You still had the poster with him on it.

Folded in half and tucked in the back of your closet like a secret you were too embarrassed to throw away. The one where his eyeliner was too thick, his hair still long, eyes wild with something that made your teenage self forget how to breathe.

Now he was brushing his teeth in your bathroom.

Half-naked, humming under his breath, wearing your oversized hoodie.

And you?

You were still trying to believe this wasn’t some dream. You weren’t just a fan anymore. You were his.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, catching your reflection in the mirror.

You blinked. “No, I’m not.”

He turned, his mouth full of foam, eyebrows raised. “You totally are.”

“Shut up,” you laughed, hiding your face in the sleeve of your hoodie.

He spat into the sink, wiped his mouth on a towel, and leaned against the counter with that grin he always wore when he knew he had you.

“Still can’t believe your teenage fantasy is real, huh?”

“It’s not a fantasy,” you muttered. “It’s… just weird sometimes. I used to scream your lyrics into my pillow. Now I steal your socks.”

He crossed the room in three slow steps, arms looping around your waist.

“You used to cry over my corny songs, and now you can have private concerts whenever you want.”

You giggled.

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “I like this version of you better.”