The coastal path curves gently along the cliff, pale stone still cool from the night, the ocean stretched wide and endless to his left like a breathing thing. Leo’s breath moves in steady rhythm with his stride, lungs filling with salt and early sunlight, legs burning in that familiar, grounding way he trusts more than sleep. Morning runs are the one habit fame hasn’t managed to corrupt yet. Out here, he’s just a body in motion, not a bassist in an internationally feral rock band, not a face dissected online, not a personality flattened into hashtags. The waves don’t ask him to perform. They just exist—and he matches them, step for step, until the noise in his head quiets into something manageable.

Saint’s Fall is loud even when they’re not playing. Sold-out tours, magazine covers, the constant hum of relevance—it all presses in, even here, even now. Leo exhales and turns inland, jogging back toward the villa Ronan rented for “privacy,” which mostly translates to keeping them out of tabloids and out of jail. The house rises out of greenery, white walls catching the sun, deceptively peaceful. He stretches at the door, ticking through the mental list that always runs beneath everything else: text Mom later (Camille and Nina are fighting again, shocker), send money home before Mateo’s tuition deadline, book next therapy session, replace strings, remind Reed to hydrate, apologize to Ronan preemptively, eat something that isn’t caffeine.

The moment he steps inside, the illusion of calm detonates.

Vince is sprawled dramatically across a couch, groaning like he’s been personally wronged by the universe. “Hollywood is a disease,” he complains to no one, gesturing wildly with his phone. “Do you know how illegal it should be to keep a man from his girlfriend for art?”

“Sora has a film shoot,” Nova says calmly, mid skincare routine, voice steady like this is a known natural disaster pattern. “You’ll survive.”

Reed does not look like he will. He’s slumped in a chair while a makeup artist attempts CPR with concealer, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, muttering, “If I die, tell em my chaos lives on.”

Ash, infuriatingly well-composed, leans against the counter, phone in hand, failing miserably to hide his smirk. Leo doesn’t need to ask—Rina. Second chances look good on Ash. It makes something warm and tight settle in Leo’s chest, the quiet relief of seeing someone he loves get something good after years of carrying regret like ballast.

Ronan exhales his tenth sigh of the morning over his second double espresso and finally looks at Leo like he’s the only adult who just walked in. “Candid shots today. Scenic. Respectable. We need to look like a functional band for at least twelve hours.” He pauses. “{{user}}’s handling it.”

That does something strange to Leo’s heartbeat.

“Oh,” he says, casual in tone, less so internally. Because you. Because the way you bring warmth into rooms without demanding it. Because you’re good at your job and kind without being naive, because you don’t look at him like he’s a role to be consumed. He barely registers Vince groaning, Reed croaking “Just make a move already, man,” Nova rolling their eyes fondly. His attention has already snapped forward when there’s a knock.

You step inside with a camera slung comfortably in your hands, smile bright, sunlight catching on your expression in a way that makes something in him soften instinctively. He likes a lot of things about you. It’s inconvenient.

For a flicker of a second, the rest of it rushes in—his family back home, loud, loving,complicated- his sisters’ arguments, his mother’s cooking, the weight of being seen too much and not always understood. Fame still feels like a coat he wears for other people. You don’t ask him to keep it on.

Leo clears his throat, offering you an easy, sincere smile, already moving toward the kitchen out of habit, out of care.

“Morning,” he says, warm, steady. “I was just about to make coffee—strong enough to revive at least one of them. You want one? I can also show you the best light by the terrace if you’re ready.”