Archive of Our Own

“Why are we here again?” Ashton’s voice carries over the hum of chatter and the occasional burst of screaming from the floor, somewhere behind Calum as security leads them toward their box.

Calum rolls his eyes, even though Ashton can’t see it. “To see a concert.”

The closer they get, the more the sound swells. Thick, almost physical, the way the roar of tens of thousands of people seems to press against your skin. From up here, even with the stage still bathed in shadow and the opening act just starting, the air is electric. He hasn’t been in this kind of crowd in a while, not since before the season swallowed him whole, and something about it makes him feel fifteen again, nervous and restless, waiting for the lights to drop.

When he’d flown back home for his break, he’d thought he’d spend the first few days in a blissful state of nothing. Sleeping, walking his dog, maybe getting drunk somewhere dim. But then he’d heard that Luke Hemmings was doing three nights at Wembley, and all of a sudden nothing else felt like a valid option. He’d bought the box before he even called the others. Convincing Michael had been a matter of mentioning unlimited beer and stadium food. Ashton had taken more effort, frowning like Calum had suggested they attend a poetry reading in a laundromat.

The security guard opens the box door, and they step inside. Big glass windows stretch across the front, framing the stadium like it’s a picture. Waves of people, little glints of phone screens in the growing dark. Tables and leather seats, a buffet of snacks. Michael beelines for the mini fridge, fishing out three beers and popping them open with an easy twist.

“I mean,” Ashton says again, accepting his beer. “Why are we here?”

Before Calum can answer, Michael’s already got his mouth full of chips. “You can’t possibly be this slow,” he says, half-chewing. “Calum wants to get into this guy’s pants.”

Calum smirks, eyes fixed on the view as he takes a long sip.

Ashton perks up, eyebrows raised. “Do you?”

Calum just shrugs, smile hidden behind the rim of his bottle.

Calum’s not one to chase. On the pitch, maybe. In life, not so much. But Luke Hemmings has been everywhere lately. Press, TV, even half the music blaring in the locker room. It’s not just that he’s huge right now. He’s huge, the kind of career people write books about, the kind of fame where even people who don’t know a single song still know his name. Three sold-out Wembleys. Who even does that?

But it’s not just the success. That’s the easy part to explain. It’s him.

Luke’s face is the kind that makes photographers fall in love with their own jobs, sharp jaw and long lines, but soft where it matters. Not handsome in that blunt, obvious way, but beautiful. The sort of beauty that feels a bit disarming, like you’re not supposed to be looking at it for too long. Blue eyes that seem brighter on stage than in any photo. That mess of blonde curls that look almost like they’d be warm to touch. And lips, Christ, full and pink enough to make you wonder what it’d be like if they brushed your jaw, your neck, anywhere.

Calum does want him. Wants him in the simplest, most physical sense. But there’s something else, too. Something in the way Luke moves, in the way his voice pulls people closer even when he’s halfway across a stadium. It’s like the man carries his own gravity, bending the air around him, and Calum’s already leaning toward it before the first note’s even hit.

And yeah, maybe he hadn’t exactly pictured himself here tonight, beer in hand, staring out at a stadium full of people about to lose their collective minds over one man, but he is, and he has a plan.

It’s not what you’d call elaborate. There’s no twelve-step master strategy, no map with little pins and arrows, but the bones are there. And Calum’s a big believer in bones. He knows himself, knows that when he decides he wants something, really wants it, he usually gets it. Not because he’s arrogant (though some might say so), but because he’s confident, calculated. He can turn charm on like a switch, adjust it to the right wattage for whoever’s in front of him. He’s got moves, and those moves tend to work.

And all of them, tonight, are aimed at one goal: get Luke Hemmings’ number. 

He takes another swallow of beer, the bottle cool in his hand, and steps up to the glass. From here, the stadium stretches out like a living thing, waves of heads and arms, phone lights already flickering like fireflies in the dark. The opening act is somewhere down there, a blur of movement and sound, but Calum barely registers them. His attention drifts to the crowd instead, to the way their energy swells in ripples, how they scream at every drumbeat, like they’re already primed for the real show.

He’s been to Wembley more times than he can count. Big games, pressure-cooker matches, moments where the roar of the fans vibrates in your teeth. But this is different. There’s no grass underfoot, no painted lines. The air smells faintly of sugar and beer, not turf. The massive stage eats up where the pitch should be, a dark monolith draped in lights and promise. It feels more theatrical, more... intimate, somehow, despite the scale.

Ashton drifts up on his right, Michael on his left, both leaning on the railing beside him. Ashton lets out a low whistle. “Massive.”

Calum just hums in agreement, eyes still sweeping the space. He tries to imagine what it’s like to walk out into this, thousands of faces tilting toward you, that tidal wave of noise hitting you square in the chest. He wonders what Luke’s thinking in the wings right now. If his heart pounds the way Calum’s does before a penalty kick. If he thrives on it.

Because that’s part of it, too. The draw. Not just Luke’s face or his voice or that stupidly magnetic stage presence. It’s the knowledge that this man commands entire cities for a night. That he can pull people from all over the world into one place, make them scream, make them cry, make them remember. And Calum? Calum wants to see up close what that kind of power feels like.

He leans his forearms against the glass, beer dangling loosely from one hand, and lets his mind wander. He pictures Luke somewhere in the maze behind the stage, backstage corridors lit too bright, muffled by the throb of bass. He wonders if Luke has a ritual. Some musicians have prayers, others scream, others pace. Does Luke hum under his breath to warm up? Does he take slow breaths in a quiet corner? Or is he so deep into this life by now that stepping on stage feels as natural as walking into his own kitchen?

The questions pile up, rapid and unfiltered, and Calum’s surprised by how badly he wants each answer. Especially one.

Because he’s seen the videos, grainy TikToks, crystal-clear clips on Instagram, and he’s noticed the clothes. The way Luke dresses for the stage isn’t random. If he’s picking his own outfits, then the man knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows how to lace the knife and twist it with a single choice of fabric.

Tank tops that cling to his shoulders and leave his arms on full display. Thin tees that hang just enough to flash a hint of collarbone when he moves. Button-downs that are always left half-undone, framing his chest like it’s art.

Calum tips his head back slightly, half-smiling to himself. If he had to choose, he’d pick the button-down tonight. Something loose, soft, maybe black, with just enough undone buttons to blur the line between accident and intention. That slow reveal, that hint of skin catching the lights, it’d be impossible not to look.

And he wants to look. Wants to see the way Luke’s body moves under stage heat, how the fabric sticks or falls, how the crowd reacts when he pushes the mic stand away and steps forward like he’s letting them all in on something private.

Calum takes another sip of beer, the carbonation fizzing against his tongue, and realizes he’s already wound tight with anticipation. Luke hasn’t even walked out yet, and still, the man has his full attention.

While they wait for the opening act to finish their set, they work their way through more beer and enough greasy food to undo months of training-table discipline. Chips, hot dogs, burgers loaded with cheese, it’s all there, and they’re not holding back.

It feels good to be here. Not just because Luke Hemmings will walk out any minute now, but because for the first time in months, Calum’s allowed to just… be. Drink as much beer as he likes without thinking about the morning weigh-in. Sit back and let the noise wash over him without a single thought about formations or upcoming fixtures. 

And, yeah, he likes spending time with Michael and Ashton outside the pitch and the locker rooms, though he’d never admit that out loud. Not unless he liked being reminded of it for the rest of his career. The trouble is, moments like these, when they’re all relaxed and happy, are also when the teasing starts.

“You couldn’t just DM the bloke or something?” Ashton says, half a pretzel sticking out the corner of his mouth as he drops onto the leather sofa. “Had to drag us to one of his concerts?”

Michael barks a laugh. “Ashton, you live under a fucking rock? Do you know how many followers he’s got?”

“Millions, yeah, alright—” Ashton rolls his eyes.

“Tens of millions,” Michael corrects, pointing at him with a chip. “You think Cal’s sliding into those DMs and getting a reply? Nah, mate. You’ve got to make an impression.”

Calum tips his beer toward Michael in agreement, then takes a slow sip. 

The truth is, he could’ve tried the DM route. Could’ve sent something cheeky, tested the waters. But does Luke even run his own Instagram? Some posts feel too personal, messy mirror selfies, grainy shots from hotel balconies, while others are so clean and polished they’ve clearly been passed through the hands of a PR team. Maybe it’s a mix. Maybe it depends on his mood. Calum can’t tell, and honestly, he doesn’t want to. Sliding into someone’s inbox is easy. Forgettable.

No, he wants to do this the right way. See the man in his element first. Watch him own the stage, and then, later, step into his orbit with something tangible, something that might make him pause. Introduce himself, get him laughing, see those stupidly blue eyes up close.

“And how’re you planning to impress this man, then?” Ashton asks, tone laced with disbelief. He’s sat back with his beer like he’s ready to watch Calum embarrass himself.

Calum doesn’t bother answering with words. Instead, he slips a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and flicks a small, looped object into Ashton’s lap.

Ashton blinks down at it. “What’s this?”

The light catches on little coloured beads strung along an elastic thread.

Ashton stares at it like Calum’s just handed him a dead mouse. “You’re giving him a friendship bracelet?”

“It’s a thing in his fanbase,” Calum says with a shrug, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “Don’t know how it started. But they are a thing. Made it last night.”

He tries to play it off, but it hadn’t exactly been effortless. He’d spent half an hour prowling the aisles of a craft store, sunglasses on, hood up, grabbing one of those plastic bead kits like a criminal. Then another couple of hours at his kitchen counter, string tangled around his fingers, beads scattering across the floor, muttering curses that would’ve made his mom smack the back of his head.

Michael leans over from his chair to see. The moment he clocks the lettering on the beads, he lets out another bark of laughter and abandons his seat altogether, plonking down beside Ashton so they can both hold it up.

“It’s got your number on it!” Michael cackles, throwing his head back so far Calum’s surprised he doesn’t topple over. He claps his hands together, visibly delighted. “Calum, you genius.”

Ashton just shakes his head, though Calum catches the ghost of a grin. “So that’s your grand plan? Hand him a bracelet like you’re in Year Six and hope for the best?”

Calum grins, takes the bracelet from their hands and shoves it back into his pocket. “Worked for me before.”

What he doesn’t say is that this isn’t just some daft gimmick. It’s a bet on timing. A bet on catching Luke right after he’s lit up an entire stadium, when adrenaline’s high and the world’s still humming in his ears. When the right kind of smile and a stupid little bracelet might just be enough to plant a seed.

Ashton opens his mouth, ready to fire off another jab, when the entire stadium suddenly plunges into darkness. The sound that follows is immediate, visceral, a tidal wave of screaming so loud it rattles the glass in front of them. The three of them jolt instinctively, like they’ve just been dropped into cold water.

Calum’s beer is forgotten on the table. He’s already at the front of the box. Michael and Ashton shuffle up beside him, drawn by the noise, by the shift in the air.

It’s dark, properly dark, except for the sea of phone screens, like thousands of stars blinking back at them. And then the wristbands start flashing, waves of blue rolling across the stadium, washing over the crowd like an electric tide.

Calum’s heartbeat syncs with it, heavy and insistent, alcohol and adrenaline rushing together in his veins. His body feels sharp at the edges, every nerve awake. He doesn’t even notice he’s leaning forward until his forehead nearly taps the glass.

Luke Hemmings steps into the light like he’s been conjured, spotlight snapping onto him as if the entire world’s been waiting for this exact second. The noise doubles, deafening, but Calum barely hears it over the hammering in his chest. For a moment, it doesn’t even feel like a real man standing there. It feels like something else. Something other.

Calum’s eyes flicker between the stage and the massive screens above, desperate to get closer, to take in every detail. 

The first thing he notices are the curls. Messy but deliberate, spilling into Luke’s face, catching the stage lights like spun gold. They sway when he moves, framing him, softening what should be all sharp edges and making him look heartbreakingly untouchable.

Then his eyes. Even with half his features obscured, they cut through, bright, impossible, indecent in their intensity. Dark shimmer dusts his lids, catching the glare, making the blue beneath sharper, brighter, so arresting it feels dangerous. Flecks of silver foil confetti cling stubbornly to his skin, glittering like stars that have chosen him to orbit. Calum’s pulse stutters, drops, climbs again, an endless dizzy loop.

And then his gaze dips lower. No button-down tease like Calum had hoped for. This is worse. So much worse. A baby-blue tank, thin straps biting into those broad shoulders. Fabric that dips scandalously low, baring a long stretch of throat, sharp collarbones, even the faint dusting of chest hair that gleams under the lights. Around his neck, a slim necklace, more choker than chain, hugging indecently close, flashing every time he turns.

And the confetti. Christ, the confetti. Scattered over his chest like it belongs there, clinging to warm skin, catching every inhale, every exhale. Dusting the hollow between collarbones, trailing lower into the place the shirt barely covers. The sight is maddening, like Luke has stepped straight out of Calum’s fever dream, painted in glitter and temptation.

On the screen, Luke grins and lifts a hand in greeting. That smile is what undoes it. Wide and achingly beautiful. Too easy, too effortless, and the effect is catastrophic. The sound from the crowd rockets up another level, so loud Calum feels it in his ribs, like the whole roof might blow off. 

Luke turns slowly, making sure every section of Wembley knows he sees them. Knows they belong to him tonight. Every scream, every heartbeat, every drop of attention pulled into his orbit.

He strolls to the centre of the stage where the mic stand waits, all long limbs and casual grace, and wraps both hands around the microphone. He looks out over the sea of faces, eyes glittering under the lights.

“London,” he says, voice deep and warm, carrying easily over the roar. The single word alone makes the stadium convulse, thousands screaming back at him. He laughs softly into the mic, the sound bright with disbelief. “God, I’ve missed you. Three nights at Wembley, and we’re only just getting started.”

The cheers rise again, a wall of sound, and Luke just smiles wider, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe it himself.

Beside him, Ashton leans in, voice pitched just enough to cut through the chaos. “He is so out of your league.”

Calum doesn’t even spare him a glance. His smirk curves slow and certain, eyes fixed on the man bathed in light. “We’ll see.”

—

Luke is amazing on stage. Though even amazing feels too small. Any word would. None of them touch it. He’s breathtaking, magnetic in a way that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. The thought of glancing away, even for a second, feels like a risk Calum isn’t willing to take.

He’s charming without trying, radiating confidence with every step, every shift of his body. He doesn’t need backup dancers. Doesn’t even need anyone else on stage, his band tucked behind curtains, out of sight. It’s just him. Him and a microphone. And somehow, that’s more than enough.

God, and his voice.

Calum knew Luke could sing. Everyone knew. But knowing and hearing are two very different things. His voice cuts straight through the air, every note landing like it was carved for this exact moment. He sings with intent, like each lyric has weight, like every movement of his mouth has been sharpened into a weapon.

The songs are sad, most of them are, laced with heartbreak, shadows. And Calum finds himself caught on that, wondering how someone like Luke has carried those kinds of feelings. Wondering what it cost him to turn them into something so beautiful. The sadness doesn’t push Calum away. It only makes him want more. Makes him want him. And yet, even wrapped in melancholy, Calum feels giddy. The sound thrums through him, buzzing under his skin, filling his bones. It’s addictive, euphoric.

Between songs, Luke laughs into the mic, says a few words, thanks the fans, teases them, tells little stories. It should break the spell, but somehow it only deepens it. Calum can’t explain it, but Luke has this impossible way of making you feel like he’s talking right to you. Singing for you. Like the thousands of others screaming around him are just background noise. That’s connection. That’s power.

Calum doesn’t sit down for a single second. Sitting feels wrong, disrespectful, like not standing in the presence of something holy. Michael and Ashton stay up with him, though they tease him whenever they can. They sing along to the choruses they know, nudge him in the ribs, mutter that someone should mop the floor under his feet for all the drool. Fair enough. Because it’s not just that Luke is beautiful. Not just that he’s talented. He’s funny. He’s sexy. He’s alive in a way that feels contagious, electric.

And Calum spends the better part of an hour stacking adjectives in his head, none of them quite capturing what’s happening to him. All he knows is that he can’t wait to meet him.

—

Security escorts Luke down the corridor, still buzzing like a live wire. The roar of the crowd hasn’t left him yet, it’s stitched into his bones, ringing in his ears, humming under his skin. He can still see it all when he closes his eyes. The lights, the sea of faces, arms reaching up like they could touch him if they screamed loud enough. He loves it. The rush is untouchable, impossible to explain to anyone who hasn’t felt it. He feels electric. Sweaty. Invincible.

Wembley. His first show here, with two more to go. It should feel impossible, and in a way it does. He keeps waiting to wake up, heart pounding in some Sydney bedroom, fifteen years old again and scribbling song lyrics into the corner of a maths notebook. Even now, after all he’s survived and rebuilt, some part of him still struggles to believe this is where he’s landed. Not because he doubts himself, not anymore, but because it’s wild to think he crawled out from the wreckage of who he used to be and somehow ended up here.

By the time he reaches the dressing room, his body’s starting to register the come-down. Every muscle aches, his legs are jelly, his throat raw, his feet sore inside his shoes. The good kind of pain, earned pain, but heavy all the same. He wants a shower that will scrape the glitter from his skin, the greasiest food London has to offer, and then a long stretch of uninterrupted sleep.

He pushes open the door. His dad and brothers are already sprawled across the room. He grins despite himself, thanks security, and shuts the door behind him.

“Sick show, dude,” Jack says, tossing a water bottle without warning. Luke catches it, laughs breathlessly, and gulps down half of it in one go. His lungs still feel tight, heart still climbing down from that stage-high.

Having them here is one of the best parts of tour life. He loves performing regardless, but knowing his family are watching him, cheering him on instead of just teasing from the sidelines? It makes the whole thing bigger. Warmer. Fans notice them too, their wrists stacked with friendship bracelets from the pit, proof they’ve been claimed by Luke’s people. He loves that. Loves that his worlds bleed into each other like that.

His dad pulls him in for a hug, presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead like he’s still a boy. Ben claps him hard on the back and immediately wrinkles his nose.

“You stink,” Ben says, laughing.

Luke laughs with him, collapsing into a chair, head tipping back, chest still heaving. He takes another sip of water, the cool sliding down his throat, and lets their voices wash over him. They talk about the size of the stadium, how deafening the screams were, how good he sounded.

“This may be one of the loudest crowds to date,” his dad says, eyes still wide, smile fond and a little awestruck. “It was crazy.”

Jack and Ben both nod, buzzing just as much as him.

“They’re fucking nuts for you, man,” Ben says, shaking his head like he still can’t believe it. “Proud big brother moment.”

Warmth spreads through Luke’s chest. If you’d told that awkward fifteen-year-old version of him that one day his brothers would be here, hugging him, complimenting him, instead of tripping him in the hallway or locking him in the pantry, he never would’ve believed it.

He’s about to ask where his mom is when the dressing room door swings open, and there she is, smiling so big it could outshine the floodlights outside.

“You were amazing, sweetie,” she says, and before he can even get to his feet, she’s crossing the room, bending down to hug him tight. 

Luke doesn’t think he’d be here without her. All the nights she stayed up worrying, all the times she kept the faith when he’d lost it completely. Even when he was a stupid, stubborn, broken twenty-year-old, telling everyone to leave him the fuck alone, she hadn’t listened. None of them had. They’d stayed. She’d stayed.

She presses one last kiss into his hair, then moves to the couch to sit beside his dad.

“By the way,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “do you know a Calum Hood?”

Luke frowns, raising a brow. “I don’t think so.”

Jack makes a strangled sound, halfway between disbelief and laughter. He nearly drops his phone. “What? How do you not know who Calum Hood is?”

Luke shrugs, still catching his breath, not seeing what the fuss is about. “Am I supposed to? Is he like… another singer or something?”

Jack gapes at him, scandalized. “Singer? Dude.” He whirls to Ben, who’s staring at Luke like he’s sprouted a second head. Even their dad, usually unshakable, looks faintly stunned.

Luke tilts his head, a little amused now at how dramatic they’re being. “Well, who is he then?”

“He’s only one of the greatest footballers playing right now,” Jack says, eyes wide like Luke’s committed a crime. “He plays for Manchester.”

Luke’s frown only deepens, confusion tugging at his mouth. What on earth does one of the greatest footballers playing right now have to do with him?

“He was at the show tonight,” his mom says, watching the way Luke blinks at her like she’s speaking another language. “Wanted to meet you. Insisted on it, actually.”

Luke barks out a laugh, incredulous. “A footballer? Wanting to meet me?”

But Jack and Ben clearly think this is the best news they’ve heard all night. They start tripping over each other’s words, voices climbing over one another in excitement. “He came to the show?” “Wait, he was actually here?”

Luke leans back in his chair, exhausted and amused in equal measure, watching his brothers carry on like schoolboys who’ve just seen their favorite striker in the flesh.

His mom just shakes her head, smiling at the both of them. “He even made you a friendship bracelet,” she adds lightly. “Came up to the team, tried to get through to talk to you, but they explained how the logistics work.”

For a beat, Luke can only stare at her. A footballer, Manchester United’s Calum Hood, apparently, at his show. Wanting to meet him. Making him a bracelet like some teenage fan with glitter glue and too much time on their hands.

A laugh bubbles out of him, softer this time. “That’s… wild,” he says, shaking his head as he pulls at the damp hem of his tank top. “Why would a footballer wanna meet me? Don’t people usually chase them around, not the other way round?”

“Because you’re you, dude,” Jack says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you have any idea how big you are right now?”

Ben cuts in, leaning forward, animated. “And Calum Hood’s not just any footballer. He’s the guy right now. Everyone in the Premier League’s talking about him. He doesn’t just go making bracelets for people.”

Luke blinks, the detail snagging in his brain again. A bracelet. “Wait, hang on—he actually made one?”

His mom nods, smiling like it’s the sweetest thing in the world. “He did. They offered to give it to you for him, but he wanted to do it himself.”

Something twists in Luke’s chest. It should be easy to brush off, to laugh about. But instead he pictures it vividly. Some world-class athlete sitting at a table, threading beads onto string, his name on his lips while he works. It’s such a ridiculous, tender image it makes Luke’s throat go tight.

“Jesus,” Luke mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s… kind of insane.” He pauses, quieter now, almost like it slips out without his permission. “Kinda nice, though.”

Jack grins instantly, like he’s just caught him out. “Ohhh, Luke’s got himself a fanboy. Careful, don’t go breaking the poor guy’s heart.”

Luke huffs out a laugh, tossing a towel at him. “Shut up.” But his mind’s already elsewhere, back in the stadium, back in the noise, and now circling a single name he didn’t even know an hour ago.

Calum Hood.

—

Back at the hotel, Luke caves and looks Calum Hood up, just to put a face to the name. He’s not disappointed.

The guy is handsome in a way that feels almost unfair. Tan skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, tattoos crawling down his arms, lips soft and full, eyes a deep, bottomless brown. There’s a boyishness to his smile in photos, bright and unguarded, that makes Luke huff out a laugh. It’s ridiculous, sitting here in a hotel room in London, scrolling through Google Images like some kind of teenager, but he can’t stop imagining this big, broad-shouldered footballer hunched over a pile of beads and string, threading them together like it’s life or death. It’s absurd. And absurdly cute.

Luke leans back against the headboard, shaking his head. He’s never cared about football, never planned to. That was always Jack and Ben and his dad, crowded around the television, swearing at referees and screaming when someone scored. Luke would sit on the edge of the couch, trying to follow what was happening, usually giving up halfway through and sneaking out with his guitar. Football never belonged to him. And now here he is, staring at a footballer. Not for the sport, not for the records, but because apparently this man decided to spend his evening at Wembley with a bracelet ready for him.

The thought alone makes his chest go tight. Makes his cheeks warm in the low lamplight. Maybe it’s stupid, but there’s something oddly flattering about it, almost sweet. And maybe, just maybe, he’s a little sorry they didn’t get the chance to meet. He wonders briefly what Calum Hood might be like in person. If he’s awkward. If he’s cocky. If he’d actually try to hand him that bracelet. 

He pushes the thought away. Tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’ll probably never hear about the guy again.

Except he does.

Calum Hood resurfaces weeks later, when Ben drops a video into the family group chat with about six flame emojis and a you guys need to watch this now. Luke frowns at his phone, thumb hovering. The clip is from some sports podcast, Calum’s the guest of the month. He considers ignoring it. But curiosity is a stubborn thing. He taps play.

The sound fills his hotel room as he towel-dries his curls. He’s in Dublin now, a couple of days off before the next set of shows, and he’s making the most of the downtime: fresh shower, clean pajamas, the ridiculous skincare routine he swears he doesn’t actually need. He smooths cream through damp hair, muttering under his breath about the nightmare he signed up for the day he decided to embrace his natural curls. 

The podcast runs in the background. At first he barely listens. Just the hum of voices, football jargon he doesn’t care about. Until.

“Wembley,” Calum says. His voice is deeper than Luke expected, smooth with a trace of an accent. “Highlight of the season for me. Not the pitch, being there for a concert. Luke Hemmings. He’s… insane. In the best way. Blew my head off.”

Luke freezes, hand still buried in his curls, water dripping down the side of his jaw. He wipes his hands on the towel and leans forward, picking up his phone. He wants to see Calum say this, not just hear it.

And God. He looks good. Too good. The camera catches him slouched casually in the podcast chair, hoodie swallowing his frame, dark hair curling under the brim of a backwards cap. His skin looks sunkissed, golden even under studio lights. Luke feels something sharp and restless twist in his stomach. Because what is it with men in backwards caps? Why do they always look like that?

“That’s right!” the host says, grinning. “You went to see Luke Hemmings at his first night at Wembley. Did you get to meet him?”

Calum shakes his head, lips curving in a small, disappointed smile. The kind of smile that digs into Luke’s chest and stays there. “Apparently Luke Hemmings doesn’t meet people after the show. Has to rest that voice after the twenty-five songs he sings.”

Luke barks out a laugh before he can stop himself, shaking his head. That’s not true. He does meet people, sometimes after, sometimes before, depending on how the night shakes out. But the way Calum says it, half teasing, half resigned, yeah, it does exactly what it’s supposed to. It makes Luke want to argue. Want to reach through the screen and correct him.

“I was disappointed,” Calum continues, his expression shifting, sharpening into something more daring, more dangerous. That smile, cocky and crooked, Luke feels it low in his stomach. “Wanted to hand him a friendship bracelet with my number on it.”

Luke raises an eyebrow, breath catching, pulse stuttering in a way he refuses to examine too closely. A friendship bracelet. With his number on it.

The host bursts out laughing. “Your jersey number or your phone number?”

Calum doesn’t miss a beat. Just leans back in his chair, eyes gleaming, smile smug in a way that makes Luke’s skin feel too hot. “You know which one.”

After the podcast ends, Luke can’t wipe the stupid grin off his face. He feels ridiculous, giddy, almost breathless, like he’s sixteen again and someone just slipped a folded note into his locker.

It’s not like people don’t hit on him. They do. Constantly. DMs, bold pickup lines, shameless backstage passes slipped with phone numbers. But never like this. Never so open, so public, so shamelessly charming. Calum Hood, golden boy of football, sitting there in his hoodie and backwards cap, grinning into a mic like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he knows Luke’s watching.

And the worst, or maybe best, part is that Luke likes it. Likes the audacity. Likes the confidence that rolls off Calum in waves, the kind that makes you want to lean closer, just to bask in it.

Luke’s never gone for someone like him. He has a type, and Calum doesn’t fit it, not even close. Luke’s exes are all some variation of “fragile artist with sad eyes.” The indie actor. The tortured singer. Always someone he could fix, like his own personal charity case. Always someone who left him drained and exhausted.

But Calum? Calum seems different. Solid. Smiling. Unapologetic. A football player of all things. Luke can’t imagine what they’d even talk about. And yet, when he thinks about it more, maybe they’re not so different. They both live under stadium lights. They both perform. They both know what it’s like to have thousands of eyes watching, waiting. Maybe… maybe there could be something there.

With a huff of laughter at himself, Luke flips back to the family group chat, bracing for whatever chaos Ben has already stirred up.

Mom: Aw. He is persistent!!!

Dad: If this guy wants a date with my boy he has to come ask me first!

Jack: Luke tell him you’ll go on a date with him. But I go instead.

Luke shakes his head, grin tugging wider, warmth spilling through his chest. God, he’s in trouble.

—

“This will definitely make him reach out,” Ashton says, watching the podcast replay on his living room TV.

Calum smiles at the sight of himself on-screen, talking about Luke like he’s the only person in the world. Which, truthfully, he has been in his mind since that concert. “First he has to watch it.”

“He will.” Ashton turns his head, studying him with that knowing look that always makes Calum feel seen. Calum meets it, unflinching. “You really like this guy.” Ashton says, like he’s unveiling some great revelation.

“I do,” Calum admits, nodding once. “Want to take him out and shit.”

Ashton bursts out laughing, tipping his head back against the couch. “He is pretty cute. Still think he’s out of your league, though, mate.” He grins, teasing, but Calum can hear the truth threaded underneath.

Calum rolls his eyes but his lips curve anyway. “Objectively, he’s out of everyone’s league.”

They turn back to the TV, bantering about the host and the editing, but Calum’s mind is already elsewhere. On Luke. Always on Luke. It’s terrifying, how fast this has hit him. How much he wants, when he barely knows the guy. That night at Wembley he’d taken a leap, asking his team to pull strings. He’d been disappointed when it didn’t work, sure, but it only sharpened the edge. Gave him more reason to prove himself.

He doesn’t want to be another fanboy, another Instagram DM. He wants Luke to know he’s serious. That he’s not some fling looking for bragging rights. He wants to take him out. To be the one who makes him laugh across a table, who opens his car door, who watches his face soften under candlelight instead of stage lights. He wants to see Luke Hemmings stripped of the glitter and the roar of the crowd, to see what he looks like with nothing but a glass of wine in his hand.

It’s been a long time since Calum’s felt this way. Since he’s felt the urge to chase, to risk. He’s not proud of how he’s lived since his last relationship ended, nights blurred by drinks, easy hookups, the kind of behavior that comes with being young and famous and desired. But that doesn’t feel tempting now.

Now he only wants one person throwing himself at him. And God, he hopes it’s Luke.

—

Luke sits back in the leather seat of his private plane, legs stretched out, curls still a little damp from the morning shower. Jack and Ben are bickering over something on the opposite side, their voices a comforting background hum. His mom and dad are tucked in the back, heads together on a call with his marketing team, plotting out the reveal of his new album.

Sometimes Luke can’t believe how neatly it all worked out, that even heartbreak could be spun into gold. His last relationship had gutted him, three years of chaos and devotion collapsing into silence, an arrow straight through his chest. But he’d pulled it out and turned it into a pen, every wound stitched into lyrics, every fight strummed into chords. Eighteen songs later, he had an album. A story. A way forward. He’s proud of that, proud of himself.

He’s excited to share it. Excited for Amsterdam too. He’s played there before, but never a stadium. Amsterdam has always tugged at him, a city that hums even under gray skies, alive in a way that makes him feel alive too. He loves the bikes, the markets, the crooked old buildings leaning against each other like drunk friends. Loves the Bulldog, loves rolling a joint and eating greasy wings with nachos smothered in cheese. He’s already imagining the roar of fans when he steps onstage here, certain it’ll rival even London.

His phone buzzes, pulling him back. He scrolls through Instagram, liking posts absently, his feed drowning in clips of that podcast. Headlines everywhere.

“From Pitch to Stage: Football Star Calum Hood Aims for a Different Goal—Luke Hemmings”

“Calum Hood Just Became the CEO of Public Thirsting”

“Music Meets Football: Is This the Ship We Didn’t Know We Needed?”

“Calum Hood Just Wants to Be Luke Hemmings’ Boy (and We Support It)”

Luke huffs a laugh, shaking his head. That last headline is dangerously clever. The sound makes Jack glance up, curious, and before Luke can even hide it, his brother is already leaning across the aisle to peek.

“Don’t—” Luke yelps, half-laughing, half-panicked, trying to shove him back. But Jack’s always been stronger, always faster, and he snatches the phone with ease. Luke ends up surrendering, cheeks hot, watching Jack’s grin widen as he reads the headline out loud.

Ben snickers, shaking his head. Luke puffs out a breath, reminded yet again that no matter how many stadiums he sells out, or how much richer he is than either of them, he’ll always be the little brother, doomed to their endless teasing. He yanks his phone back with a groan.

“You’ve got the poor guy stuck on the bench,” Jack says, clearly proud of himself and his terrible football pun. “You should reach out.”

Luke locks the phone quickly, setting it down on the table like it’s on fire. “You just want me to go out with him so you’ll have an excuse to meet him.”

Jack feigns scandal, hand over his heart as if Luke’s words physically wounded him. “I want you to go out with him because he seems like a nice guy, Lukey.”

“He really does. And God knows you need a nice guy.” Ben doesn’t even look up from his phone, tone dry as dust, but it still hits its mark.

Luke chews on his bottom lip, staring out the window where the clouds smear past like thick strokes of white paint. 

It’s true, he needs a good guy. He wants one, even if he’s never really known what that looks like for him. His past relationships were loud and jagged and always left him wrung out, the kind of heartbreak you can wring into melodies but not live through twice. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s savior anymore. Doesn’t want to be the one patching someone else together.

The image of Calum flashes again. Him in that dark hoodie, cap pushed back, grin sharp enough to knock him sideways. A guy who made him a bracelet, something so ridiculously earnest that Luke almost can’t believe it. Something that feels the opposite of jagged.

And yeah, Luke thinks about the logistics. The cities, the time zones, the fact that right now his life is a whirlwind of planes and hotel rooms. He thinks about all the stereotypes people throw at footballers, the shallow surface, the playboy headlines. But then he remembers the way Calum said his name on that podcast. Soft, like he meant it. Like Luke wasn’t just a stadium full of fans, but a person worth chasing.

Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it won’t work. But for the first time in a long time, Luke feels the possibility of something that isn’t another sad song.

His phone vibrates against the table.

Mom: Don’t overthink it. Just be brave. xo

Luke smiles, tilts his head back against the seat. Brave. He can do that.

—

It takes another two days before Luke actually responds to Calum.

He’s in his fitting room, perched on a high chair while Mandy blow-dries his hair. Amsterdam has been everything he expected. Loud, bright, overwhelming in all the right ways. He’s sad it’s the last night here, wishes he could stay a couple of extra days, but he knows the final show always carries its own kind of magic. The opener is thrilling, sure, with fresh adrenaline, the rush of beginning. But the closer? The closer is something else entirely. He likes saving the best for last. Maybe that’s why, tonight, he finally decides to text Calum Hood.

He’s thought it through a hundred different ways. Maybe Calum has nothing to offer him. But maybe he does. And that thought excites him, even as it makes him nervous. Luke knows how his brain works: it takes the sweetest what-ifs and twists them into spirals, anxieties that gnaw at the edges of his confidence.

Because on paper, Luke looks like a dream. Main act, stadiums, millions of people chanting his name. He is confident, sure of himself. But this job has a shadow side, one Luke has lived in too many times to count. Even after years of healing, he knows the dark parts don’t vanish, they just get quieter. What if Calum can’t handle that? What if he isn’t ready for the rumors, the flashing cameras, the relentless spotlight that follows Luke everywhere? Even though they both live public lives, Calum’s is different. Luke can’t just wander outside without it becoming an event. Would Calum Hood be okay with that?

Right now, the whole world seems to be rooting for them. The response to the podcast has been insane. There’s memes, edits, headlines that practically ship them. On the surface, it makes sense. But Luke knows better than anyone that the same voices that cheer you on can just as quickly tear you down.

He wants Calum to be ready for that. He hopes so.

Reaching for his phone, Luke opens Instagram and finally does what he should’ve done days ago. Stalk him. He’s not above it.

Calum Hood’s page is exactly what you’d expect from a pro footballer. Trophies, stadium shots, Adidas campaigns. But then there’s photos of him in bed with his dog, hair a messy halo. A post with his family at a backyard barbecue. An entire carousel of meals of the week, captioned “Who needs a sideline when you’ve got a snack line?” Luke can’t help but laugh, feel something warm bloom in his chest. He’s wooed. Completely.

He takes a deep breath and hits “Message.” What the hell does he even say? Hello, it’s Luke. That feels stupid, Calum obviously knows who he is. A pick-up line? You play ninety minutes on the pitch, but you’ve been running through my mind all day. Or Is your jersey made of boyfriend material? He actually laughs out loud, shaking his head. Too much.

He exits Instagram, searches “Calum Hood Luke Hemmings” like he’s a teenager again. He finds the podcast clip, watches Calum’s smile as he calls him insane, mentions the twenty-five songs he sings. How does he even know that? Heat prickles up Luke’s neck, and he smiles like an idiot, watching it again.

Then he stumbles on something else. A resurfaced old interview. “Calum Hood Plays ‘Kiss, Marry, Kill’ With Luke Hemmings. Curiosity burns through him. He clicks.

Calum looks so young in the clip, but still devastating. Jaw sharp, streaks of blonde in his hair. The style’s dated, skinny black jeans and a band tee, but Luke secretly loves it.

The interviewer lays it out. Kiss, Marry, Kill. Luke Hemmings, Harry Styles, Justin Bieber. Calum makes a face like it’s the hardest question in the world. “Damn, that’s messed up. I don’t want to kill any of them.” He laughs, rubs his jaw. “Kill Justin Bieber. Sorry, mate, love you, but you’re gone.” The interviewer cracks up, and the next words completely undo him. “Luke Hemmings would be the kiss.”

Luke flushes instantly, rewinds, replays, like some masochist. Heat pools beneath his skin. It’s so earnest, so disarming, that he even shows Mandy. She pauses mid-styling, peers over his shoulder.

“This guy’s been wanting you for years,” she says simply, like it’s just a fact, then goes right back to smoothing cream into his hair.

Luke rewinds again, like he needs proof. Calum finishes by saying he’d marry Harry Styles. Harry looked good in 2016, Luke understands. But now Luke can’t stop thinking about the interview. About their names strung together in some silly game years ago, tethered even then, when neither of them knew it. It feels like a thread, tugging, pulling, inevitable.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything. But to Luke, it feels like a sign. And he’s desperate enough to take it as his final push of bravery.

Taylor, his makeup artist, bursts in then, dropping her kit on the vanity. Mandy gives Luke’s shoulder a squeeze when she’s done, and he thanks her with a soft smile.

“Can you give me a sec, Taylor? Just need to send a quick text,” Luke says. She nods, already setting up brushes.

And with a breath, Luke goes back to Instagram. This time, sure of himself. He clicks on Calum’s profile, opens their empty message thread, and types.

Hey, apparently I owe you a friendship bracelet.

He locks his phone, heart racing, and finally tells Taylor he’s ready.

—

The show is incredible. The fans are loud as ever, and it never stops being magic hearing people sing back your own words, thousands of voices carrying something you once wrote alone in your bedroom. No matter how many times it happens, it still hits him right in the chest. And tonight, it’s the perfect distraction from Calum Hood. Almost enough to make him forget he sent that text.

But that’s exactly why he chose tonight, because if he had done this on any normal day, with nothing to do but pace and overthink, he would’ve spent the hours glued to his phone, chewing the polish right off his nails, waiting.

He makes it through the encore, bows, waves, thanks the crowd a dozen times, and finally heads backstage. His family is waiting in the dressing room, just like every night, but the first thing Luke does isn’t hug them or even grab water. His hand goes straight for his bag. His heart is hammering, thump-thump-thump against his ribs as the phone lights up in his hand.

Notifications flood the screen, mentions, tags, texts from friends, but none of them matter. He receives too many messages for his inbox to be useful. Instead, he goes straight to Calum’s profile, breath catching as he clicks on the Message option.

Calum has responded. 

Finally. Thought I was gonna have to keep dropping your name in podcasts until you decided to acknowledge me. So… when do I get to trade bracelets with you?

—

If teenage Calum Hood had ever been told that one day Luke Hemmings would be texting him, he’d have laughed in disbelief. Honestly, he almost doesn’t believe it now. Calum is a confident man, grounded in himself, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t gush like an idiot when someone as beautiful as Luke Hemmings gives him attention.

After their first text exchange, everything skyrocketed. They traded numbers quickly, slipping into an easy rhythm of back-and-forth whenever they could. Even with Luke buried in tour life, he always makes the effort. He sometimes replies late, sure, but then double-texts, apologizes in that sweet way that makes the wait feel worth it. Luke is funny and achingly soft, the kind of guy who texts good morning and good night unprompted, who snaps photos of his meals just because he knows Calum would appreciate them after mentioning he’s seen the food dumps on Calum’s Instagram.

Calum blushes every time at the thought of Luke Hemmings scrolling his socials, teases him mercilessly for it, though Luke’s name has been in his search bar for months now. He has his number. All that’s left is the date.

He brings it up while hanging out with Ashton and Michael, Duke snoring peacefully on the couch beside him as they run another round of FIFA. Calum mentions Luke finally reaching out, and Mike nearly falls off the couch from excitement, while Ashton just stares at him like he still can’t believe Calum actually pulled this off.

“You need to do something grand for a first date,” Michael insists. “Rent out a place or something. You’ve got to stand out from the other wimps lining up for Luke.”

Calum snorts, tossing the controller onto the table and raising his arms in victory as they clinch the match. “I don’t need some grand gesture. I’ll make Luke Hemmings fall for me with nothing but my charming personality.”

It’s mostly true. Sure, someday, if everything goes the way he hopes, he’d love to do something big for Luke. Sweep him off his feet with one of those cinematic gestures Michael’s talking about. Rent out a place just for them, candlelight and all. But not now. Not yet. Right now he’s determined to win Luke over with jokes and his winning smile, a plate of paella, and a bottle of wine.

Michael scoffs, rolling his eyes. Ashton laughs too, though his brows pinch with something more thoughtful. “But how’s that supposed to work? He’s on tour.”

“I’ll fly out,” Calum says simply, with a shrug like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it is. He’s got the time, no morning trainings or matches to anchor him, and the idea of a little trip that ends with Luke Hemmings across the table from him? Yeah. That’s hardly a chore.

“Oh, he’s whipped already,” Michael crows, pointing at him like he’s scored a goal of his own.

“Proper gone,” Ashton adds, grinning like he’s enjoying this way too much. “Flying out just for a dinner date? That’s not charming personality, mate. That’s full boyfriend energy.”

Calum rolls his eyes, grabs a cushion, and chucks it at Ashton’s head. “Shut up.”

But he’s smiling, and they know it.

—

Calum’s been on plenty of first dates before, enough to know the rhythm of them. He knows how to act, what to say, what to wear. He’s practiced at this, usually cool, usually in control. But this is different. This is Luke Hemmings. And Calum would be lying if he said his stomach wasn’t twisting itself into knots. He’s nervous, just a little, but more than anything, he’s ready.

He landed in Madrid earlier that week. Luke’s got two shows at Santiago Bernabéu, then a couple of nights to breathe before heading across the Atlantic to finish the tour in Los Angeles. The idea of ending it all in the city Luke calls home makes Calum’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t know how to describe. For now, he makes the most of Spain, wandering through sunlit streets, slipping into his favorite local restaurant, even letting himself enjoy the attention when fans recognize him and ask for photos. He secretly likes it, the warmth of people knowing his name, his game.

Of course, it doesn’t take long for pictures to hit the internet, headlines spinning wild, speculating that the reason for his sudden trip to Madrid has everything to do with blue eyes and one of the greatest voices of their generation. The press isn’t wrong. It surprises him how invested people are in him and Luke, even though nothing has really started yet. Not officially. But it also makes him a little fuzzy in the head knowing there are already so many rooting for them, so many convinced they’re perfect for each other. Calum thinks so too.

When the night of the date finally comes, Luke sends a car. They’re not going out, not tonight. Neither of them has the patience for paparazzi, the flashes, the interruptions of strangers leaning over their table for pictures. Luke’s private when it comes to things like this, more guarded, while Calum is all about showing off the man on his arm. But he respects Luke’s boundaries. If anything, the secrecy only adds to the thrill. It keeps people guessing, keeps the story theirs.

All the way to the hotel, Calum’s heart folds and leaps against his ribs with every turn of the wheel, like it’s trying to make its own escape. By the time they pull up, his palms are damp against his thighs. Luke’s team is already waiting. Before Calum can second-guess himself, they’re guiding him out of the car, shielding him from any cameras, ushering him quietly inside.

This time, he’d planned ahead. He knew their options were limited, so he made the best of it, and maybe more than that. He’d spoken with Luke’s team days ago, floating the idea of something simple but romantic. Luke’s hotel had a rooftop, and with the help of his tour manager and the hotel staff, they’d set it up.

It takes Calum’s breath when he sees it. The idea sounded good in theory, but the reality… it’s something else. A corner of the rooftop cordoned off just for them, string lights strung overhead, candles flickering against the Madrid skyline. A small table draped in white, two chairs angled toward the city. A bottle of red wine waiting between two glasses. Soft music hums in the background, but mostly it’s just the sound of the city below, buzzing faint and far away.

And just when Calum thinks it can’t get better than this, Luke walks in.

He looks… real. Almost impossibly so. Damp curls pushed back from a fresh shower, a loose crop top skimming his frame, denim low on his hips. If looks could kill, Calum would already be gone, sprawled out on the rooftop. But then there are his eyes, blue, even brighter than the night sky, stealing the stars’ job without even trying. And that smile. God. It cuts right through him, slicing past ribs and bone and landing squarely in his chest.

Yes. Calum is dead. And so, so gone for Luke Hemmings.

Luke murmurs something to his security team, and they nod, stepping back toward the rooftop entrance. They’re still there, close enough if needed, but far enough to give the two of them space. Then Luke turns to him fully, steps closer, and leans in to press a kiss against Calum’s cheek in greeting.

Calum swears his lungs forget how to work. His hand finds Luke’s lower back almost instinctively, fingers flexing like they’ve just been jolted with electricity. He feels the heat of him through the thin cotton of his shirt, the solid weight of him right there, close enough to touch, close enough to lose himself in. Luke smells unfairly good, like fresh flowers and clean sheets and something warmer, deeper, something that makes Calum’s head spin.

Luke’s mouth lingers just a fraction longer on his skin than it should, warm and soft, and for one reckless moment Calum thinks about what it would be like to ruin himself there, to sink into Luke’s mouth and never be found again.

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” Luke says when he pulls back, a visible blush blooming across his freckled cheeks. His voice is soft, almost shy, and God help Calum, because that sight alone is lethal.

Calum only shrugs, mouth curling into a grin. “Didn’t I? Thought you deserved a night above the noise.”

Luke giggles, and Calum has to bite the inside of his cheek to steady himself. A man his size has no right to giggle, not like that, not in a way that makes Calum’s knees nearly buckle. It’s devastatingly endearing.

His hand is still on Luke’s back as he guides him toward the table, pulling out his chair with a quiet flourish that earns him another smile.

As if on cue, a waiter emerges with a tray of tapas. Jamón, olives, manchego, all glistening under the soft string lights. He uncorks the wine and fills their glasses. Calum can’t stop smiling, and neither can Luke. They steal glances around the waiter’s arms, their eyes catching again and again, until one look lingers too long, turning into something charged, something warm, something that makes both of them laugh softly like they’ve already shared a secret.

When they’re finally alone again, Luke leans across the table, reaching for his glass and taking a slow sip of his wine. The candles flicker between them, gilding the edges of his curls in liquid gold, and Calum thinks it’s the closest thing to religion he’s ever seen. His throat goes tight just watching. Luke doesn’t even have to try, and he’s already unraveling him.

“I can’t believe you actually came to Madrid,” Luke says at last. His voice is soft, with the kind of smile that pulls at one side of his mouth like he doesn’t fully trust it. “I can’t believe any of it, really. The bracelet, the podcast… I’ve never been hit on so loud before.”

Calum drinks him in, the way his lips curve around the rim of his glass, the way his lashes catch the candlelight. His voice is light, but underneath there’s something else, a faint thread of disbelief that sounds almost sad.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of pricks you went out with before—” Calum begins, and he knows exactly what kind. He doesn’t need the tabloids to spell it out. Luke Hemmings’ love life is practically public record. Still, he remembers the nights he scrolled through old photos, headlines flashing names and faces. Luke had a type. Delicate, artsy, pale-skinned boys who broke too easily. But Calum isn’t intimidated. He’s not some sad little twink musician. He leans in, voice dropping into something smooth and certain. “—but I can tell you I’ll be loud for you. Always. Besides, I couldn’t just slide into your DMs, that’s bullshit.”

Luke laughs, head tipped back, curls bouncing as it spills out of him. Calum feels it like a punch in the gut. Jesus, even his laugh looks good on him. Luke nods, like he understands the logic, but still can’t help himself. “I reached out through DMs, though.”

Calum smiles around the rim of his glass, then leans back in his chair like he isn’t already a goner. “That’s because you had to do it. The ball was in your court.”

Luke raises an eyebrow, grabs an olive from the plate, pops it between his lips. Calum’s throat goes dry watching his mouth move, his tongue flicker against his fingertips. Luke chews, swallows, then looks at him with that maddening glint. “If I hadn’t reached out… would you have made another move?”

Calum pretends to think, but the truth presses hot against his chest. Of course he would’ve tried again. Left another breadcrumb, liked a post, found some excuse to hover in Luke’s orbit. Desperate wasn’t something he shied away from, not with this. The whole point had been to make it obvious, to make Luke see how much he wanted this. Wanted him. Still, he wouldn’t have pushed so hard that Luke felt cornered. The last thing he wanted was for Luke to feel obligated.

“Probably. But I’m glad we didn’t have to get to that.”

Luke’s smile flickers, now thoughtful. He rolls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, watching the candlelight catch in the crimson swirl. Calum wants to climb inside that pretty head, wants to sift through every thought until he finds the ones with his own name branded on them. But he doesn’t even have to wonder long, Luke gives them up freely.

“You know, I wasn’t sure about this.”

Calum leans forward without meaning to, pulse sharp in his ears. Luke’s eyes find his, clear as glass.

“A footballer wanting to meet me? I didn’t get it.” Luke lets out a breathy laugh, but it’s thin, uncertain. “Also, don’t you guys only go out with models? Isn’t that, like… your type?”

It’s not an unfair question. He knows the stereotype, knows he’s played into it himself. But looking at Luke now, there’s no comparison. No stereotype in the world could reduce him.

“Well, aren’t you everybody’s type?” Calum asks, voice serious, stripped bare of any tease.

Luke’s cheeks flush faintly, freckles dusting pink. He looks down, bites at the corner of his lip like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the weight of Calum’s words. For someone who seems so sure of himself onstage, in interviews, in every polished photograph, it’s a surprise when his face betrays something softer. A flicker of shyness. A reminder that maybe he knows who he is, but not completely. Not yet. The contrast knocks the air out of Calum. Luke Hemmings, larger than life, blushing and ducking his head because of him. Calum wants to keep him like this forever, wants to make him blush until Luke’s skin remembers the shape of his name.

“What about you?” Luke asks then, voice quiet but steady, flipping the spotlight back on him. His mouth quirks, recovering fast. “Manchester’s midfielder Calum Hood. That’s surely something that gets attention.”

Calum smirks, spears a piece of manchego, but doesn’t break eye contact. “It does. But I only care about one person’s attention.”

Luke’s hair is almost dry now, curls twisting in shapes that echo the tangle in Calum’s chest every time he looks at him. It’s dizzying, really, how Luke manages to exist like this, all effortless charisma and raw talent and impossible beauty wrapped up in one body. It makes everything else in the world seem dulled by comparison. Like Luke’s presence rewrites the scale.

Luke rolls his eyes, though he hides his smile behind the rim of his glass as he takes a sip. The wine kisses his lips, and Calum feels it in his bloodstream.

“Seriously, Luke,” Calum says, leaning in, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “You’re—” He falters, exhales sharply, caught off guard by the way Luke’s gaze pins him in place. Those eyes, impossible blue, watching him like they see right through the bravado. Luke smiles, amused but patient, like he’s not going to let him wriggle out of finishing the thought.

Calum swallows, shifts in his chair, tries again. “I’m just glad you said yes. Otherwise, I’d have ended up following you across the globe like some tragic groupie, standing outside with a sign that said ‘Date me! Date me!’”

Luke’s laugh spills out. It’s too beautiful. Too much. Calum grins, but when the sound fades, he’s suddenly serious again, words tumbling out before he can second-guess them. “I would’ve, though. If you wanted me to. I’d do it. Anything.”

Luke shakes his head again, like what he’s hearing coming out of Calum’s mouth is ridiculous. Which it may be, but it’s also true. The humor lingers in the curve of Luke’s mouth, but his eyes change. Deeper now, searching. Calum can feel it, the air between them tightening like a pulled string.

“Anything?” Luke repeats softly, almost testing the word on his tongue.

Calum doesn’t look away. “Anything.” It’s true, and he doesn’t say shit he doesn’t mean. Not ever. Especially not to him.

For a long moment, Luke just looks at him. Expression unreadable, except for that tiny crease between his brows. The city hums below them, but up here it’s another world, orbiting just the two of them. Finally, Luke sets his glass down, his long fingers lingering on the stem like he needs something solid to hold on to.

“You scare me a little, you know that?” Luke admits, with a chuckle, but Calum knows he’s being serious. “The way you say things like that. Like you’ve already decided. Like I don’t even get a choice in how hard you’re gonna fall.”

The words could have cut. But they don’t. Instead, Calum leans in, elbows against the table, inching closer until the candlelight touches Luke’s cheek. “’Course you’ve got a choice,” he says, lower. “Always had. I just… I’m not gonna hide how much I want you. Not gonna make it small so it doesn’t scare you.”

Because the truth is, he wants him. Wants him like gravity, like inevitability. Luke’s the star, the one the whole planet screams for. But Calum can’t bring himself to shrink it, can’t dim down the way his chest aches when Luke laughs, when Luke smiles like this. If Luke bolts, fine. At least Calum will know he was honest.

“I am scared,” Luke says, nodding once, decisive. His voice drops, shy but firm underneath. “But it’s a good kind of scared. I’m ready to be scared.”

Calum breathes out, the relief of it hitting low in his chest. “Good,” he answers, casual on the outside, but inside it’s like the world just righted itself.

The waiter arrives, refilling glasses and setting down the paella. Calum gestures for Luke to take the first bite, watching him blow gently on the spoon before tasting. Calum doesn’t mean to watch so close, doesn’t mean to let his gaze catch on the way Luke’s lips curve around the food, but he does. Can you blame him?

“Jesus, that’s good,” Luke groans, rolling his eyes back, and Calum nearly chokes on his wine. Then Luke is holding out another spoonful, leaning across the table with mischief flickering in his eyes.

Calum doesn’t hesitate. He meets him halfway, mouth parting, letting Luke feed him. It’s stupidly intimate, and it feels like fire threading through his veins. Luke doesn’t look away. Neither does Calum.

Calum swallows, grinning. “Really good, yeah.”

Luke sits back, but the smile he wears isn’t one Calum’s seen before. It’s softer. Brighter. Private. Calum can’t stop staring at it. Wonders what else that mouth can do besides sing, besides laugh, besides kill him slowly every second.

They eat, falling into an easy rhythm. Work, the season, Luke’s shows. Calum lets Luke do most of the talking, not because he has nothing to say, but because he could listen forever. He’s addicted to the way Luke’s voice lifts when he talks about his fans, about the bracelets. The way he describes being on stage, not as performance but as breath, as something elemental. Calum thinks if Luke ever stopped talking like this, if that light ever left his eyes, the world would be a poorer place.

They trade stories about the road, the endless blur of cities. Luke mentions Amsterdam with a dreamy sigh. Calum agrees, it’s one of the best cities he’s ever been, but he already knows it won’t hold the title for long. Because his favorite place is changing in front of him. Looking less like geography, more like a person sitting across the table, curls brushing his forehead, lips stained from wine.

It’s dizzying, how natural this feels. Like they’ve slipped into some private orbit where the rest of the world can’t quite reach them. Calum watches Luke tilt his head, ask genuinely, adorably, what exactly a midfielder does. Calum grins, trying to keep it casual as he explains. But Luke leans in, brows drawn, lips pursed in concentration. His eyes don’t leave Calum’s mouth, as if he’s following the shape of every word as it forms.

The flutter in Calum’s chest sharpens, drops low. God, he’s cute. Cute in a way that aches, that makes Calum want to wrap him up, keep him safe. Cute in a way that feels dangerous, because he doesn’t just want to take care of Luke, he wants to ruin him a little too.

“So tell me,” Luke says eventually, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “That night in London. What did you really think?”

Calum raises a brow, feigning innocence, sipping his wine. “About what?”

Luke scoffs, leaning back, crossing his arms. “The show, Cal. Don’t play dumb.”

The nickname twists something in Calum’s chest. He’s heard it a thousand times before, from teammates, from family. But Luke saying it? It’s different. Like it belongs to him now.

“I mean,” Luke adds, lips twitching, “you must’ve thought something. Got you going on a podcast just to drop my name in public.”

Calum barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, so that’s what this is? Fishing for compliments? Don’t get enough of that with seventy thousand people screaming for you every night?”

Luke presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “That’s different. That’s the crowd. I wanna know what you thought.”

And there it is, slipped beneath the banter like a blade. That flicker of something raw, vulnerable, the way Luke’s blue eyes shift when he asks a question that actually matters. Calum feels it like a tug behind his ribs.

He lets him stew a little, because he can. Because Luke’s watching him like he’s waiting for a verdict, and it’s intoxicating. Calum takes his time, spearing another bite, chewing slow. He feels Luke’s stare on his mouth, impatient, maybe even a little desperate. It makes Calum’s pulse trip, the quiet thrill of knowing Luke Hemmings is hanging on his next words.

Finally, Calum swallows, eyes never leaving Luke’s. “You want the truth?”

Luke nods quick, too quick for someone pretending not to care. His shoulders are loose, but his mouth is tight, betraying him. Calum doesn’t mind. If Luke wants compliments, wants to be adored, to be reassured, to be held up like this, Calum would give it to him until his voice went hoarse. He’s noticed it in the past hours. Luke doesn’t fully believe the praise, always half-deflecting, steering the light away. But his eyes betray him. He likes it. Craves it. And fuck, it’s hot.

Calum lets the smirk curve slow across his mouth. “I thought you were unreal. Not just the voice, or the way you looked up there—though Christ, Luke, you looked…” He exhales like the memory alone is a punch. “Incredible. Do you pick your own clothes?” 

Luke doesn’t answer. Not verbally. Just quirks his mouth in that secret little smile that’s an answer in itself. It wrecks Calum. He groans low in his throat, unable to help it, and Luke’s soft laugh only makes it worse.

Calum drags a hand over his face, trying to pull it together, then drops it again, gaze locked on Luke’s. “Anyway. It wasn’t just that. It’s the way you carry it. Like the world could fall apart around you and you’d still keep singing. Like you don’t even know how to give less than everything.”

Luke’s lips part, a breath escaping him, and Calum catches the flush creeping over his freckles again. Calum knows right then he’ll never see the color pink the same way. It’ll always mean Luke’s cheeks.

“I wanted you before the show,” Calum says, voice low now. “And afterwards… I just wanted you more. And sitting here, I still want more.”

Luke brings his hands to his face, covering it in what seems like embarrassment, but Calum can still see it, the small curve of his mouth betraying him, the smile trying to break free. He looks younger like this. Like a little boy, flushed and shy, hiding behind his palms but failing spectacularly.

Calum likes this version. Maybe even more than the one on stage. He likes the Luke who blushes ridiculously easy, who hides when the compliments get too close to his skin. But it’s more than that. It’s the Luke without the armor, without eyeshadow, without the leather jackets, without the hurricane of lights and sound screaming his name. This Luke, right here, with soft pink on his cheeks and laughter he can’t quite swallow down, is raw and unpolished and so painfully real.

Calum thinks he could spend a lifetime learning every version of him. The giant who owns stadiums. The boy who hides behind his hands. The man sitting across from him now, luminous in candlelight, breaking Calum down without even trying. He wants to memorize them all. Hold them close. Hoard them like secrets.

Luke laughs in disbelief, finally pulling his hands away and dropping them into his lap, still smiling, still glowing in a way that that robs Calum of oxygen. “Guess I must’ve done something right.”

Calum leans forward, grin matching his, a weight behind it that makes it feel like a vow. “You did everything right.”

—

Luke doesn’t know what it is, but every doubt he had about Calum Hood, no matter how small, melts into nothing. Maybe it’s the way Calum carries himself, honest and open. Maybe it’s the way he leans in, listening, like every word Luke says matters more than anything else in the world. Or maybe it’s just the way he smiles. The slow curl of lips, the crinkle around his eyes, the casual charm that spreads across his whole face like sunlight in a room.

They click in a way Luke has never expected. No awkward silences, no forced small talk about flights or food or the weather. It’s effortless, flowing like they’ve been doing this forever. Sure, texting beforehand helped build rapport, but this is something entirely different. Real. And real is the only word Luke can think of for what he feels with Calum Hood here, so close, in front of him, filling the space like gravity itself.

And the man is even more impossibly attractive in person. Every curve, every line, every gesture seems carved for impact, from his dark curls that catch the rooftop light, down to his jaw, the taut muscles of his neck, the subtle bend of his shoulders, the tattoos snaking along his arms, even to the tip of his nails. Everything about him exudes intent, sensuality in motion, and Luke can feel it stirring in his chest, heat curling low in a way he’s not sure he’s ready to admit.

Dinner ends, but neither of them wants to move too far from each other. They refill their glasses and stand up. Calum steps closer, hand brushing against Luke’s back, guiding him toward the edge of the rooftop. The touch is feather-light, almost absent, but that’s exactly what makes it electric, a silent promise pressed against skin.

They stand, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the city. The city glows below, alive with lights and movement, but Luke barely notices it. He’s aware only of Calum, the way he leans slightly in, the scent of him, and the subtle pull in his chest that makes him wonder how a single human can feel this magnetic. He takes a sip of wine, trying to steady the flutters in his stomach, but the heat is elsewhere too, coiling low, curling against his thighs.

He thinks about how strange life is, how drastically things have shifted in the span of a year. Luke has always believed in fate, in the universe shoving you toward exactly what you need when you’re finally ready for it. Looking at Calum now, standing so close their sleeves brush with the breeze, he wonders if this is it, if this is what the universe has been trying to hand him all along. The thought is absurdly cliché, but it feels true in his bones.

The spell breaks with the sound of the crowd waiting at the hotel entrance. Shouts, camera flashes, the hum of people craning for a glimpse. He exhales, a long, quiet sigh. His chest tightens at the thought of all those eyes, of the possibility of every move they make being dissected, gossiped about. He turns away, unwilling to look.

Calum notices without being told. He mirrors Luke’s stance, turning around and leaning back, a silent presence that steadies. He doesn’t speak, giving Luke space to voice the weight pressing on him. Luke appreciates that quiet patience, the way Calum seems to know exactly when to stay silent, when to just be.

“You don’t mind? All of this?” Luke asks, voice almost drowned in the city hum. His eyes stay trained ahead of him, tracing the edges of the rooftop, flicking to the security team stationed discreetly around them. 

Calum’s hand comes to his back again, light but grounding, and Luke feels the thump of his own heart slow a fraction. “Do you?” Calum asks, soft but pointed. He seems to understand what Luke is talking about, without needing to directly name it. 

Luke turns to look at him, letting his gaze meet Calum’s. There’s warmth there, steady, reassuring, yet teasing. Eyes so big, brown, and earnest they seem to pull at him. Luke’s chest flutters in that familiar, unbearable way, a mix of fear and want. Is it normal to feel like this so quickly? To find shelter in the irises of someone’s eyes this fast? He lifts his free hand and drapes it over Calum’s arm, curling around it almost instinctively. He can feel the heat, the muscle beneath his palm, the faint thrum of Calum’s pulse, and it makes his stomach twist in a delicious, dangerous way.

“I don’t mind,” Luke starts, voice quieter than intended, almost confessional. “But I can handle it. I’m used to it.”

Calum’s fingers tighten around him, a subtle move that melts a little of the anxiety curling in Luke’s chest. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Then I don’t mind either.”

Luke laughs, incredulous at the simplicity of it, a sound tinged with disbelief and nervous flutter. How can it be so easy, when it should feel impossible? He shakes his head, pulls away slightly, walking a few steps along the rooftop. His wine swirls in the glass, forgotten, as his thoughts churn. He may not show it, but this, this vulnerability, is terrifying. Luke loves the spotlight, he thrives on it, but he has learned to guard himself against the sting, the burn, the inevitable heartbreak it brings when someone else can’t handle the magnitude of it.

He’s been here before, relationships that fractured under the weight of his life, under the glare of scrutiny. He’s survived, hardened, learned. And yet, the pull in his chest when he looks at Calum is reckless, uncontrollable. Luke wants to know if Calum understands exactly what he’s stepping into, before letting himself fall any deeper. He likes him too much, already, for his own good, and he won’t survive being let down.

Calum falls in step beside him instantly, closing the subtle space between them, matching his pace with effortless ease. “I mean it. I know who you are, Luke. And I’m not afraid.”

Luke exhales, chest tightening at Calum’s words, as if they’ve wrapped around his ribs and pulled. “It’s a lot,” he admits, his eyes flickering to the floor. The words feel clumsy, inadequate, but necessary. He’s probably overdoing it, overexplaining, but the need to be understood gnaws at him. “Not just the fans, the attention, the press. It’s everything that comes with me. It’s not just dating a person, Cal. It’s… a life.”

His throat feels raw, scraped by honesty. He doesn’t know when the night shifted into something so delicate, but here it is, balancing between them. For anyone else, maybe this is too much for a first date. But Luke has never been good at half-measures. He falls hard, he gives everything, and he wants to know if the ground is safe beneath him before he jumps. He wants his good, steady man. He wants Calum to be it. But he also fears ruining him, dragging him into something he can’t fully fathom.

Because Luke knows what his name means. Knows that even here, stripped back under the rooftop glow, laughing and sipping wine, he’s still not normal. And he never will be again. He wouldn’t trade the life he has built, not for anything. Well… maybe for the kind of understanding Calum is offering so effortlessly right now.

Calum shifts, stepping in front of him, making Luke stop so suddenly that their wine nearly sloshes over. Neither of them cares. He looks up, Calum’s gaze pins him in place. “I get it, Luke. But I still want you.” His voice is easy, sure. “I’m not here to complicate it. I’m here to… be with you. Whatever that looks like.”

Luke searches his face, desperate for a crack, a flicker of doubt, some sign that this is too much. But there’s nothing. Just warmth, just conviction. Just Calum. Luke’s heart stutters painfully. Calum is giving him, in a matter of hours, what Luke has begged for in relationships stretched across months, years.

Calum doesn’t stop. “I’m not saying it’s going to be simple. I’m saying it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

The words land heavy, every syllable sinking deep into Luke’s chest, into the dark places where his anxieties usually coil and hiss.

“It’s not just that,” Luke breathes, brushing past him, retreating to the table if only to give his hands something to do. He sets his glass down, fingers lingering on the stem, turning just as Calum follows, placing his glass down beside Luke’s. His hand finds Luke’s waist again, as though it’s claimed that space already. His touch curls warmth through Luke’s body, settling low and insistent.

“Try me,” Calum whispers, and the words feather across Luke’s skin like a dare, curling in the air between them.

Luke swallows hard. “You live in London, I live in L.A.” It comes out softer than intended, almost pleading. The distance isn’t insurmountable, but it’s something. And Luke needs to hear what Calum thinks, needs him to acknowledge it.

“I’ll fly out.” Calum’s reply is immediate. Luke laughs in disbelief, shaking his head. But Calum’s face is dead serious. “I’ll visit you, you’ll visit me. If everything goes well, I’ll get a place in fucking L.A. if you asked me to. I don’t give a shit.”

Luke shouldn’t let it affect him this much, shouldn’t let it spark that molten warmth in his chest, shouldn’t let it spread in flutters all the way down to his fingertips. But he does. And it feels good. So good it scares him. Calum looks so serious, so grounded, and Luke can’t decide if he wants to kiss him stupid for it or laugh until his chest hurts.

“If you break my heart,” Luke says, tilting into humor to mask the ache of vulnerability, “I’ll destroy you in a song.” He loops an arm around Calum’s neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at his nape, twirling absently.

Calum scoffs, leaning closer, that grin tugging at his mouth. “I get only a song? The other arseholes got whole albums.”

Luke bursts into laughter, the sound tumbling out before he can stop it. Calum chuckles with him, fingers pinching lightly at his waist, pulling another startled laugh from his throat. “I will not break your heart, Luke,” Calum says, voice dipping serious again. “At least, I’ll do everything not to.”

Luke swallows, heart fluttering all over again. He tugs gently at the little hairs at the base of Calum’s skull, fingertips skimming down to scrape the warm skin beneath his shirt.

“I’m super needy,” he says, half a warning, half a confession, his lips twitching into a smile. 

Calum’s brow quirks, amused, like Luke has just told him the sky is blue.

Luke huffs a laugh, presses on before he can lose his nerve. “I overthink everything. I get jealous. I write songs about people who piss me off, and about people I love too much, and about things I can’t ever say out loud.” His thumb drags idly at the back of Calum’s neck, tracing the warm dip of skin. “I’m moody, sometimes. A pain in the ass. I can disappear into my own head for days and forget how to climb out.”

Calum doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans closer, like he wants to catch every word, like Luke’s flaws are secrets worth memorizing. Luke exhales, his gaze betraying him, flicking to Calum’s mouth before darting back up again.

“I hog the covers. I’ll steal all of your clothes and stretch them out because I’m so fucking big,” Luke laughs at himself, self-deprecating, but Calum only hums in that low, approving way that makes Luke’s knees feel weak. One of his hands slides higher, steady against Luke’s shoulder blades. Luke sighs into the touch. “I want too much. I ask for too much. I hold on too tight.”

“Is this supposed to make me stop wanting you?” Calum asks, voice a murmur. “Because it’s doing the whole opposite, actually.”

Luke’s laugh trembles out of him, helpless. His skin tingles everywhere they touch: his hand tangled in Calum’s hair, Calum’s palms pressing into his back and waist, their chests brushing in a rhythm that makes Luke dizzy. He wants to lean in until there’s no space left, wants to believe that Calum really means it, that this could be as easy as breathing.

Calum licks his lips, gaze flickering all over Luke’s face, pausing at his mouth like he’s already memorizing the shape of it.

“Wait,” Luke whispers, sudden, tugging at Calum’s hand. He leads him across the rooftop, away from the eyes of security, away from anyone who might watch. The crowd below is still there, restless and loud, but Luke barely hears them anymore. Their voices blur into static, distant, irrelevant. Up here, it’s only him and Calum.

Calum’s eyes are darker now, clouded with something that sets Luke’s pulse racing. He cups Luke’s face gently with one hand, fingers long and sure, thumb brushing reverently across his cheekbone. Luke leans into it like it’s the most natural thing he’s ever done, like he was built to fit inside that touch.

And then Calum is leaning in, dropping featherlight kisses to the tip of his nose, another against his eyelid, one more at the sharp edge of his cheekbone. They’re so tender Luke almost laughs, except the sensation coils in his chest instead, giggles and tears and fire all twisted together. His skin hums with every press of lips, every delicate brush, until it feels almost unbearable to keep still.

Then Calum hovers at his mouth. Lips brushing, not quite meeting, the anticipation a perfect kind of torture. Luke can taste the faint edge of wine on his breath, can feel the heat rising where their mouths almost connect.

“Cal,” Luke breathes, one hand curling desperately at Calum’s waist.

“Yeah?” Calum whispers back, his hand still cupping his face like he’s holding something precious.

“I have one more thing to say.”

Calum nods, urging him to continue.

“Are you going to marry, kiss, or kill me?” Luke asks, grinning through his nerves, his voice breaking the tension with something light and reckless.

Calum huffs out a laugh, pulling back just far enough for Luke to get a good look of his face. His cheeks flush darker, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as though he’s trying, and failing, to hide his grin. Luke’s chest flutters painfully at the sight, at the way Calum Hood of all people looks shy in front of him.

And then he’s not shy at all. He leans in, catching Luke’s mouth, and Luke swears he stops breathing.

The first touch of lips is gentle, teasing, like Calum’s testing how much Luke can take. His mouth is warm, softer than Luke ever let himself imagine, moving slow at first, slow enough to break him completely. Then Calum tilts his head, presses harder, and the kiss deepens, lips parting, dragging, tasting. Luke lets out a sound he can’t swallow, half a gasp, half a moan, because Calum’s mouth feels devastating. Plush but insistent, every pull and slide sending heat licking down his spine.

Luke fists his hands in Calum’s shirt, knuckles white, tugging him closer until there’s no space left. Calum groans into him, and Luke swears he feels it all the way through his chest. Then Calum’s hands are on him, hot through his clothes, gripping his waist, sliding up his ribs, one hand pressing at the back of his neck to keep him there, exactly where he wants him. The weight of it is grounding and electric all at once, like being claimed, like being held together.

The world narrows to the taste of Calum’s mouth, the dizzy spin of oxygen leaving his lungs, the heady mix of tenderness and heat coiled between them. Everything else, the flash of cameras, the roar of fans, the constant weight of being Luke Hemmings, fades into nothing.

When Calum finally drags back, it’s only by a breath, their mouths still brushing, foreheads pressed together. They’re both wrecked, panting, flushed, hearts pounding like they’ve just sprinted miles. Luke’s lips feel swollen, tingling, his whole body thrumming from where Calum touched him.

“All three,” Calum says, voice low and ragged, eyes blazing. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. “I’m betting on all three for us two, Luke Hemmings.”