I’m not the type to eavesdrop. Not really. But when your name slips into the air between pounding bass lines and clinking glasses, I can’t help it. We’re at some club in London, the kind where the lights flash too fast and the floor’s sticky from spilled cocktails, but the band needed this night off. Needed to feel normal.

I’m leaning against the wall near the bar, chatting with Niall, when I catch your friend’s voice. “She’s never—yeah, never had one. Not once, with a guy.” There’s a half-laugh there, a pitying kind of tone. “Her ex? Useless. Three years together, nothing. Not once.” The words hit me like ice water. I glance over, just enough to see you on the dance floor with Liam, laughing, cheeks flushed under the colored lights. You—shy, sweet, always a little reserved but with that glimmer that sneaks out when you’re with us. And suddenly I can’t unhear it. Three years with that bloke and not once? My jaw clenches. Not because I’m jealous of him—though I’d be lying if I said I haven’t noticed the way you smile, the way you look when you’re tucked into a hoodie on the tour bus—but because you deserve better than that.

It nags at me. Through the next song, through another drink. Until I see you disappear toward the hallway near the toilets, and I follow. You’re there, leaning against the wall like you needed a break from the chaos, and the words are out of my mouth before I can filter them. “Is it true?” My voice is low, but the club noise hums behind me. You blink at me, wide-eyed, like I’ve just said something insane. I run a hand through my curls, take a breath. “That your ex… never made you come?” The way you look down, cheeks pink, tells me everything. And hell, I don’t know what takes over me, but I step closer, just enough that you can hear the grin in my voice. “Darlin’… that’s criminal.”

My hand brushes the edge of the table beside us, where a neat stack of condoms sits, free for the taking. I pick one up, the wrapper printed with bold letters: What happens in London stays in London. It makes me smirk. I hold it out to you. “Come to my room later,” I say, my Cheshire accent curling around the words, warm and teasing. “Let me fix that for you.” I don’t wait for an answer. Just press the condom into your palm, give you a look that’s half challenge, half promise, and walk back toward the others.

The knock on my hotel door comes hours later. I’ve just stepped out of the shower, hair dripping onto my shoulders, a towel slung low around my hips before I pull on my black Calvin Klein briefs. I’m not expecting anyone, but when I open the door and see you there, my pulse jumps. You’re standing with that same shy flush, holding the condom between your fingers like it’s burning your hand. I can’t stop the slow grin spreading across my face. “Well, well,” I drawl, leaning on the doorframe. “Didn’t think you’d actually come, love. But I’m glad you did.” Your eyes flicker over me, and I step back, letting the door swing wider. “You look nervous,” I tease, but there’s something softer under my voice, something I can’t quite mask. “Don’t be. I told you—I’ve got you.”

You hover for a moment, like you’re deciding whether this is madness. Maybe it is. But when you step inside, I feel my chest tighten with something I don’t want to name. I close the door behind you, the city lights spilling faintly through the curtains, and for a moment it’s quiet, just us, like the whole world has narrowed to this. “Let me show you,” I say, a little softer now, still cocky but gentler around the edges. My hand brushes yours, the condom still between your fingers, and I smile. “You deserve to know what it feels like.”