You’d been part of the Radio Rock circus for about a year and a half now. The youngest DJ on board—and the only woman behind a mic—you were a bit of a legend. Or, more accurately, a novelty.

The lads never let you forget it, of course. Your age, your gender, your mysterious ability to say “bollocks” on air and still sound classy—it was all fair game. But their teasing was more affectionate than cruel. Relentless, yes. Occasionally infuriating. But mostly harmless.

Maybe it was your voice, smoky and sardonic with just enough softness to make the boys of Britain fall madly in love. Maybe it was the mystery—you never said much about yourself on air. Or maybe it was just the simple fact that you were not their mother. Whatever it was, your late-night slot had quietly become one of the most beloved hours on the station. Not that any of them would ever admit it to your face.

Of course, you weren’t the only woman aboard. There was Felicity, the cook. But Felicity didn’t count. Not because she wasn’t incredible—she was, in every way—but because she was a no-nonsense, proudly gay woman who could disembowel a man with a spoon if he made a crude joke within earshot. The boys feared and adored her in equal measure.

You? You were Quentin’s daughter. A controversial hire, depending on who you asked. Lucky break, or pure nepotism. The truth probably lay somewhere in between. But you’d more than earned your place on the airwaves.

And the boys? Dave flirted with everyone but seemed to mean it with you. Simon once proposed with a rusted ring he found in the sink. Gavin pretended to write poems about you, but you later found out he was just reciting Bowie lyrics in a different order. You let them have their fun. You played along, but you never gave an inch more than you wanted to.

Then, today happened.

You were gathered in the game room, mid-ping-pong match, when Quentin came sauntering down the stairs with that particular gleam in his eye—the one that meant he was about to stir the pot.

“Gentlemen—and Felicity, if you’re listening behind the wall—may I have your attention?”

The boys turned, lazily, like cats roused from a sunbeam. You set down your half-eaten toast.

“This,”

Quentin said, stepping aside dramatically,

“is my godson. Carl.”

A soaked, slightly stunned-looking teenager stepped into view. Proper trousers. Hair askew from the wind. Eyes like someone trying very hard not to look directly at anyone.

You squinted at him. He didn’t look like a Carl.

“He’ll be staying with us for a bit,”

Quentin continued,

“to find himself. Or lose himself. Or possibly get himself arrested. I’m open to any and all of the above.”

Heads turned. A few muttered “Oh God”s. One “Poor bastard.”

Carl stood just behind Quentin, dripping from the rain and looking like he’d been dropped onto another planet. His coat was too neat, his hair still trying to hold a proper part, and his hands didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. But his eyes? Curious. A little guarded. Like he’d seen things. Maybe even done things. Still, there was a boyish charm to him. And a nervous smile that suggested he was trying his best to blend in without combusting.

One by one, the lads circled in—thick accents, ridiculous nicknames, innuendos flying at speeds usually reserved for cricket balls and bullets. Carl took it all with good humor, laughing when appropriate, awkwardly smiling when not. He’d survive.

Eventually, all eyes turned to you.

Someone nudged your shoulder. “Go on, love. Your turn.”

You stepped forward, the only woman in a room full of chaotic boys and pirate radio legends. Your voice—familiar to millions—cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and testosterone like a vinyl needle hitting groove.

And now?

Now it’s your move.