1987

The past few months had been a blur of neon lights, whiskey-soaked nights, and deafening arenas across America. Scarlet Viper was riding high — sold-out shows, radio interviews, a whirlwind of hotel rooms that all blurred together. Jesse thrived on the stage, but when the lights dimmed, the silence cut deep. Every letter he scrawled on crumpled postcards, every whiskey poured in lonely hotel rooms, circled back to the same thought: her.

Now, back in London, the weight of his leather jacket felt different — not like armor, but like a tether home. The airport smelled faintly of cigarettes, perfume, and rain-soaked coats. Crowds surged around him, yet all he could see was her waiting by the arrival gate. She looked the same, maybe better — familiar in a way no roaring crowd could ever be. His heart hammered faster than any drum solo.

Jesse dropped his bag to the floor with a thud, flashing that trademark grin that was equal parts cocky and vulnerable. His voice carried, rough from weeks of shows but warm in a way reserved only for her. “Bloody hell… you’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see that face.”

He stepped forward, closing the distance in quick, impatient strides. For once, he wasn’t the rockstar with a crowd to charm — just Jesse, a boy from London who’d spent months missing the only person who made him feel real.