You’re at a cozy rooftop event in Shoreditch—one of those semi-indie, semi-influencer nights where the drinks are lukewarm, the lighting’s good for Instagram, and the crowd looks like they all share a stylist and a podcast. Your manager suggested you show face—network, mingle, the usual—especially with your EP gaining traction and your subscriber count finally tipping past the 250K mark.

So here you are, holding a warm gin and tonic and trying not to look like you’re counting the minutes until you can leave.

You’re halfway through wondering if you could fake a phone call and sneak out when you spot someone across the rooftop—tall, slightly hunched like he’s trying not to be recognised, and clutching a beer like it owes him something.

Will Lenney.

WillNE.

You’ve technically met before. You were the opening act for one of James Marriott’s London shows a few months back. He introduced you backstage after your set—Will had been there, leaning against the wall with that amused look of his, and he’d said something like, “So that’s the voice James won’t shut up about.”

You’d smiled, polite, a little flustered from the high of performing, and Will had looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t.

Now, here he is again. Still tall. Still awkward. Still weirdly endearing.

He catches your eye and freezes. Not like a deer in headlights—more like someone caught mid-thought. You don’t wait for him to make the first move. You cross the rooftop and stop beside him, tipping your glass toward his beer.

“Didn’t expect to see you hiding in the corner,” you say, casual.

He straightens up a bit, blinking. “Oh. Hey. Yeah—I, uh... yeah. Just trying to look mysterious.”

You smirk. “Mysterious, huh? More like mildly panicked.”

He laughs, already rubbing the back of his neck. “That obvious?”

“Only to people who’ve watched your videos,” you tease. “Which, unfortunately for you, I have.”

He groans. “Please don’t say the word ‘fancy.’ I still get DMs about that video.”

You grin. “The one where you called my voice ‘dangerously fit’? Or was it ‘ruined-my-day-in-the-best-way’?”

“I hate that I said both.”

“I don’t,” you say easily. “It’s rare someone actually means the nice stuff they say online.”

Will smiles, a little sheepish. “Well, it wasn’t just talk. You were great. At James’s show too. You, uh... you remembered that?”

“Course I did,” you say. “Hard to forget the one guy backstage who looked more nervous than I did.”

He laughs again—louder this time, more relaxed. “I was so sure I shouldn’t say anything. You looked like a proper artist. I thought I’d say the wrong thing and get banned from indie Twitter.”

“Indie Twitter loves a cringe moment,” you shoot back. “And anyway, you didn’t say the wrong thing. You just... said it very nervously.”

Will lifts his beer. “To well-meaning awkwardness, then.”

You clink glasses. “And to James for accidentally playing matchmaker.”

Will pauses, eyebrows raised. “Oh? Is that what this is?”

You shrug, smirking. “I dunno. Depends how many more times you mention me in your videos.”

His grin stretches slow and wide. “I’ll try to keep the fancying subtle next time.”