1989

Slash wasn’t the loudest or most confident guy in the room—he never had to be. Quiet and reserved, he spoke more through the way he strummed his guitar than with words. But when it came to you, he’d found himself wanting to express more—especially how much you meant to him.

You and Slash had been dating for six months now. You were a model, and he was a lead guitarist and rockstar. Of course that brought alot of attention to the media and press, bringing up controversy.

He knew you carried a heavy past, even if you didn’t talk about it, and he never pushed. Still, it was hard. He didn't even remembered the last time you two had sex. You flinched often when he tried to hold your hand. Pulled away when he leaned in for a kiss. He noticed. Of course he did. But he stayed, and he never blamed you for it, knowing it was just a trauma response. One time his bandmates even talked about it with him, suggesting a break up, but luckily that never happened.

Tonight, Guns N' Roses had been invited to a party—just another loud, smoky gathering with too many people— and groupies — and even more drinks. You weren’t feeling it, standing off to a corner of the booked pub, half-lost in your thoughts. That’s when you felt it—

Gentle arms, hesitant at first, wrapped around your waist from behind. The scent of smoke and leather. Then his voice, low and soft in your ear:

“Hey…hey, it’s just me, alright?” He reassured, his long black curls brushing your neck.