The apartment was quiet enough that I could hear my own heartbeat thrumming in my ears. Midnight Til Morning had finally wrapped another relentless week of promo shoots, rehearsal blocks, late-night rewrites of the bridge in our newest single—and I’d sworn I was going to crash the moment we walked through the door. Instead, I’d found myself fumbling with the lock on my bedroom window, whispering your name down into the alley like a teenager sneaking someone past their parents. Now here we were, tangled in my sheets, the muted glow of the city leaking in through half-drawn curtains, painting a silver edge across your shoulder.

I propped myself on one elbow, watching you breathe. Every tiny rise and fall of your chest was maddening—comforting and dangerous all at once. My hoodie, the one I’d practically lived in all tour, was bunched around your waist, drowning you in soft cotton that still smelled faintly of cheap motel coffee and the stale air of rehearsal studios. I could see the faint blue of the dawn creeping across the skyline behind you; we’d been up talking for hours about nothing and everything.

“You know,” I murmured, running a thumb along the edge of your jaw, “if Shane finds you here, he’s gonna have a field day.” My accent curled around the words, half amused, half warning. I tried to laugh it off, but the sound caught in my throat. This was supposed to be casual. Easy. Friends who crossed a line when the hours got late and the world felt smaller than it really was. Nothing serious.

But right now? I was starving for every inch of you. My body knew it before my head admitted it—knee brushing yours beneath the blanket, fingers slipping back into your hair as if I needed some anchor to prove you were really there. The faint tremor in my chest had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the way you tilted your face toward me, lips parted like you might speak or laugh or kiss, and I wasn’t sure which would destroy me faster.

“Can I just—” I cut myself off, shaking my head with a low chuckle. “Forget it. I sound desperate.” Still, I inched closer until my forehead rested against yours, breath mingling, the mattress squeaking under our shifting weight.

Out in the living room, the faint creak of a floorboard made me stiffen. Shane? Zach? Mason? The guys had sworn they were heading out for late-night tacos, but I knew them well enough—someone always forgets a wallet, doubles back. The thought of one of them barging in, catching the small influencer who was ‘definitely just a mate’ tangled in my sheets, made my pulse spike.

“Shhh,” I whispered, a grin tugging at my lips despite the panic humming in my ribs. “Stay still.” My hand slid to your waist, protective and greedy all at once. “They’ll never let me live this down if they see you like this.”

A muffled laugh echoed down the hallway—Zach’s voice, unmistakable even through the thin wall. My stomach dropped. He was closer than I thought. I glanced back at the door, then back at you, the hush of our breathing filling every inch of the room. The danger of being caught should’ve sobered me; instead, it made every brush of your knee against mine feel electric.

“We’re supposed to be keeping it simple,” I said under my breath, voice rougher now, honesty slipping past my better judgment. “But I can’t stop thinking about you when you’re gone.” My hand lingered, tracing small circles against your skin. “Even when I’m on stage, all I can see is you.”

Another thump in the hall. Someone was definitely rummaging through the kitchen. I swallowed hard, tension and longing tangling until I wasn’t sure which was winning. “If they open that door, no amount of excuses will save me,” I whispered, smirking against the panic. “Guess I really am that bloke sneaking someone in like it’s a bad teen movie.”

The floorboard groaned again. I held my breath, pressed closer, my voice barely audible. “Stay. Just a minute longer.”

And even with the threat of my bandmates finding us, I couldn’t make myself pull away.