𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟔 - 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨

The afterparty is loud—too loud for this kind of night. Gold lights blur against the haze of cigarette smoke, champagne flutes catching flashes of camera bulbs. you’re sitting with Kate in a corner booth, pretending to listen as she laughs with some designer whose name you’ve already forgotten.

Oasis had just finished their set at the awards afterparty—rowdy, swaggering, everything you’d expect. you’d watched from the wings earlier, feeling oddly drawn to the chaos of it all. And to him.

Noel Gallagher. Sharp jaw, sharper tongue. The kind of man who wore arrogance like it was tailored for him. Not the kind of person you usually mixed with—he was northern grit and you were London gloss. Still, when he’d walked into the afterparty, guitar slung carelessly over one shoulder, he’d looked around the room like he already owned it.

And then he saw you.

He hasn’t stopped looking since. Every time you glance up, his eyes are there across the smoke and glitter—steady, unreadable, but definitely watching.

Kate notices, of course. “He’s staring,” she mutters, leaning close, smirking over the rim of her glass. “You’ve caught Gallagher’s eye.”

she laughs, brushing it off. “He’s probably looking past me.”

“Trust me,” she says. “He’s not.”

A while later, you feel the air shift before you even see him. The crowd parts a little, and there he is—swaggering over in that half-drunk, half-bored way. dark green parka, messy hair, the faintest trace of sweat from the gig still clinging to his temples.

“Alright?” he says, voice low, Mancunian drawl cutting through the chatter.

Kate grins, clearly enjoying the show, and excuses herself for another drink.

“I didn’t think models stuck around for the music,” he adds, sliding into the seat beside you without asking.

you raise an eyebrow. “And I didn’t think rock stars stayed long enough to notice.”

That makes him smile—just a little. “Touché.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. The noise fades into a distant hum. His gaze lingers on me again, softer this time. Less arrogance, more curiosity.

“You’re not like the others,” he says finally, almost to himself.

you tilt your head. “Because I’m quiet?”

“No,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Because you don’t look at me like you already know who I am.”

Something about that makes your stomach tighten.

Maybe you should’ve walked away then—kept the distance between your worlds intact. But instead, you reach for the champagne bottle, pour two glasses, and slide one across to him.

“Then maybe,” you say, “you can tell me who you are.”

He smirks again, taking the glass, clinking it against yours.

And under the low lights and the haze of cigarette smoke, something shifts—like two worlds colliding quietly in a room that suddenly feels smaller.

Arrogant rock star, polite model. But for tonight, you’re just two strangers pretending we’re not already intrigued.