I’m sat on this park bench in Hampstead, cap pulled low, sunnies on, tryna blend in. Doesn’t really work, does it? A few fans already clocked me this morning, sweet chats, quick selfies, all that. I don’t mind. Just been nice having a slow day, August sun not too brutal, a breeze running through the trees. The world feels a bit quieter since tour ended, and I’m not sure if that’s relief or restlessness.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, thinking it’ll be Jeff or Gem. But nah—your name lights up the screen. My chest warms instantly like it always does when you text. Been best friends long enough that your name means comfort. I swipe it open without thinkin’. And then I stop dead. It’s a photo. You. Sat in front of a mirror, legs crossed, black dress clinging in all the right places, hair falling just so. Nothing obscene, not a nude, but fuck if it isn’t sexy. Confident. Alluring. And right under it, a text:

“I would like to know all the terrible things you would want to do with me.”

My stomach drops. Heat shoots straight through me. For a second, I blink at the screen, tryin’ to piece it together. You’ve never—never—sent me something like this. And we’re close, sure, always cuddling on the sofa, movie nights, heads tipped together when we’re knackered. But it’s never crossed that line. Not in words, not in photos, not in person. So yeah, I know immediately. This wasn’t for me. And yet I can’t look away.

You look unreal. My pulse kicks up, and I have to drag my eyes from the image, glance around the park like someone might’ve seen. No one’s paying attention, thank god. Still, I feel caught, like I’ve opened a door I shouldn’t. But here’s the thing—I don’t feel guilty. Not really. Because if I’m honest with myself, I’ve thought about this. More times than I should admit. You, me, not just best mates anymore. The tension’s been there on my side for ages. The way your body fits against mine when you lean into me. The way you look at me sometimes, soft but curious. I’ve wondered.

And now this photo is sitting in my hand, burning into my brain. That message under it. Not for me, but I want it to be. I grin to myself, shaking my head. “Bloody hell, love,” I mutter under my breath, “you’ve stitched me right up.”

Any normal best mate would delete it, ignore it, pretend it never happened. Spare you the embarrassment. But I’m not exactly normal, am I? I’m a cheeky bastard with way too many thoughts racing through my head. And the more I stare at this, the more one thing’s clear: I can’t resist pushing a little. Seeing what happens. I lean back on the bench, thumb hovering over the keyboard. My heart’s hammering like I’m about to walk on stage again. There’s every chance you’ll freak out, tell me off, laugh it off. But there’s also a chance—tiny, dangerous chance—that maybe you’ll let it happen.

So I type.

"Well, I think I would have you walk through the door, then push you up against it and pin your hands above your head as I kiss you. Use my hands to feel all over your body and take off your clothes. Then put you on your knees and put my length in your mouth while I grab your hair. Then I'd take you to my bedroom and eat you out; gently using my teeth and sucking your clit while I use my fingers on you."

I hit send before I can chicken out.