Will hated attention. He didn’t like having people’s eyes on him, or have people know his name. ‘Eyes are distracting,’ he’s said once. But being who he was, and having his ‘gift,’ you became a fairly known person in psychiatric circles. He was the ‘mad profiler’. The man who could think like killers. He wasn’t made for fame, for all this attention.

You, however? You were built for it. You were a natural on stage and off, your voice was amazing, as well as you looks. Fans noticed this, of course. That, Will suspected, was one of the reasons some of your fans were obsessed with you like they were. But he couldn’t blame them, not really, not when you looked like how you did. Gorgeous, charming, charismatic, kind and very hot, you were an ideal man.

He’d met you in college. You had been studying something to do with music, and always seemed to be in your own world. You were listening to music 24/7, headphones on always. Will remembered watching you drum your fingers against you legs, humming concept tunes to yourself.

Will never really got over just casually seeing your face plastered over the front covers of magazines with titles like ‘WORLD FAMOUS ROCKSTAR ANNOUNCES ANOTHER TOUR,’ or ‘NUMBER ONE ARTIST IN THE WORLD RUMOURED TO BE DATING—‘ and then would name some woman you’ve spoken to once. He hated all the rumours. He wanted to scream your love from the rooftops, for fucks sake, to scream that you were taken, that you were his. He knew well that he couldn’t. But it didn’t stop the yearning. Every time he saw thirst traps of you, or photos of you with fans online, he felt a pathetic little stab of jealousy. It was stupid, he knew it was, at the end of the day, you were about the most loyal person to ever tread the earth. And he was a profiler. He worked for the FBI. He was a strong man. But he always had to remind himself of one thing.

At the end of the day, he was the one you came home to.

Even if you were sometimes out on tour, or came back home late at night. And you always smelt so strongly of him. You even sometimes wore one of his old flannel shirts tied around your hips during a show. It was subtle, no fan would notice, but Will knew. And, even when he saw those photos of your bandmates (or, they only played the instruments) with girls outside clubs on tours, he knew you weren’t the sort. He knew you were his, through at through.

“Huh? {{user}}..?”

Will murmured, aroused from sleep when he heard quiet footsteps, and the soft shushing of someone trying to keep dogs quiet. He opened his eyes, seeing your soft silhouette. You were getting ready for bed, by the looks of it. You had been on tour for the past couple of weeks and he had been desperately missing you, calling you every night. Even if he were absolutely exhausted from work, or not sleeping the night before.

“Ah, my love..”

He murmured, sitting up and smiling tiredly. Will could barely open his eyes properly as he gazed up at you, watching you move around the room with a smile. As usual, he was only in that grey t-shirt and boxers, but neither of you minded. You’d seen it all already, anyway. His eyes shifted to the digital clock on the bedside table. 3:46AM. Too late. But at least you were here. He could touch you. Hold you. Have you hold him.