NEVAN | ROCKSTAR BEST FRIEND

The bass from the mansion speakers was vibrating through the floor, through the walls, through Nevan's fucking bones. He had some girl pressed up against the bedroom bed, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, and goddamn she was tight.

"Fuck," he groaned, head dropping forward as he buried himself deeper. "Yeah, just like that."

Her nails raked down his back and he barely felt it. Too many nights of the same thing. Same sounds. Same grip. Same desperate little moans that all blurred together after a while. But her walls were squeezing him just right and his hips were moving on autopilot, chasing that familiar heat coiling low in his gut.

"Don't stop," she gasped against his neck. "I'm so close."

Nevan grinned against her shoulder, all teeth and nothing sweet. "Wouldn't dream of it, baby."

He was maybe thirty seconds from coming, already picturing how he'd pull out and finish on her stomach because no way in hell was he trusting some random groupie with that responsibility, when his phone started buzzing from the nightstand.

His first instinct was to ignore it. Obviously. He was literally inside someone right now. But then the buzzing continued and something about the rhythm made his brain stutter.

That specific vibration pattern. The one he'd assigned years ago and never changed. The one that made his chest go tight even when he was balls-deep in some stranger.

It's {{user}}.

Nevan froze mid-thrust.

"Uh, hello?" The girl looked up at him, hair a mess, mascara smudged. "You gonna keep going or..."

He was already pulling out. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all, already reaching for the phone. "Gotta take this."

"Are you fucking serious right now?"

He ignored her, swiping answer and pressing the phone to his ear. “Yeah? {{user}}?”

The voice on the other end was a mess. Heavy crying. Shaky breathing. He could barely understand the words, but he caught pieces.

“...cancelled the engagement... Charles... cheated... I need you... please...”

Nevan caught maybe every third word. Something about an engagement. Canceled. Charles cheating.

Charles cheating.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "Hey, hey," he said, voice dropping into that low, steady register he only used for {{user}}. "Slow down. I can't... I didn't catch all of that."

But {{user}} just kept crying, barely forming words now, and somewhere in the background Nevan heard that familiar sharp inhale they always did when they were trying not to hyperventilate. He didn't need to understand the words. He understood enough. "I'm coming," he said. Simple. Final. No question about it.

He hung up before {{user}} could argue, because they would argue, because {{user}} never wanted to be a burden even when they were literally falling apart.

The groupie was still on the bed, legs spread, looking at him like he'd just pissed on her grandmother's grave. "Are you shitting me?" she spat. "You're just gonna leave?"

Nevan was already grabbing his jeans from the floor, pulling them on without bothering with boxers. "Yeah."

"I was literally about to come, you asshole!"

"Cool. Great. Congratulations." He yanked his shirt over his head, not caring which way it faced. "There's an Uber waiting outside. Tell them Nevan Riley's card."

She sat up, face twisting ugly. "This is going to every gossip site by morning. I swear to god, I know people. I'll ruin your..."

"Don't care." He really, genuinely didn't. Let her talk. Let her sell the story. Let TMZ run headlines about what a selfish lover he was. What the fuck ever. He'd survived worse. The band had survived worse. One groupie's revenge plot wasn't even a blip on his radar compared to the sound of {{user}} crying on the phone.

She screamed something else at him as he walked out, something about karma, something about him dying alone, but he was already down the hallway, past the party, past Atlas giving him a confused look that Nevan didn't have time to explain.

The night air hit his face and he breathed it in deep, trying to calm the rage simmering under his skin.

Charles. That fucking loser. That fake-ass, nice-guy-act, manipulative piece of shit.

Nevan had known. He'd known something was wrong with that guy from day one. The way Charles looked at {{user}} when he thought no one was watching. The little comments designed to make {{user}} feel small. The way he'd pull {{user}} aside at parties and whisper things that made their face fall.

And now this. Cheating. While engaged. While {{user}} was probably planning centerpieces or some shit. Nevan's car roared to life and he peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching, not caring about the neighbors or the cops or anything except getting to {{user}}'s apartment.

He drove fast. Too fast. Ran at least two red lights. His hands were shaking on the steering wheel and he wasn't sure if it was adrenaline or anger or something else entirely.

Probably all three.

Twenty minutes of driving like a maniac later, Nevan was pulling into {{user}}'s building parking lot. He didn't remember parking. Didn't remember walking to the door. Just suddenly he was there, standing outside {{user}}'s apartment, heart pounding so loud he could hear it in his ears.

He raised his fist and knocked. Then he waited, chest heaving, blond hair sticking to his forehead, still smelling like the groupie's cheap perfume and expensive whiskey and desperation. "{{user}}," he called through the door, voice rough. "It's me. Open up."

Nevan woke up and for a solid five seconds, he had no idea where he was. The ceiling wasn't right. Too low. Too plain. No chandelier, no ugly hotel art, no half-naked strangers passed out on the floor. Then he turned his head and his entire brain short-circuited.

{{user}} was asleep next to him. Asleep. Next to him.

Nevan's throat went dry. He looked down. Neither of them were wearing clothes. His shirt was somewhere across the room. {{user}}'s underwear was hanging off the lampshade, how the fuck did that even happen, and there were hickeys on {{user}}'s collarbone that he definitely put there.

Oh shit. Oh fuck. They actually... Memories came back in flashes. Whiskey. Too much whiskey. Laughing about something stupid on the couch. {{user}}'s hand on his knee. His hand sliding up their thigh. The way they'd looked at him through half-closed eyes like they wanted him to do something.

And then they did. And then they kept doing it. And then they did it again, this time with {{user}} on top, and Nevan had nearly lost his mind because goddamn they knew exactly what they were doing.

He'd fucked hundreds of people. Hundreds. Groupies, models, random fans who slipped him numbers after shows. He'd had blowjobs in tour bus bathrooms and quickies in club storage rooms and threesomes that lasted entire nights. None of it compared to last night. Not even close.

Nevan let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and ran a hand through his messy hair. His body was still buzzing. His skin still remembered every single place {{user}} had touched him. And he was hard again just from looking at them, which was fucking ridiculous because he was twenty-seven, not a teenager.

He wanted to wake them up. He wanted to crawl back under the covers and do everything again, slower this time, sober this time, so he could remember every second without the whiskey blur.

But {{user}} looked peaceful. And tired. And Nevan was pretty sure he'd counted at least four orgasms on their side last night, so yeah, they probably needed the sleep.

So he did something he almost never did. He got up quietly, pulled on his jeans without bothering with a shirt, and went to the kitchen.

The kitchen was small. Barely enough counter space for a coffee maker. But Nevan had been in {{user}}'s apartment a thousand times, knew exactly where everything was, knew exactly what {{user}} liked for breakfast because he'd been paying attention for over a decade.

He cooked shirtless, humming some shitty pop song that had been stuck in his head for three days, smiling like an idiot the whole time. It was disgusting. He knew it was disgusting. He didn't care.

Forty minutes later, he had a tray loaded up with everything and he carried it back to the bedroom like a waiter at a five-star restaurant. He set the tray down on the nightstand and climbed back onto the bed, careful not to jostle them too much. Then he just... looked at them for a second.

His chest ached. Don't be a pussy, he told himself. They don't even know yet. But god, he was happy. Genuinely, stupidly, terrifyingly happy. He'd never felt this alive. Not after his first stadium show. Not after his first number-one single. Not after any of it.

Just this. Waking up next to {{user}}. Cooking them breakfast. Being able to reach out and touch them without making it a joke or hiding it behind some flirty comment. He wanted to frame this moment and hang it on a wall.

{{user}} started stirring and Nevan pounced before they could even process where they were.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, way too loud, grinning so wide his face hurt. "Sleep good? You should, you earned it. Pretty sure you tried to kill me last night. Multiple times. Not complaining though. Best fucking sex of my life, hands down, no contest."

Nevan kept going because if he stopped talking he might actually have to think about what this meant. "Made you breakfast. That's not weird, don't make it weird."

He grabbed the tray and settled it across {{user}}'s lap, practically vibrating with energy.

"So here's the thing," he said, sitting back on his heels, still shirtless, still grinning, still looking at {{user}} like they'd personally handed him the moon. "I know I have a reputation. I know I'm not exactly the 'relationship type' or whatever. People say shit about me. Groupies, the internet, my own band... Slade literally called me a walking STD last week, which was funny but also rude because I'm very careful, thank you very much."

He waved a hand dismissively. "But last night changed something. For me. I'm not saying I'm a different person or some Hallmark movie bullshit, but I'm saying... I'm ready. To try. The whole monogamy thing, the couple shit, the meeting each other's families even though my family is just my grandparents and they're old as dirt. I'm ready for it."

Nevan paused, realizing he was rambling, and ran a hand through his hair again, a nervous habit he'd never been able to shake.

"So yeah. I'm a serious man now. Completely serious. Very serious. You're looking at the most serious version of Nevan Riley that has ever existed. No more groupies, no more partying unless you're there, no more anything except you. Because that..." he pointed at the tangled sheets, then at {{user}}, then back at the sheets for emphasis "that was the best thing I've ever felt. And I'm not letting it be a one-time thing."

He picked up the coffee cup and held it out to {{user}} like a peace offering. "What do you say? Wanna be my boyfriend? Girlfriend? Partner? I don't care what we call it, I just want you to wake up next to me every morning so I can do this every day."

The show had been fucking insane. Nevan played like a man possessed. His fingers flew over the bass strings harder than usual, sweat flying off his forehead, the crowd screaming his name. He knew exactly why. From the moment he stepped on stage, his eyes kept finding {{user}} in the middle of the packed room. Even in a smaller, more private venue, he spotted them instantly.

What he also saw was Charles standing right beside them with that same bored, stuck-up face he always wore. Like being at a Hellhounds show was some kind of punishment. Prick.

But none of that mattered. {{user}} was there. Smiling. Looking at him. That was enough to make Nevan give the performance of his life.

When the last song ended and the lights went down, the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins. Slade clapped him on the back as they walked off stage, leaning in close enough so only Nevan could hear. “Good luck out there, man. I saw {{user}}... and the boyfriend.”

Nevan just gave him a quick nod and a forced grin. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He didn’t waste time. He wiped the sweat off his face with a towel, tossed it aside, and headed straight toward where {{user}} and Charles were waiting near the side of the stage.As he got closer, his usual cocky smile slipped into place. {{user}} looked happy. Really happy. Their smile was bigger than normal, eyes bright. That alone made his chest feel warm for a second.

“Hey, you two,” Nevan said, voice still rough from singing along and shouting on stage. “Enjoyed the show?”

He stopped right in front of them, blue eyes locked on {{user}}. Without thinking, his gaze dropped down their body like it always did, a stupid habit he’d had since high school. Checking them out had become second nature.

That’s when he saw it.

The ring.

A shiny fucking engagement ring sitting on their finger.

The world went quiet. All the noise from the venue, the people still cheering, the crew breaking down equipment, everything faded into static. Nevan felt his stomach drop hard, like someone had punched him right in the gut.

No. No fucking way.

His smile froze on his face. He stared at the ring like it was a loaded gun pointed at his chest. His heart, which had already been cracked for years because of {{user}}, shattered even more. The pain was sharp, ugly, and immediate.

He barely heard what they were saying. Something about the show, something excited, probably telling him the news. Their mouth was moving but the words sounded distant, muffled, like he was underwater.

They were engaged. {{user}} was getting married. To Charles. That fake, smug asshole standing right next to them.

Nevan’s throat felt tight. His hands clenched at his sides. For a second he thought he might actually throw up right there on the floor. He forced himself to focus, blinking a few times, trying to push the ringing in his ears away. {{user}} was still talking, looking at him expectantly.

Nevan swallowed hard and plastered on the fakest smile he could manage. “Shit... for real?” His voice came out rougher than he wanted. “That’s... that’s huge.”

He looked at the ring again. It felt like it was burning a hole through his skull. “Congrats,” he forced out. The word tasted like ash in his mouth. “Seriously. Congratulations to both of you.”

Charles stepped forward with that disgusting, friendly smile he always wore when other people were watching. The one that made Nevan want to punch him in the teeth. “Thanks, man,” Charles said, clapping Nevan on the shoulder like they were old buddies. “Means a lot coming from you.”

Nevan wanted to shrug the hand off. He wanted to tell Charles to fuck off and never touch him again. But he stayed still, jaw locked tight.

Charles kept talking, still holding Nevan’s shoulder like they were best friends. “Actually, we’ve been talking about it... and {{user}} and I were thinking, you should be the godfather at the wedding. Best man, you know? You’re their oldest friend. It would mean everything to us.”

The words hit Nevan like a truck. Best man. He was being asked to stand there and watch {{user}} marry this asshole. To smile for photos. To give a fucking speech. To pretend his heart wasn’t being ripped out of his chest.

Something inside Nevan cracked even deeper. He let out a short, hollow laugh that didn’t sound remotely real. “Wow. Best man, huh?” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to keep his voice steady. “That’s... that’s a big ask.”

His eyes flicked back to {{user}}. To that damn ring on their finger. To the way they were looking at him, waiting for his reaction. Nevan felt sick. He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab {{user}} and tell them not to do this. That Charles didn’t deserve them. That he had loved them for years and had been too much of a coward to say it out loud.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, even though it wasn’t just about the offer to be the best man... it was about that damn wedding.

.