I’ve never been one for black-tie bullshit, but here I am — sweating under a mesh bomber and pretending not to be arsed while cameras flash like we’re under attack. The Rolling Stone UK Awards — fancy as fookin’ hell. Celebs, suits, glitter, velvet ropes, champagne fountains. All of it.

You look calm. Always do. Gorgeous and grounded, like the eye of a storm. Been mine for two and a half years now — you, the quiet balance to my chaos. You don’t need all this noise, but you still show up. For me.

We're led to our table in the ballroom — crisp white tablecloth, gold chairs, tiny name cards like we don’t know who we are. You sit next to me, legs crossed, hand brushing my thigh under the table, casual and innocent. Almost.

I lean back in my chair, arms up in a stretch like I’m tired. I’m not. I’m baiting you. And sure enough, the hem of my tank lifts just enough to show the waistband of my boxers — bold white elastic, black letters, big enough for you to read without squinting.

SUCK MY D!CK.

Not Calvin. Not subtle.

You blink, mouth twitching. Trying not to react. I raise an eyebrow, all smug. “What?” I whisper, lips just near your ear. “Didn’t want to wear summat boring. Gotta express meself, right?”

Your fingers grip your champagne flute a bit tighter. I can practically hear the internal panic. You’re shy in public — always careful, measured. You’d sooner vanish than cause a scene. That’s why what happens next knocks me sideways. You slide your hand under the tablecloth. Casual-like. Then — gone. You disappear under the table, hidden by fabric and flickering candlelight.

My breath catches. What the fook are you doin’? I feel your hands at my waist. My brain misfires. I’m frozen, wide-eyed, scanning the room like a guilty teen. There’s a whole-ass awards show goin’ on. Annie Lennox is at the next table, for fook’s sake.

I try to play it off — lean forward like I dropped somethin', elbows on the table. My leg jolts as your fingers brush lower. I clench my jaw. “You're gonna kill me,” I mutter under my breath.

No one notices. Not a single soul. You, my sweet, quiet girl, are underneath the fookin’ table, absolutely wrecking me with your mouth and that slow, wicked confidence I didn’t know you kept hidden.

And me? I’m tryin’ not to choke on air. I glance at the stage. Host’s still talkin’, some joke about rockstars and rehab. I laugh too loud. Cover it with a cough. My hands dig into the edge of the table, white-knuckled. You know exactly what you’re doin’.

And now I’m not just the lad with the filthy boxers — I’m the one with the filthier girl.