest. Jimmy stood in the doorway, a vision in a silk robe open just enough to reveal a glimpse of his chest hair. His dark hair was tousled, his eyes, usually so intense, held a softened, sleepy look. He offered a small, charming smile. "Sleep well?" he asked, his voice a low, warm rumble that seemed to fill the surprisingly large kitchen.

Lucy felt an involuntary blush rise to her cheeks. She found herself smiling back, a little wider than she intended. "Good morning, Jimmy. I..." She paused, her gaze flicking away, then back to him. The question about last night's encounter hung in the air, a whisper in her mind. Should she tell him? He was the owner after all, intimately familiar with the house's shadowed history. But what if he thought her ridiculous, or worse, unhinged? Still, the image of that cold touch was so vivid.

She took a deep breath. "I slept… passably," she began, a small, wry laugh escaping her. "Actually, something rather odd happened last night. In the bath." She saw his eyebrows lift, a hint of curiosity sparking in his eyes. "I know this sounds utterly ridiculous," she hurried on, "but I felt… a hand. On my thigh. While I was in the tub." She watched his face, trying to gauge his reaction. He was listening intently, a slight frown now creasing his brow. "Of course," she quickly added, "I'm sure it was just the sheer exhaustion from all the travel. My imagination playing tricks on me in a strange, old house." She offered him a hopeful, slightly embarrassed smile, hoping he'd buy her convenient explanation.

Jimmy's peculiar look didn't quite dissipate. It was unreadable, a mixture of something she couldn't quite decipher – a flicker of amusement, perhaps, or something deeper, more knowing. He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on her. The kettle began to whistle, a shrill protest that broke the tense quiet.

He finally chuckled, a low, rich sound. "Ah, the old house getting to you already, is it?" he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking towards her, his movements fluid and graceful. "Yes, travel can play havoc with the senses. And Boleskine does have a… particular atmosphere, especially when you're not used to it. I'm sure it was just your mind trying to reconcile a new place with an old exhaustion." He reached past her, turning off the gas under the kettle, his hand brushing lightly against her arm. A warmth, very different from the spectral cold she’d felt last night, spread through her.

As he said this, his eyes met hers, holding them for a beat too long, a silent current passing between them. Then, as he turned to retrieve two mugs from a nearby shelf, he mumbled under his breath, almost imperceptibly, "Though I wish it had been me caressing your skin in the bath, Lucy." The words were so soft, so quickly spoken, she wasn't entirely sure she’d heard them over the residual hiss of the cooling kettle. Had she imagined that too? Her heart gave a sudden, surprised lurch.

He poured the steaming water into the mugs, placing a teabag in each. "So, tea it is, then?" he asked, his voice back to its normal, charming pitch, giving no hint of his whispered thought.

"Tea is perfect," Lucy managed, her voice a little breathy. She sat down at the large, worn kitchen table, pulling out a chair for him.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping their tea. The gentle clinking of their mugs against the table, the soft glow of the morning light through the window, the rustic charm of the kitchen – it was surprisingly domestic, a stark contrast to the rock-star persona she knew from photographs and albums.

"Well," Jimmy said, breaking the silence, "seeing as you're settling in, I thought perhaps I could give you a proper tour of Boleskine this morning. Get you acquainted with its… quirks. Then we can have some breakfast, and after that, we can head out. Loch Ness awaits, doesn't it?" He leaned forward, a playful glint in his eyes.

Lucy's face lit up. "Oh, I'd love that, Jimmy! A tour sounds incredible. and Loch Ness! That's exactly what I came for." Her genuine excitement was palpable, momentarily pushing away the lingering unease of the "ghost" and the subtle, intoxicating hint of his unintended confession.

"Excellent," he said, rising from the table. "Finish your tea, and then we'll embark on our grand exploration of Boleskine's past and present."

He led her through the house, his voice a captivating narrative that brought the old stones to life. Jimmy was not just a rock star; he was a passionate historian and a dedicated preserver of this unique property. He spoke of Aleister Crowley, Boleskine's most infamous resident, with a blend of respect for his intellect and a detached fascination for his occult practices.

"Crowley was a complex figure," Jimmy explained, standing in what had once been Crowley's study, a room with a surprisingly bright window overlooking the loch. "He performed many rituals here, in his attempts to summon spirits. Some say he wasn't entirely successful in banishing them when he left." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. Lucy shivered despite herself, a frisson of excitement mixed with a healthy dose of apprehension. "He believed this house was a powerful focal point, a 'great gate' for spiritual energies."

Jimmy then shifted to the house's more recent history. "During World War II, the house was occupied by various people, mostly for practical purposes. It saw some neglect then, as did many grand old estates. When I bought it," he gestured broadly, "it was quite a state. Overgrown, water damage, the works. It's been a labour of love, bringing it back. Clearing the land, restoring the structure, trying to honour its past while making it a livable space." His voice was warm, filled with a deep affection for the house.

Lucy was utterly enthralled. She loved history, the tangible connections to the past, and here she was, standing in a house that brimmed with it. She listened to every word, her eyes wide, asking questions about the restoration process, about the materials, about the stories he'd gathered. It was clear that Boleskine was more than just a property to him; it was a museum, a challenge, a sanctuary.

Finally, they stood outside her bedroom door. "And this, of course, is your domain for now," Jimmy said with a polite bow and a mischievous glint. "Take your time, get ready for our Loch Ness adventure. I'll head back to the kitchen and get started on breakfast proper. Something warm and fortifying for a day of exploring."

"Thank you, Jimmy," Lucy smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment. Her heart was beating a little faster. The house, with all its history and mystery, was captivating, but Jimmy himself was even more so. His passion, his charm, the subtle undertone of flirtation – it was all weaving a spell around her.

When she entered the kitchen again, the scent of sizzling sausage and fresh toast filled the air. Jimmy was at the counter, carefully placing golden-brown toast onto a plate. He wore a simple, dark jumper now, his hair still slightly dishevelled, but he looked completely at ease, domestic almost.

"Perfect timing," he announced, turning with a plate laden with toast, eggs, and sausage. "Fuel for the intrepid explorer."

They sat down at the table, a comfortable silence interspersed with easy conversation. They talked about Loch Ness, the local legends, the breathtaking mountains that surrounded them. Lucy spoke of her previous hiking trips, her love for the raw beauty of the wilderness.

Jimmy leaned back in his chair, a slight hesitance in his posture. "I must admit, I'm not much of a seasoned hiker myself. More of a… 'scenic stroll where a car can still reach me' kind of fellow." He grinned. "But, for you, Lucy, I wouldn't mind venturing a little further off the beaten path." The light flirtation was there again, a thread of warmth between his words, a soft invitation in his eyes that made Lucy’s heart flutter just a fraction.

"Oh, Jimmy," she chuckled, a blush rising on her cheeks. "You make it sound like I'm dragging you up Everest. It'll be a gentle stroll, I promise. Plus I don't want you to feel obligated to accompany me everyday, I am perfectly capable on my own."

After breakfast, they headed out of the house. The cool, crisp air immediately invigorated Lucy. He led her first around the immediate vicinity of the house, pointing out architectural details, the thick, weathered stone walls that had stood for centuries. "It's got a certain… presence, wouldn't you say?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a more reflective tone. Lucy nodded, feeling the weight of history in the very stones beneath her fingertips as she traced a pattern on the wall.

They walked along a path that wound through sparse trees, their branches skeletal against the grey sky. The ground was uneven, a mix of grass and exposed roots, and Lucy found herself occasionally needing to steady herself. Jimmy was attentive, offering a hand whenever the path proved particularly tricky, his touch light but firm. Jimmy led her through the grounds, explaining the different trees and plants, pointing out paths he’d cleared.

"This way to the old cemetery," he announced, turning down a narrow, overgrown lane. The air here felt different, a hush descending, as if the very trees held their breath. They pushed through a tangle of brambles and thorny bushes, revealing a small, ancient burial ground. Weather-beaten headstones, some leaning precariously, others half-swallowed by moss and ivy, emerged from the tall grass. Many were so old their inscriptions were completely illegible, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. A few, more recent, bore names and dates, but even these seemed to belong to another era.

Lucy walked slowly among them, a sense of quiet reverence settling over her. She imagined the lives lived and lost in this remote corner of Scotland, the stories untold, the joys and sorrows that had played out on these very lands. "It's… beautiful, in a somber way," she whispered, tracing a finger over a Celtic cross carved into one of the older stones.

From this elevated position, through a break in the trees, Lucy could see it – the vast, shimmering expanse of Loch Ness. The water, a deep, enigmatic grey-blue under the muted sky, stretched out to the horizon, its surface ruffled by a gentle breeze. It truly was a breathtaking sight, wild and untamed. The sheer scale of it was awe-inspiring.

Jimmy came to stand beside her, his arm casually brushing hers. "It has a certain grandeur, doesn't it? A mystique all its own." he said, a note of pride in his voice, as if he himself had painted the landscape. "I often come up here just to look out. It puts things in perspective." He paused, then a mischievous glint entered his eyes. "You know, I've got a rowboat down by the shore. Nothing fancy, just a simple wooden thing. If you wanted, we could venture out onto the lake. Maybe," he leaned in conspiratorially, his voice a low rumble, "we might even capture a glimpse of the infamous monster"

Lucy’s initial reaction was a surprised gasp, followed by a burst of genuine, unrestrained laughter. The image of Jimmy Page, rock god and mystical homeowner, embarking on a monster hunt in a humble rowboat was too wonderfully absurd to process. She laughed so hard that tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she had to place her hand on Jimmy's arm, trying to capture her breath, her chest heaving with mirth. His arm felt solid and warm beneath her fingers.

"Oh, Jimmy," she finally managed, wiping a tear from her eye. "You are incorrigible! Capture Nessie? You truly are something else." She looked at him, her smile wide and unforced. "But yes, I would absolutely love to. That sounds like a grand adventure." The thought of being out on that vast, mysterious body of water, just the two of them, was suddenly incredibly appealing.

"Excellent!" Jimmy clapped his hands together, his own excitement palpable. "Then let's make our way down."

They began to descend the hill, the path growing steeper and more winding as they approached the loch. As they got closer, Lucy could feel the cold breeze coming off the water, a damp, fresh chill that carried the scent of wet stone and distant peat. It was invigorating, a sharp contrast to the warmer, more sheltered air up by the house. The sound of the small waves lapping against the shore grew louder, a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

As they approached the water's edge, Lucy couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and apprehension. The lake looked serene, but the stories of its mysterious depths and nestled amongst a small cluster of reeds and a gnarled old tree, was a sturdy, if slightly weathered, wooden rowboat. Jimmy walked over to it, untying the rope that secured it to the tree trunk. "She's not built for speed, but she's reliable," he announced, giving the boat a friendly pat.

"Need a hand?" Lucy asked, already stepping forward.

"Always appreciate an extra pair of hands," he replied, and together they pushed the boat, its keel scraping softly against the gravelly shore, until it floated freely in the shallow water. It bobbed gently, inviting them in.

"Right," Jimmy said, holding the boat steady. "You first, then I'll push off."

Lucy carefully stepped into the boat, finding her balance as it rocked slightly. She sat down on the wooden bench, her hands gripping the sides. Jimmy then pushed off with a strong shove, and with surprising agility, stepped in himself, managing to get into the boat without getting so much as a splash on his trousers. Lucy was impressed; he moved with an unexpected grace.

He settled onto the opposite bench, taking control of the oars. With practiced ease, he dipped them into the water, pulling with steady, powerful strokes. The boat glided away from the shore, leaving a gentle V-shaped wake behind them. The cold breeze, now unimpeded, swept across Lucy’s face, carrying with it the fresh, clean scent of the loch.

As Jimmy rowed them out towards the middle of the lake, Lucy leaned back, her gaze sweeping across the magnificent panorama. the surrounding mountains and the lush forest that hugged the shoreline. The cool breeze kissed her cheeks and played with her hair as they rowed further out onto the lake. The gentle lapping of the waves against the boat created a rhythmic melody that seemed to harmonize with the calls of the distant birds. The early morning light danced upon the water, creating an otherworldly glow that made everything feel ethereal. The hills rose steeply from the water’s edge, cloaked in a patchwork of greens and browns, dotted with the dark shapes of trees. The sheer scale of the landscape was humbling, making her feel small yet incredibly connected to the ancient world around her. She was utterly amazed at the raw, untamed beauty of it all.

"It's incredible, Jimmy," she said, her voice hushed with wonder. "Truly, truly breathtaking."

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers over the rhythmic dipping and lifting of the oars. "It is, isn't it? There's nothing quite like it."

Jimmy, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, remained mostly silent as they glided across the lake. Lucy took this time to observe him, noticing the way his muscles flexed as he rowed and the concentration etched on his face. He was a man of many layers, she thought, and she was eager to peel back each one and learn his secrets. But for now, she was content to simply bask in the beauty of the moment.

After what felt like an eternity, they reached the center of the loch.

"What did you think," Lucy asked, her voice soft, "the very first time you were here? When you first saw Boleskin and the loch?"

Jimmy paused his rowing for a moment, letting the boat drift gently, propelled by its own momentum. He looked out across the water, his expression thoughtful, almost distant. "Peace," he said, the word barely a whisper. "And understanding. It's hard to explain, but it felt like… coming home, in a way. I've always been more of a country boy at heart, you know? Despite all the city lights and the tours and the noise. I always craved seclusion, a place where I could just… be. And this place, it offers that. It offers a kind of quiet that you can't find anywhere else." He turned back to her, a faint, wistful smile on his lips. "It's a place where I can just breathe."

Lucy listened, captivated by his sincerity. She understood that yearning for quiet, for a place to simply exist. "Well," she laughed, a lighter note returning to her voice, "you'd have to come to Mississippi then, Jimmy. Experience a different kind of country. No ancient lochs, but plenty of wide-open spaces and a silence so deep you can almost hear it. Fields as far as the eye can see, cotton blooms in the summer. A whole different kind of quiet. You might actually find more seclusion down there, if you could believe it.”

Jimmy’s head snapped up, his eyes lighting up with an almost boyish excitement. He paused mid-stroke, his face beaming. It was a reaction so immediate and enthusiastic that it took Lucy by surprise. “Mississippi? Are you serious, Lucy? You’d… you’d invite me to your home? To see where you grew up, to experience that… that sounds incredible.” His voice was filled with genuine delight, a hopeful eagerness that Lucy hadn’t expected. “I would absolutely love that! I’ve always wanted to see the American South properly. The roots of the blues, all of it.”

Lucy felt a blush creep up her neck. She hadn’t really meant it as a serious invitation, more just a whimsical, passing thought, a playful retort to his idea of seclusion.an off-the-cuff remark born of the moment’s camaraderie. But his reaction… it was so earnest. She laughed, a little awkwardly this time, trying to mask her sudden embarrassment.

“Oh, well, I mean… I just meant… you know,” she stammered, looking away, out at the water. “It’s not like there’s much there. Nothing but dust, really, in the height of summer. No monsters, certainly. No legendary homes.” She tried to dismiss it, to wave it away as if it had never been said.The reality of it crashed over her. Mississippi. What was there in Mississippi for a rock star of Jimmy Page’s caliber? Nothing but dust, really. Endless fields, sleepy towns, and a heat that would make him wilt. It wasn’t a place for grand adventures or mystical revelations. It was just… home. It’s not like Jimmy Page, rock legend, actually would want to trade the Scottish Highlands for the dusty fields of Mississippi, she thought. What was she thinking?

But Jimmy didn’t seem to notice her sudden retraction. He was still smiling, a soft, warm smile that made her heart give another little flutter. He resumed rowing, the silence that followed not awkward, but filled with the gentle lapping of water and the rhythmic creak of the oars.

She decided to let it go, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. It wasn't like Jimmy would actually want to come to Mississippi. He was just being polite, caught up in the friendly atmosphere. There was nothing there but dust, and perhaps a few good stories, but nothing that would truly hold his attention for long. She quickly changed the subject, redirecting her gaze back to the water.

As Jimmy resumed rowing, guiding them further out into the vastness of the loch, Lucy found herself settling into a profound sense of peace. The gentle rocking of the boat, the rhythmic splash of the oars, the cool, clean air – it all combined to create a feeling of profound tranquility. In this moment, surrounded by such ancient beauty and in Jimmy's quiet, comfortable company, she decided to let go of everything.

She let go of the past, the complicated, often intense history that she and Jimmy shared, the emotional baggage she had unknowingly carried with her on this trip. She let go of the fear that had sometimes gnawed at her, the fear of uncertainty, of what the future held, of what this trip might mean. She wanted, truly and deeply, to simply enjoy this moment, this trip, this extraordinary experience. She wanted to enjoy being in Jimmy's company, unburdened by expectations or anxieties.

She looked at him, his profile silhouetted against the grey sky, Looking at him as he rowed, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath the sleeves of his sweater, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead… gosh, he was handsome. More than handsome. He was beautiful in his own way, his intensity softened by the peaceful surroundings. Maybe, she thought, a small, private smile touching her lips, he was even more handsome than the scenery itself.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Lucy thought she saw something. A ripple, larger than a typical wave, disturbing the surface of the water further out, near the distant shore. It was fleeting, a quick movement that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Jimmy," she whispered, her voice a little breathless, "did you see that? Over there, just now? I thought I saw something."

Jimmy paused, turning his head in the direction she indicated, his brow furrowed in curiosity. He squinted, scanning the water. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, and he let out a soft, amused laugh. "Oh, Lucy," he said, a playful warning in his tone, "don't you start with me now. There's no Loch Ness Monster. It's just a trick of the light, or perhaps a particularly large fish. Don't go trying to conjure up mythical beasts on my watch."

Lucy continued to look around, her eyes scanning the water intently, but she didn't see anything else. The surface of the loch returned to its gentle undulation, an unbroken expanse of grey-blue. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it had just been her imagination, fueled by the legend and the grandeur of the surroundings.

After a while, the chill in the air began to deepen, and Lucy felt a pleasant weariness settling over her. The vastness of the loch, while beautiful, was also somewhat overwhelming. "Jimmy," she said, finally breaking the comfortable silence, "I think we should head back. This has been absolutely wonderful, but I'm quite keen to explore more on foot. I want to see what else this incredible place has to offer."

Jimmy nodded, a smile playing on his lips. “As you wish, my lady. Shore leave it is.” He turned the boat with a graceful sweep of the oars, pointing its bow back towards the distant, welcoming shore of Boleskin House.

Chapter Text

The crackle and pop of logs on the hearth were the only sounds filling the ancient stone room, a comforting counterpoint to the gentle hum of the wind outside. She’d shed her boots at the door, dripping a little from the damp earth they’d traversed. leaving them as a mute testament to the day’s adventures, and curled deeper into the embrace of the armchair, with a blanket draped over her, savored the warmth against her still-weary bones. the warmth of the fire a delicious counter to the persistent, though not unpleasant, Highland chill. Her hands, still a little rosy from their walk around a small section of Loch Ness, cradled a mug of steaming tea. Jimmy, spread out on the rug before the flames, looked every inch the lord of the manor, albeit a very rock-and-roll one, his own mug sat on the floor.

His gaze was fixed on the dancing flames, a soft, contemplative expression on his face that Lucy found utterly captivating. The day had been perfect. He hadn't pushed, sensing her exhaustion from the transatlantic flight and the restless first night in Boleskine. Instead of a multi-mile hike, they’d simply meandered, exploring the dark, still waters of the loch in a small rowboat, Lucy delighting in the gentle rocking and the expansive, ancient beauty surrounding them. And, a slow wander around the grounds of Boleskine, his explanations of its history delivered with a quiet reverence that made the old stones feel alive. He was a wonderful guide, attentive and intuitive.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Page?” Lucy murmured, her voice soft, not wanting to break the spell.

Jimmy’s eyes flickered from the fire to her, a slow, easy smile spreading across his lips. “Just thinking about the day. And… how much I enjoyed it. It’s always better with company.” He took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You didn’t seem to mind the boat too much. I half-expected you to complain about the cold water or the lack of engine.”

Lucy chuckled, shaking her head. “Hardly. It was… exhilarating. And peaceful, all at once. The loch has a presence, doesn’t it?” She paused, a shiver running through her – not from cold, but from a thrill of anticipation. “I can’t wait to see what else Scotland has in store.”

“Oh, plenty more, I assure you,” Jimmy promised, his voice low, a hint of something playful in his tone. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Speaking of which, I was thinking we should head into Inverness for an early supper. There’s a wee pub I know , keeps to itself, that I quite like.”

Lucy’s eyes lit up. A pub and a beer sounded like just the thing. “That sounds perfect. I could definitely go for a beer after all that fresh air.”

Jimmy’s grin widened. “A woman after my own heart.” He pushed himself out of the chair, stretching languidly. “Let’s clean up then, shall we? I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready.”

Lucy nodded, feeling a renewed energy. After finishing their tea, the mugs clinking softly as she placed them on a side table, they parted ways for their separate rooms.

They retreated to their separate chambers, the old house groaning gently around them, to prepare.The thought of a long, hot bath was heavenly. Lucy luxuriated in the steamy water, the scent of lavender soap filling the air. Last night, the unsettling presence of some unseen guest during her bath had been a jolt. Tonight, though, the old house felt quietly benevolent, perhaps recognizing her as a temporary, welcome inhabitant rather than an intruder. Lucy, accustomed to the humid heat of Mississippi, shivered slightly as she considered her wardrobe. Even in summer, Scotland offered a distinct chill, so she pulled out a favourite beige sweater dress – a soft, cable-knit garment that offered warmth without sacrificing style. Paired with her brown cowboy boots, it felt like the perfect blend of her own American flair and the rugged elegance of her surroundings. She sat at the vanity, carefully applying a touch of mascara, humming a forgotten tune, the small mirror reflecting the flickering candlelight from the hall.

A soft knock came at her door, followed immediately by Jimmy’s familiar voice. “You decent, love?”

Before she could fully reply, the door creaked open, and he stepped in. She turned from the vanity, her purse already clutched in her hand. He was leaning against the doorframe, dressed in dark trousers and a slightly unbuttoned shirt, with a thick cardigan, looking effortlessly cool. His eyes, dark and knowing, swept over her, taking in the sweater dress, the boots, the damp tendrils of hair escaping her braid. A slow, almost imperceptible "lecherous smirk" – as she playfully categorized it – spread across his face, a silent question in his eyes.

Lucy met his gaze, a playful challenge in her own, and walked towards him, giving him a playful tap on his chest with the purse. "And what, pray tell, is that look for, Mr. Page?"

He merely shrugged, the smirk deepening, a silent promise in his gaze. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers finding hers, lacing them together with an easy intimacy. "Just admiring the view, love. Makes a man thankful for dinner invitations." He tugged gently. "Come on, the cab's waiting."

As they walked through the dimly lit hallway, the scent of old wood and peat smoke clinging to the air, Lucy laughed. “Are you being a good boy tonight, then? No driving without your license?”

Jimmy chuckled, a rich, low sound that vibrated through her hand. “Oh, I plan on drinking tonight, Lucy. Definitely wouldn’t want to drive afterwards. Best leave it to the professionals.” He squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles. “Besides, I much prefer having my hands free… for other things.” His eyes twinkled as they stepped out into the cool evening air, where a black cab idled patiently.

The cab ride was short, punctuated by the soft murmur of their conversation and the rhythmic hum of the engine. Soon, they were pulling up outside a charming, unassuming building, its windows glowing with a warm, inviting light. The pub, aptly named 'The Thirsty Scot', was everything Jimmy had described: small, cozy, and wonderfully dim.

The pub's warmth and the flicker of the fireplace's flames beckoned them in, a stark contrast to the cool Scottish evening that had settled outside. The scent of roasting meat and peat smoke filled the air, mingling with the laughter and clinking of glasses from the locals who had gathered for the night. Jimmy led Lucy through the low, beamed ceiling his hand resting comfortably on the small of her back and to the back corner booth,. nestled away from the handful of other patrons. It felt private, intimate, like their own little haven. The dark wood, the flickering candles on the tables, and the murmur of quiet conversation created an atmosphere that was instantly relaxing.

They settled onto the worn leather bench seat.The waiter, a burly man with a thick Scottish brogue, greeted them with a smile and handed them menus.

“Evening, Jimmy. Your usual?” he asked, already anticipating.

Jimmy nodded. “Spot on, Hamish. And for Lucy?” He turned to Lucy, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Just a pint of whatever’s local,” Lucy said, already feeling the comfort of the place seeping into her bones. “Something light, if you have it.”

“Coming right up,” Hamish grinned, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Scotch for me,” Jimmy explained, leaning back into the worn leather of the booth. “A good single malt, warms you right through.” He looked at her, his expression thoughtful. “You know, we’re in the heart of whisky country. There are a few around here, Speyside not too far off. If you're interested, we could tour one tomorrow. Might be a bit of an education. We’ll pick a good one. Perhaps one with a particularly scenic drive.”

Lucy's eyes lit up. "Oh, I'd love that! I've always found distillery tours to be fascinating. All that history, the process, the barrels..." She paused, a hopeful glint in her eye. "Will there be a tasting involved, by any chance?"

Jimmy let out a rich, throaty laugh, the sound a low rumble in his chest that Lucy felt resonate through the booth. "Of course, love! What kind of distillery tour would it be without a tasting? I’d be remiss not to ensure you experience the full breadth of Scottish culture."

Hamish returned with their drinks – a frothing pint for Lucy and a golden-amber dram for Jimmy. They clinked glasses, a soft chime in the quiet corner.

Lucy leaned back against the high back of the booth, taking in the scene. "This is lovely, Jimmy. Proper authentic. You have good taste."

"Only the best for you, Luce," he murmured, his gaze warm.

Conversation flowed easily, punctuated by sips of beer and scotch, laughter, and the quiet murmur of other patrons. As the evening progressed and the drinks took their gentle hold, a comfortable tipsiness settled over them. Insensibly, they began to inch closer on the worn bench seat of the booth, their thighs were touching, a casual contact that sent a little shiver of warmth through her an electric current passing between them.. Jimmy’s arm, heavy and reassuring, had found its way around Lucy’s waist, his fingers resting just above her hip. Jimmy, too, seemed to mellow with his scotch, his sharp edges softening, his eyes holding a deeper, more languid gaze.

As they ate, the pub grew livelier, with a trio of musicians setting up in the corner and beginning to play traditional Scottish tunes on their fiddles and bagpipes. The melodies weaved through the conversations, adding a festive air to the room. Lucy found herself tapping her foot along to the rhythm, and Jimmy leaned in closer to whisper in her ear the names of the songs and their origins.

The evening stretched on, and the music grew louder as the patrons joined in the singing. Lucy felt the buzz of the alcohol and the cozy warmth of the pub enveloping her. She leaned into Jimmy, her cheek against his shoulder, as they watched the merriment unfold. She felt lighter, more relaxed, and increasingly aware of the man opposite her.

Hamish reappeared, a stack of menus in hand. "Dessert, folks? We've a lovely sticky toffee pudding tonight."

Lucy shook her head, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “No, thank you, Hamish. That was absolutely delicious.”

Jimmy, his arm still around her, simply smiled. “Just the bill, please, mate. And bring us one more round to finish."

He paid the bill quickly, his arm remaining steadfast around her. They finished their drinks slowly, savoring the lingering warmth and the quiet hum of the pub. The world outside the booth seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in their own private bubble.

Finally, with a contented sigh from Lucy and a soft squeeze to her waist from Jimmy, they rose. The cab ride back to Boleskine House was even quieter than the one to the pub, filled with unspoken understanding and the comfortable weight of Jimmy’s arm still around her as they huddled together on the back seat. The chill of the Scottish night outside was no match for the warmth that now thrummed between them.

__________________________

The ancient stones of Boleskin House felt oddly comforting as Lucy and Jimmy stepped inside, the chill of the Scottish night quickly forgotten as the massive oaken door swung shut behind them. The grand hall, shadowed but somehow welcoming, swallowed the sounds of their arrival, leaving only a soft echo.

"Care for a night cap? Would could have it in the Library." Jimmy asked. Lucy nodded not ready to end the night.

Jimmy, ever the gracious host, led the way. The library, was a sanctuary of dark wood, rich leather, and floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with an astonishing array of books. A roaring fire already blazed in the hearth, casting dancing shadows and a comforting warmth across the room. The scent of old wood, peat smoke, and something undeniably arcane hung in the air, a perfume unique to this place. Two large, plush armchairs flanked a low table, and for a moment, Lucy considered settling into one. But then she spotted the deep, inviting sofa opposite the fire.

"Scotch?" Jimmy asked, already moving towards a side cabinet laden with crystal decanters.

"Please," she murmured, her eyes scanning the spines, a familiar thrill running through her. Jimmy's love for books was robust, his personal collection at his other homes sprawling and diverse. Here, however, a distinct pattern emerged. The titles seemed… different. More esoteric. More mystic.

He returned, handing her a heavy, cut-glass tumbler filled with an amber liquid that shimmered in the firelight. Its peaty aroma was instantly warming. "To Boleskin," he toasted softly, clinking his glass against hers.

"To strange and wonderful places," Lucy added, taking a sip that sent a delicious burn down her throat. She sank onto the sofa, her gaze still drifting over the packed shelves. "It seems you keep your more… adventurous reads here."

Jimmy chuckled, settling into the armchair opposite, his eyes sparkling mischievously over the rim of his glass. "One must have a dedicated space for the pursuit of higher knowledge, wouldn't you agree?"

Lucy smiled, though a faint ripple of curiosity, almost a shiver, traced its way down her spine. "I suppose so." She reached out, her fingers gliding over the worn leather and intricate gold leaf of various volumes. And then she saw it. Tucked away, but unmistakable. A spine far more elaborate, with strange symbols etched into its binding. "Well, well," she murmured, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper as she pulled it out. "Aleister Crowley. And 'Magick.' Right to the heart of the matter, then."

She turned the book over in her hands, feeling its weight, the ancient energy it seemed to hum with. She glanced at Jimmy, who had by now abandoned his armchair for the other end of the sofa. He was sprawled, one arm propped along the back cushion, his long legs spread wide, almost carelessly. It was, she had to admit, a rather indecent pose, but one that somehow suited him in this wild, untamed house. It spoke of a certain languid confidence, a disregard for conventional formality that Lucy found both intriguing and intensely attractive.

With a soft sigh, she rose and moved towards him, the heavy book still clutched in her hand. She settled herself gracefully beside him, letting her head rest against his shoulder, her body fitting perfectly into the curve of his side. His arm, which had been propped on the back, instinctively lowered, encircling her, drawing her closer until she was thoroughly cuddled into him, the warmth of his body seeping into hers. The scent of his cologne, mingled with the faint smell of whiskey and something uniquely Jimmy, enveloped her.

"This is… quite serious, then," she said softly, holding up the book so he could see it. "Magick. Not just for show, is it?" She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a question that danced between playfulness and genuine curiosity. "Have you… practiced any of it, Jimmy? Any real, honest-to-god magick?"

He looked down at her, his dark eyes unfathomable in the firelight. A slow, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Magick, Lucy, is a broad term. It encompasses a multitude of things." His voice was low, thoughtful, the sort of voice that made you lean in, eager to catch every syllable. "Do you mean rituals? Incantations? Summoning spirits?" He paused, his thumb gently stroking her arm. "Or do you mean the magick of intention, of will? The shaping of one's own reality?"

Lucy shivered, though not from cold. "I suppose I mean… all of it. But specifically, what Crowley speaks of in this book. You believe in all of this, don't you?"

His gaze seemed to deepen, becoming a dark pool she couldn't quite decipher. He was a man of many layers, and sometimes, she felt, he kept the most essential ones locked away, even from her. "I've always been drawn to the mystical, you know that." His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I collect tarot cards, yes. Original ones, from Crowley's own deck, as a matter of fact. They're quite beautiful, in their own way. And I do practice with them. They offer… insight."

"And seances?" she pressed, remembering their shared past. "I remember that time, back in '67, when we went to that one. You seemed quite taken with it all."

A faint, almost wistful look crossed his face. "Yes, seances. I have participated in a few. The veil between worlds is thinner than most people care to admit, Lucy. There are forces at play, energies that respond to the right impulses." He took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. "And 'do what thou wilt.' That is, perhaps, the most profound teaching of all. It's not about hedonism, as many wrongly interpret it. It's about discovering your true will, your authentic purpose, and living in accordance with it. It means being utterly free."

Lucy listened, her mind racing. She remembered some of these conversations from when they'd dated six years ago, the fascination he'd held for the esoteric. But now, it felt different. More ingrained. More… lived. She wondered if his obsession had grown more profound, more pervasive since then. If it was more than just collecting interesting items, more than intellectual curiosity. If it was, perhaps, something a little darker, a little more… perverse, as the word niggled at the back of her mind. A slight unease began to settle in her stomach, a prickle of caution.

She looked at his face again, searching for something, an opening, but his expression remained enigmatic, a closed book compared to the one she still held in her hand. It seemed he didn't want to open up any further on the subject, at least not tonight. And perhaps, she decided, it was best not to push it. Not just yet.

"Fascinating," she murmured, a touch of wonder in her voice, though the edge of her unease remained. She gently closed the heavy 'Magick' book and placed it on the floor beside the sofa. "Well, I suppose it's not every day you get to cuddle up with a rock god and his book of spells." She teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Only at Boleskin, darling. Only at Boleskin." He tightened his arm around her, pulling her even closer. "But enough of the occult for now. Tell me, how was your flight over? Was the plane as dreadful as you predicted? I meant to ask you yesterday."

They drifted into lighter conversation then, the atmosphere settling into one of comfortable intimacy. They talked about mutual friends, the latest albums, the ludicrous headlines in the morning papers. They shared another glass of scotch, the amber liquid warming them from the inside out, the fire crackling a steady rhythm in the hearth. Lucy found herself laughing easily, the earlier prickle of unease fading into the background, replaced by the sheer joy of being with him, here, in this uniquely captivating place.

The hours melted away like snowflakes on a hot stove. Eventually, a soft, involuntary yawn escaped Lucy, stretching her jaw. "Good heavens," she mumbled, pressing her hand to her mouth. "Is that the time already?"

Jimmy glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, its pendulum swinging with a steady, ancient tick. "It is rather late, my love. Perhaps the spirits of Crowley are calling us to dream."

Lucy giggled, pushing herself up from the warmth of his side, though a part of her resisted leaving the comforting embrace. "Or perhaps just exhaustion."

They stood, stretching, the scotch having infused a pleasant warmth and looseness into their limbs. Saying their goodnights, they walked hand-in-hand to the end of the grand, winding staircase. With one last squeeze of her hand, Jimmy bid her goodnight before turning towards his own bedchamber. She found her bedroom, The fire in the hearth had died down to glowing embers, casting an ethereal, reddish light.

She changed into her silk nightgown, her movements slow and languid, the day's events swirling in her mind. As she slipped between the cool, crisp sheets, a shiver, unrelated to physical cold, traced its way down her spine. She lay staring up at the shadowy canopy, trying to calm her thoughts, but sleep wouldn't come.

Her mind, despite her best efforts to steer it to pleasant things, kept replaying the events of the previous night. The sensation she'd felt, so distinct, so undeniably present. She swore there had been a ghost in her room. A cold spot that lingered, a faint whisper she couldn't quite discern, a feeling of being watched. She'd dismissed it then, blaming fatigue and the strangeness of a new place. But now, alone in the vast, ancient house, the memory came back with a chilling clarity that made her heart pound.

It was really freaking her out. The shadows seemed to deepen, the old house groaning around her. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle outside the window, seemed imbued with a sinister intent. She pulled the covers tighter around her chin, but it did little to quell the rising tide of unease.

She couldn't stay here. Not like this. Not tonight.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, she threw back the covers. Her bare feet met the cold wooden floor, sending another shiver through her. She padded softly across the room, her heart thumping a nervous rhythm against her ribs. She was being silly, she knew. But a companion, a warm, solid presence, felt like the only thing that could keep those spectral imaginings at bay.

She reached Jimmy's bedroom door, a heavy, dark wood panel that seemed to guard its secrets. She hesitated for only a second, then gently, tentatively, knocked.

A moment of silence, then, from within, Jimmy's voice, slightly muffled but clear, called out, "Come in."

Lucy pushed the door open, a sliver of light from inside spilling onto the dark hallway. He was sitting up in the massive bed, propped against a stack of pillows, a book open in his hands. A crystal glass of scotch sat on his bedside table, catching the faint glint of the lamp he had on. He looked utterly at peace, immersed in his own world.

He glanced up, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, meeting hers. A question was written plainly on his face. "What's wrong, love?"

Lucy felt a blush creep up her neck. She suddenly felt very awkward, standing there in her silk nightgown, illuminated by the soft glow from his room. "I… I know this is silly…" she began, her voice barely a whisper. She shuffled her bare foot on the threshold. "But… after last night… in my room…"

He closed his book, placing it carefully on the nightstand beside his scotch glass. He looked at her, his expression softening, understanding dawning in his eyes. "The ghost?" he asked gently, though a faint, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Yes," she confessed, her voice a little stronger now, desperation lacing it. "I just… I don't feel comfortable in there. Not tonight. Would you… would you mind if I just… spent the night here? With you?"

He didn't hesitate. A warm smile spread across his face, chasing away the earlier hint of mischief. He simply reached out and patted the empty space beside him on the bed, the gesture utterly inviting. "Of course, love. Come here."

A wave of relief washed over Lucy. She shuffled her foot further, stepping into the room, then walked over to the bed. The sheets were turned back, inviting. She carefully climbed in, the warmth of the mattress, already imbued with his heat, a welcome comfort.

As she settled, pulling the duvet up, she glanced at him. He was watching her, his eyes warm, but that familiar, naughty grin had now fully bloomed on his face.

"Wipe that smirk off, Page," she said playfully, a hint of steel in her voice as she nudged him gently with her elbow. "I'm only here so I can actually get a good night's rest."

He chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound that vibrated through the mattress. "Whatever you say, darling." With a final, lingering look at her, he reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into soft, firelit shadows.

The darkness was immediate, but not unwelcome. They both scooted towards the center of the spacious bed, drawn by an unspoken need for proximity. Soon, they were close enough that their bodies were just touching, the gentle hum of his warmth radiating through her. The ghost, for now, seemed to have vanished, replaced by the profound, comforting presence of the man beside her. Lucy closed her eyes, a soft sigh of contentment escaping her lips, finally ready for sleep.

Jimmy's Pov

I woke up with a start, my heart pounding in my chest as I realized that my limbs were tangled with Lucy's. Her soft, warm body was pressed up against mine, and I could feel the heat radiating from her. I tried to move, to get some space between us, but my cock had other ideas. It was hard as a rock, pressing into her thigh, and I couldn't help but grind my hips against her in an attempt to find some relief. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the moon, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.

Lucy stirred beside me, her eyes fluttering open as she let out a soft moan. She tightened her grip on me, her fingers tracing the hard muscles of my chest feeling my skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and I knew that she could feel my arousal pressing into her thigh. She moved her hips against mine, her body responding to the primal rhythm, and I felt a surge of desire coursing through me. My eyes held hers captive as she moved against me, seeking friction, seeking release.

"Fuck, Lucy," I groaned, my voice hoarse with need. "I can't take it anymore."

I crushed my lips against hers, my tongue exploring her mouth with a ferocity that matched the passion in my movements. I reached for the hem of her nightgown, pulling it over her head and revealing her naked body beneath me. My breath hitched as I took in the sight of her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, her skin soft and smooth, her curves soft, inviting and enticing. She was stunning, and this time awake and willing, I couldn't help but let out a low moan as I took her in.

"You're so fucking beautiful," I murmured, my hands exploring her body, tracing the curves of her hips and the swell of her breasts. "I can't tell you how much i've jerked my cock thinking about you."

I leaned down, my lips finding the sensitive spot on her neck, my tongue tracing a path of fire across her skin. Lucy gasped, her body arching against mine, her fingers tangling in my hair.

I moved lower, my lips and tongue exploring every inch of her, my hands roaming over her body, igniting a fire that burned hot and intense. She could feel the heat building between her legs, her body aching for him. She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me closer, her hips moving in time with mine.

My hands found her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples, teasing them to hard peaks. She moaned, her head falling back, her body writhing beneath.

I moved my hips, my cock finding her entrance, teasing her with the promise of pleasure. She could feel the head of him, hard and ready, pressing against her, her body aching for him to fill her.

I could feel her wetness against my thigh, and I knew that she was just as turned on as I was. I moved my hand down between her legs, my fingers finding her clit and rubbing it in slow, torturous circles.

"Oh, Jimmy," she gasped, her hips bucking against my hand. "Don't stop."

I chuckled, my fingers still moving against her. "I have no intention of stopping, baby. Not until you're screaming my name."

I moved down her body, my lips and tongue exploring every inch of her skin. I licked and sucked at her nipples, teasing them until they were hard and aching. I moved lower, my tongue tracing a path down her stomach and to her wet, aching pussy. I could smell her arousal, and it was intoxicating.

I buried my face between her legs, my tongue flicking against her clit as I slid two fingers inside her. She moaned and writhed beneath me, her hips bucking against my face as I fucked her with my fingers. I could feel her walls tightening around me, her orgasm building with each thrust.

"Come for me, baby," I growled, my voice muffled against her pussy. "Let me taste you."

Lucy let out a scream, her body arching off the bed as she came hard around my fingers. I lapped at her juices, savoring the taste of her as she rode out her orgasm. I could feel my own arousal building, my cock straining against my boxers, begging for release. I pushed my underwear down releasing my cock.

I moved back up her body, my lips finding hers in a deep, passionate kiss. I could taste her on my lips, and it only served to turn me on even more. I positioned myself at her entrance, my cock poised to slide inside her.

"Tell me you want this Luce?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lucy nodded, her eyes wide and hungry. "Yes, Jimmy. Please."

I pushed into her, slowly, my eyes never leaving hers, my body trembling with the effort of holding back. She gasped, her body stretching to accommodate him, her nails digging into my back.

I moved, slowly at first, my hips rolling against hers, my cock filling her completely. She could feel every inch of him, her body clenching around him, her hips moving in time with his. I leaned down, my lips finding hers, tongue exploring her mouth as my body moved against hers. my cock filling her completely as I thrust in and out. She let out a gasp, her body arching against mine. I could feel her walls tightening around me, her orgasm building once again.

The room filled with the sound of their lovemaking, the soft moans and gasps echoing off the walls. The air was thick with desire, the scent of sex filling the room. My movements became more urgent, hips moving faster, my body slamming into hers, my cock filling her completely.

Lucy could feel the pleasure building, her body on the edge of release. She clung to him, her body trembling, her breath coming in short gasps. I looked into her eyes, my gaze intense, my voice a low growl. "Come for me, Lucy. Let go."

She did, her body convulsing, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. She cried out, her body shuddering, her nails digging into my back. I followed her, my body tensing, my cock pulsing inside her, release hot and intense.

They collapsed together, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths coming in short gasps. I rolled off her, pulling her into my arms, my lips finding hers in a soft kiss. They lay there, their bodies entwined, their hearts beating in sync, falling back asleep.

Chapter Text

London in ’67 was less a city and more a living, breathing hallucination. One minute you were dodging a mini-skirted whirlwind on Carnaby Street, the next you were being offered a lysergic sugar cube by a bloke wearing a boa and a profound look in his eyes. I found myself firmly planted in the eye of this glorious, technicolour storm, largely thanks to a certain darkly handsome guitarist, Jimmy. We’d been seeing each other for a few weeks, which meant spending most of our waking hours in a blur of smoky clubs, impromptu jam sessions, and conversations that drifted from existentialism to the merits of a well-tailored velvet jacket. Jimmy, bless his effortlessly cool heart, seemed to navigate it all with the serene detachment of a Zen master, while I mostly just tried not to spill my gin and tonic on anyone’s expensive fringe.

One blustery evening, as the city lights blurred into a psychedelic smear, Jimmy got a call. Some friends, he mumbled, invited us to a party. A party in London, 1967, was less an event and more a spiritual journey. I braced myself.

We arrived at a grand, slightly crumbling Victorian house in Chelsea, already pulsing thrum of psychedelic rock, indistinct chatter, and the clinking of glasses and a distinct aroma of patchouli, stale cigarettes, and something alarmingly sweet that I strongly suspected wasn’t just incense. In a simple but stylish shift dress, clings a little to Jimmy's arm as they navigate the chaotic living room of a sprawling London townhouse. Jimmy, dapper even in the casual chaos, with his dark hair falling just so, grins at the spectacle. It was a scene that could have been ripped straight from a particularly vivid dream. Or perhaps a nightmare, depending on your hangover tolerance.

Colours, oh the colours! Hues of orange, purple, and viridian dance on the walls from a rotating light projector, casting swirling patterns over the animated faces of the partygoers. They assaulted the eyes like a supernova of tie-dye. Walls were draped in tapestries that writhed with paisley patterns, lights pulsed from behind coloured gels, turning everyone into a walking, talking lava lamp. Women, all legs and confidence, twirled in mini-skirts so short they practically defied physics, their go-go boots clicking a syncopated rhythm against the parquet floor. Hair, long and flowing, acted as a dynamic, unchoreographed dance with the smoke-filled air. Men, not to be outdone, were embracing the spirit of experimentation with such gusto that a good half of them were sporting kaftans, headscarves, and an impressive array of pearls, giving the whole affair a delightfully gender-fluid, slightly unhinged glamour. I spotted one rather distinguished-looking gentleman sporting a full beard and a shimmering sequined gown, deep in conversation with a woman who had painted a daisy on her forehead.

Raising her voice slightly over the din, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief Lucy stated, "My God, Jimmy, you weren't exaggerating. It’s like a circus exploded, only everyone’s the ringmaster and the clown. Look at… is that a man in a sequined ballgown? And is that… a feather boa?"

Jimmy had a huge grin on his face as he scanned the room with an almost proprietary air, his hand gently squeezing her arm, finding her hand and lacing their fingers together "Told you, didn't I? Welcome to the cutting edge, love. Where the only rule is that there are no rules. That’s Colin. He’s usually in a feather boa on Tuesdays. This is him toning it down for a Wednesday night, I assure you."

The air was thick, not just with smoke, but with possibility. Joints were passed around like canapés, conversation flowed in tangents that made no logical sense but sounded profound at the time, and the faint, sweet-metallic tang of something illicit hung in the air. I saw a man gnawing on a sugar cube, his eyes wide as saucers, whispering to a potted palm. “Don’t mind him,” Jimmy said, nudging me gently. “He’s just taking a trip.”

Jimmy lead her towards a corner where a makeshift bar is set up, smoothly dodging a couple swaying in a slow, almost ritualistic dance, their eyes closed. "What’ll you have? Something strong, I imagine. To keep up with the pace. To truly immerse yourself."

Lucy nodded "Goodness, yes. A vodka tonic, perhaps? Something… familiar. I feel like I've stepped through a portal into another dimension entirely. Everyone looks so… unburdened. As if worries, responsibilities, the entire weight of polite society has simply dissolved."

Jimmy catches the eye of a friend behind the bar, nodding towards Lucy then gesturing for two drinks "That’s the spirit, Lucy. Responsibility is a drag. Freedom, expression, experience. That’s what it’s all about. And tonight, with this crowd? You’ll get an overdose of all three." He procures two drinks, handing one to her, their fingers brushing again. His touch is warm and curiously grounding amidst the glorious chaos. "Here you go. liberation elixir."

After a few minutes of Lucy observing the room, Watching a woman in a dazzling silver mini-skirt and matching go-go boots dance on top of a coffee table, her movements fluid and utterly uninhibited, her long hair whipping around her head. She turned and she found Jimmy was discussing chord progressions with a chap who looked suspiciously like he’d stolen his grandmother’s Persian rug, when a figure materialized beside us. He was tall and reedy, with hair that seemed to defy gravity and a gaze that suggested he’d recently had a very potent batch of hash. He wore a velvet waistcoat over a bare chest, and a single silver earring gleamed in the dim, pulsing light. He has a strangely intense, almost beatific expression, his dark eyes seeming to hold a faraway wisdom.

"Jimmy! Good to see you, man. You made it. And who is this vision? She radiates a certain… luminosity." The man said in a surprisingly calm voice amidst the noise, leaning in conspiratorially, a wisp of incense smoke trailing from his clothes.

Jimmy clapped the man on the shoulder, a familiar camaraderie in the gesture "Julian! This is Lucy, my girlfriend. Lucy, Julian. He’s the resident mystic, spiritual guide, and co-host of tonight’s bacchanal. Without him, we'd all just be stumbling around in the dark."

Lucy offered a polite, if slightly bewildered, smile, still processing the compliment about radiating luminosity "Hello, Julian. It’s… quite a party."

Julian's eyes, dark and deep, seem to bore into Lucy for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths, before he smiles, a warmth spreading across his face "A pleasure, Lucy. I sense… a curious energy about you. A receptiveness, perhaps? Tonight, we’re delving a little deeper than usual, if you two are inclined. Beyond this joyous, earthly revelry."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, intrigued, his attention immediately caught by the shift in Julian’s tone "Deep how, Julian? Tarot cards and a bit of crystal ball gazing? Always up for a bit of fortune-telling, you know that."

Julian shook his head, his smile broadening, a hint of ancient mischief in his eyes "Oh, more than that, my friend. Much more. We have a small gathering upstairs. A… communication session. A seance, if you will. The veil between worlds is thin tonight, I feel it. The cosmic currents are aligned. We’re seeking to touch the other side. Care to join us? We could use a fresh set of energies. Unburdened energies."

Lucy's eyes dart to Jimmy, a flicker of apprehension mixed with fascination, her playful smile faltering slightly. "A seance? Jimmy… that sounds quite sinful."

Jimmy looks at Lucy, a playful challenge in his gaze, but also a genuine curiosity that mirrors her own. He’s always been drawn to the mystical, the esoteric, the unseen forces of the world. "Well, Lucy? Always up for an experience, aren’t we? Might be a laugh. Or, who knows, truly illuminating. Something to tell the grandkids about. Imagine the stories."

Taking a deep breath, the vodka tonic giving her a touch of liquid courage, her adventurous side, awakened by the party, getting the better of her apprehension. "Illuminating or absolutely terrifying, I suppose. All right, Julian. I’m intrigued. Count us in. But I warn you, I’m a terrible skeptic by nature. I’ll need convincing."

Julian nodded, a satisfied, knowing look on his face, as if he’d anticipated their answer. "Skepticism is merely unproven belief, my dear. And often, a barrier to experience. Follow me. It’s quieter up there. Less… terrestrial noise. More conducive to the subtle vibrations of the other side. It's a full moon tonight, perfect conditions."

Jimmy, extended a hand to Lucy. “Lead the way, friend.” Lucy sighed, then shrugged. When in Rome, or rather, when in a smoke-filled, cross-dressing, drug-addled Chelsea party, one goes to the seance. They followed close behind Julian, weaving their way through the throng. They make their way to a grand, curving staircase, its banister intricately carved with swirling, organic motifs. As they ascend, the raucous sounds of the party slowly recede, replaced by a softer hum, a sense of growing anticipation.

The journey upstairs was like crossing into another dimension. The music mellowed, the raucous laughter faded, replaced by hushed whispers and the creak of old floorboards. The air grew cooler, less perfumed by patchouli and more by… dust, and perhaps a hint of something unidentifiable, like old books and forgotten dreams. We passed a few people huddled on the landing, looking suitably earnest or perhaps just slightly confused.

Julian pushed open a heavy oak door, revealing a room bathed in the flickering glow of numerous candles. The air is still, thick with the scent of beeswax and something else – perhaps a faint aroma of dried herbs, or just the accumulated tension of the space. A round, polished mahogany table sits in the center of the room, surrounded by about eight people already seated, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames. Their expressions range from solemn to intensely focused, some with their eyes already closed in meditation. It was a stark contrast to the hedonistic free-for-all downstairs. Here, the vibe was less 'dance until you drop' and more 'stare into the abyss until it stares back at you.'

Julian beckoning them forward into the circle "Come in, come in. There's room for two more. Your energy is welcome."

Our velvet-waistcoated guide motioned us to two empty chairs, nestled between a woman with an elaborate floral headpiece and a man whose eyes were still a little too wide for true sobriety. We took our seats, Jimmy's hand brushing my back as we slid into the slightly uncomfortable chairs. The air was thick with expectation, and a rather pungent scent that made my nose twitch.

The leader of the group was a woman with severe dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, wearing a flowing, almost clerical-looking black gown. Her voice is low, resonant, and calm, cutting through the silence like a finely honed blade. She looks around the table, her gaze lingering on each person, a profound depth in her eyes. "Welcome, new souls. And welcome back, old friends. Thank you for joining us tonight in this sacred space. Let us quiet our minds and open our hearts. Let us join hands. This physical connection helps to unify our energies, to form a channel.

One by one, everyone around the table reaches out, their fingers interlacing. Lucy hesitates for a moment, a sudden wave of trepidation washing over her, then takes the hands of the people next to her – a young man with a neatly trimmed beard on one side who had surprisingly clammy hands, and Jimmy’s warm, strong hand on the other. His thumb gently brushes the back of her hand, a small, reassuring comfort amidst the growing unease.

The leader closes her eyes, taking a deep, slow breath that seems to draw the very air from the room "We are here tonight to seek connection. To bridge the gap between our world and the unseen world. We invite any presence, any spirit, any consciousness that wishes to communicate, to join us. We offer you our energy, our receptivity, our open minds. If there is someone here, if there is a message to be conveyed, please manifest yourself. Give us a sign. A knock. A whisper. A movement. A cold spot."

A profound silence descends upon the room, broken only by the faint crackling of the candle wicks. Lucy finds herself holding her breath, acutely aware of the warmth of Jimmy's hand in hers, and the pulse beating faintly in her wrist. The air feels heavy, charged, almost vibrating with unspoken potential. She glances at Jimmy, who has his eyes closed, a look of serene, almost meditative concentration on his face. She wonders if he’s taking this seriously, or if it’s simply another fascinating spectacle to him.

"Spirits of the house," the leader began, her eyes squeezed shut, "we call upon you. If there is anyone here, anyone who wishes to communicate, please give us a sign. A knock. A whisper. A subtle tremor of the table." She paused, head cocked, listening intently to the silence. The only sound was the crackle of the candles and the increasingly loud thumping of my own sceptical heart.

Several minutes crawled by. Nothing. The woman with the floral headpiece let out a small, almost inaudible sniffle. ILucy’s imagination starts to run wild. She pictures shadowy figures lurking in the corners, wisps of smoke forming faces, cold spots suddenly appearing. She tells herself it’s just the power of suggestion, the dimly lit room, the heady atmosphere of the party still lingering in her senses, playing tricks on her mind. Then a distinct, rather forceful THUMP echoed through the room. A heavy, resonant sound, as if something substantial had fallen or been struck, emanated from directly beneath the table.

Everyone’s eyes fly open. A collective gasp ripples around the table, quickly followed by nervous chattering. Lucy jumps, her grip on Jimmy’s hand tightening involuntarily, her heart leaping into her throat. Her eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for the source, but there is nothing to see.

"Alright, very funny, Nigel," someone piped up from across the table, their voice laced with exasperation. "Knock it off. We're trying to be serious here." The leader, however, looked not amused, but rather… intrigued. "No one moved. No one spoke. The sound came from… elsewhere. From beyond the physical. Let us maintain our focus. We asked for a sign, and a sign was given. Do not let your fear interfere with the connection."

Lucy leaned over and whispered to Jimmy, her voice barely audible, "Was that… real? Or was someone playing tricks? My heart just leaped out of my chest!"

Jimmy's eyes were wide, a thrill of excitement mixed with genuine apprehension in their depths. He squeezed her hand reassuringly, "I don’t know, love. It sounded awfully real to me. And a damn good thump, too. Not some quiet little tap. I didn't see anyone move a muscle, did you? It felt… unlocatable."

A woman opposite of Lucy, small and frail-looking with kind, watery eyes, with a look of profound wonder on her face "It felt… significant. Like a presence just… arrived. A heavy presence."

The leader closed her eyes again, her voice softening, almost hypnotic, drawing them back into the trance "Let us allow the energy to flow without resistance. Let us open ourselves. Do not resist, but yield to the energy around us. If there is a spirit wishing to communicate through one of us, let it be so. We offer a vessel. We offer our voices."

But then, the woman with the floral headpiece, who had been sniffling earlier, began to stiffen. Her head lolled slightly, and her eyes, which had been closed, snapped open, unfocused and glassy. A peculiar, strained sound emanates from her throat – not a cough, not a gasp, but something guttural, as if she were trying to speak through a constricting throat, a voice not quite her own struggling to emerge.

"My boy… my lost boy… Where are you? Why can’t I find you?…" The words were disjointed, guttural, filled with a profound sorrow that sent a shiver down my spine. She spoke of a son, a young man taken too soon, of a desperate search across the ethereal planes. Her hands, still clasped in the circle, trembled violently.

A collective hush falls over the table, even more profound than before. Lucy feels a prickle of goosebumps rising on her arms. This is no longer a party trick, no longer a parlour game. This feels… potent. Terrifyingly real, chillingly intimate. This wasn't a thump, this wasn't Nigel being Nigel. This was… unnerving. I looked at Jimmy, trying to decipher his reaction. His face was unreadable, a cool mask of observation. His eyes met mine for a fleeting second, and I saw a flicker of something in their depths – not fear, but a heightened awareness, a deep curiosity. Was this an act? A collective hysteria? Or had this earnest woman genuinely opened herself up to something she didn't understand? My rational brain screamed 'hoax,' but my gut feeling was doing a rather impressive little tap dance of 'maybe not.'

Just as the possessed woman's voice reached a fever pitch, describing a specific, heart-wrenching detail about her "son’s" last moments, the candles on the table flickered wildly, the flames elongating and extinguishing plunges into a sudden, terrifying darkness. The multitude of candles, which had been burning steadily, flicker violently, then extinguish all at once, as if blown out by an immense, unseen breath, leaving only the dim, ambient light filtering through the window from the distant party lights and the pale moon. Simultaneously, a powerful, icy gust of wind sweeps through the room, though all windows are closed, slamming the heavy oak door shut with a resounding CRACK! Books on a nearby shelf tumble to the floor with a crash, and a vase of flowers topples from the mantelpiece, spilling water onto the carpet with a wet splat.

A collective scream erupts from the table, quickly stifled by gasps of shock and terror. Lucy cries out, clutching Jimmy's arm with both hands now, pressing herself against him, her face buried in his shoulder. Her heart pounds like a drum against her ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm.

Jimmy rubs Lucys back reassuringly, his voice is raw, filled with a mixture of awe and genuine terror, deep and guttural "Lucy! Are you all right? What in God's name was that?"

Silence descends again, heavy and suffocating, thick with the scent of extinguished wicks and the lingering chill. The room is almost completely dark, save for the faint outlines of the window. Then, as quickly as they went out, the candles flicker back to life, one by one, their flames dancing wildly as if still disturbed by unseen forces, illuminating a scene of disarray – scattered books, an overturned vase, the door still closed, a lingering mist in the air.

The possessed woman’s head snapped back. Her eyes blinked rapidly, losing that glassy, unfocused look, and returning to a more natural, if still slightly dazed, expression. She slumped forward slightly, her rigid posture dissolving. Her face is pale, and she looks utterly bewildered. Her previous anguish and the strange resonance in her voice are completely gone, replaced by confusion.

"What… what happened?" she mumbled, looking around at our pale faces, completely bewildered. "Did… did I fall asleep?"

Everyone stares at her, then back at each other, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and fascination. The air is thick with unspoken questions, with the lingering chill of the supernatural.

A young man speaks up his voice trembling, barely a whisper "You… you were speaking. You were talking about a dead son. It was… terrifying."

The posessed woman frowns, shaking her head slowly, genuinely perplexed, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion "I… I was? I don't remember any of that. What are you talking about? A dead son? I don't… I don't have a son."

A flurry of questions erupted. "Do you remember anything?" "What did you see?"

She shook her head, her floral headpiece askew. "I… I just had a terrible headache for a moment. And then it felt like… a draft?" She looked genuinely bewildered, completely unaware of the spectral performance she’d just given. Her eyes, now lucid, held no trace of the profound sorrow or ancient knowledge they’d briefly contained. It was as if she’d simply woken from a nap, albeit a rather dramatic one.

The seance, unsurprisingly, dissolved into a chaotic babble of speculation and disbelief. Some were convinced, some remained highly skeptical, and a few just looked utterly terrified.

Lucy pulled her hands from Jimmy’s, rubbing her arm, still shivering uncontrollably, her teeth chattering faintly. Her voice is a choked whisper, laced with genuine shock "I… I’ve never… I don’t know what to say. That was… that was truly terrifying, Jimmy. Did you see the candles? The wind? The way everything just… stopped?"

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes still wide with a mixture of shock and exhilaration. There’s a faint flush on his cheekbones, his breathing still a little shallow. "I saw it all, Lucy. Every single bit of it. And I felt it. The cold… the force behind it. That wasn’t any trick of the light, no stage magician’s clever device. That was… something else entirely. Whatever that was, it was real. And that poor woman… she clearly has no recollection. It's as if she was simply gone for a moment."

Lucy stood up abruptly, feeling an urgent, almost desperate need to escape the room, to breathe air that isn’t heavy with unseen presences and the lingering scent of fear "I need to get out of this room. My head is spinning, Jimmy. My stomach feels like it's tied in knots. I think… I think I’ve had enough of the spirit world for one night. Could we just… go back downstairs? To the noise? The mundane? The glorious, predictable, earthly chaos?

Jimmy nodded, a thoughtful, almost solemn look on his face, but with a spark of intense fascination still lingering deep in his eyes, a new curiosity ignited "Agreed. Let’s get you back to the land of the living, love. Or at least, the land of the living who are still consciously aware of their own bodies. I think we’ve had our fill of the beyond tonight. And perhaps… confirmed a few things I’d only ever heard whispers of, things I'd never truly believed. Come on."

Jimmy takes Lucy’s hand again,a gesture of shared experience and protection, a silent acknowledgment of the profound event they had just witnessed. They thread their way through the now-disbanding seance group, their steps quickening as they head back towards the heavy oak door. As they push it open, the vibrant, chaotic sound of the party downstairs rushes up to meet them, a sudden, welcome wave of noisy, tangible reality after the terrifying stillness of the upper room, a symphony of humanity that suddenly felt incredibly comforting.

As they start down the stairs, the party sounds growing louder with each step, the psychedelic lights bathing them once more Lucy says "I think… I think I need another vodka tonic. Or maybe just the vodka. That was… I’m not sure I’ll ever sleep soundly again."

Jimmy let out a chuckle, knowing smile playing on his lips, a hint of his usual charm returning, but underlined with a new, understanding of the world’s hidden layers "Tonight, my love, you have officially transcended the mundane. Welcome to a world where anything is possible. Even the impossible. And after that, darling, a few noisy hippies, some cross-dressers, and a few psychedelic colours will feel like a warm, comforting, and wonderfully predictable blanket."

They descend into the vibrant chaos, leaving the eerie stillness of the seance room behind, but carrying the unsettling, exhilarating memory of what they had witnessed deep within them, an experience that would forever alter their perception of reality.