New here? Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19 and 20 .
Or you can go to the chapter index.
Dev
The lads were doing their usual booth routine – Connor inhaling nachos like a man on death row, Mateo already charming numbers out of strangers, Owen smiling so sweet the whole table forgot he’s a menace, Simon acting like the jukebox was his personal playlist.
I was sprawled out, arm over the backrest, pretending to be part of it.
Truth was, I couldn’t stop clocking the bar.
Sadie.
Sleeves shoved up, moving like she was running the whole orchestra – pints, banter, EFTPOS, all at once.
Not looking at me.
Definitely not looking.
Except she was. Little flickers. Quick glances that snapped away too fast, like she was afraid of being caught. And every time, my chest did that annoying pull-tight thing.
Then Gray placed a Coke in her hand and gave her a shove in our direction, grinning like a little shit. Traitor. I loved him already.
She walked over stiff as scaffolding, jaw set. Stopped at the booth. Tilted her head like she did when she was about to deliver a burn.
I waited. The lads waited.
“So… what is this, some kind of fuckboy reunion tour?”
We lost it. Connor slapped the table, Mateo nearly drowned in his pint, even Simon cracked half a grin.
And just like that, she was in. Didn’t tiptoe, didn’t ask permission. Just dropped her line and the lads folded her straight into the chaos like she’d always been there.
I leaned forward, couldn’t help the smirk.
“Took your advice, Pike. Gave the label the finger. Shifted the whole operation down here. Got Tama Hipkins on board.”
Connor grinned like he’d been waiting for that. “Translation: Sadie bats her lashes once and suddenly we’ve moved continents.”
The booth roared. Mateo clinked his glass against mine. “Tragic, mate. Absolutely whipped.”
Owen added, calm as anything, “Healthiest decision you’ve ever made, though.”
Even Simon smirked. “Pathetic. But effective.”
Heat clawed at my neck. Definitely the beer.
Then Margot appeared, sharp-eyed, unimpressed, and somehow scarier than any label exec. Sadie introduced her, and the lads instantly snapped into polite choirboy mode. Margot arched a brow, not at all fooled, and gestured at the corner stage. “Gear’s set up. Make yourselves at home. Don’t break my pint glasses.” Then she directed Sadie back behind the bar with her chin.
Connor waited until she was gone, then leaned in close. “Fuck, man. You better not hurt Sadie. Margot’ll bury you under the kegs.”
He wasn’t joking.
I finished my pint, shoved the glass aside, and stood. “Alright, lads. Let’s give them something worth the grief.”
We dragged ourselves onto the stage, tuning quick, testing levels. The pub noise dipped, curiosity pulling heads our way.
And when I stepped up to the mic, I looked straight across the room – past the neon, past the glasses – and found her. Sadie, behind the bar, still pretending she was busy.
She hadn’t seen me live before.
So I gave her the full show.
We kicked off with Blackbird Bones because of course we did. Couldn’t not. First chord and the pub went feral – fists in the air, a table full of students screaming the chorus like it was gospel. I didn’t even have to sing half the lines. They knew them better than I did.
And yeah, I played it up. Prowled the edge of the stage, leaned into the mic stand, let the sweat drip and the lights catch. But the truth? My eyes kept dragging back to the bar.
Sadie, moving fast, jaw set like she was pretending we weren’t here. But she was watching. I could feel it.
Hard hit next, filthy and loud. Mateo yelling blasphemy into the mic, Connor drenching the kit, Simon pounding the keyboard like he was exorcising demons. The crowd shoved forward, bodies slamming, drinks flying. Margot shot us a look from the taps like she regretted every life choice that led to inviting us, but the punters were eating it up.
Second song, Glass Crown. Filth in a riff. Connor shouted the backing hook like he was calling for another round, Owen smashed the lead guitar, Mateo’s bass rattled the glasses on the bar. I leaned into the filth – “So kneel down, baby,
You look better that way.” – and made damn sure Sadie heard it. She glanced up once, caught me staring, and rolled her eyes. Which just made me grin harder.
Then I dropped it down. Amber Wire.
The room hushed the way it always did, a tide pulling back.
I let it run low in my throat, let the crack show. When I opened my eyes mid-chorus, she was there. Still wiping the same glass she’d been wiping for five minutes.
And her face – not smirk, not armour. Just… sad. Sharp, clean, like a bruise that hadn’t healed.
It was gone in a blink. She tossed the rag at Gray, forced a grin, back behind the barricade.
But I’d seen it. And it lodged in my chest, heavier than any chord.
Didn’t have time to sit in it. We closed with Blurred Edge. The studio version was polished to death, but this? Raw, jagged, loud enough to shake the walls.
I found her eyes as the chorus hit.
Didn’t look away.
Sang it like the whole song was hers.
And for once, she didn’t roll her eyes.
She just held my stare.
Sadie
The last chord hit like a punchline, and Ruin bowed like they’d just performed at the VMAs.
The pub howled its approval. Connor blew kisses. Mateo flung his towel into the crowd. And Dev, of course, stood there like the smug bastard who knew the room would still be talking about it next week.
Connor spotted me first, weaving through the crush to sling an arm around my shoulders.
“Pike,” he said, grinning like he’d just found my browser history. “You were watching, right?”
“I was working,” I murmured, untangling myself and starting to gather glasses from their booth.
Sam was perched on the edge of the seat, eyes bright, clearly living for whatever this was. Jasper had materialised from somewhere, staring at Dev like he’d just met Santa and was trying not to cry.
I glanced over. “Jasper, Sam, this is Dev.”
“The Dev?” Jasper gasped, clutching his imaginary pearls.
Dev grinned. “Hey – loved your Saging the Fuckboy Out of the DoC Hut video. It was sick. Had that chant stuck in my head for days. Can’t wait to see what cinematic masterpiece you’re screening next.”
Jasper gripped his chest. “Oh my god, you watch my content?”
“I binge-watched your whole channel at 2 a.m. on a Wednesday. Pretty sure I transcended.”
Then his eyes flicked over me – paint still smudged on my arm, apron crooked from a dozen drink orders, hair escaping everywhere. His mouth curved.
“You look like you’ve been running all day. You even eaten yet, Pike?”
I flicked my eyes towards Margot. “Are you actually asking me that in front of my boss?”
Margot didn’t miss a beat. “If it means you’ll clock off early, then yes. Take her before someone else orders three more espresso martinis.” She grabbed my bag and jacket from behind the bar and shoved them at me.
Jasper grinned like the devil. “Go. You can tell me all about it later so I can live vicariously.”
“I’m not…” I started.
“You’re going,” Gray cut in. “And if you come home without gossip, I’m changing the locks.”
Dev didn’t even try to hide the pleased tilt of his mouth. “Let’s go, then.”
We’d barely made it to the door when Gray called after me, “Order a salad, Pike!”
“Half a cow!” I yelled back, and Dev’s low laugh followed me out into the night.
We stepped out into the street and began heading up the hill.
“Nice apron,” he said, casual AF.
Fuck. Of course I’d forgotten to take it off. I yanked at the ties, stuffed it down behind a potted plant outside the pub, and shot him a look. “It’s covered in beer, and sweat from your performance.”
“Matches your whole vibe.”
He just slotted in beside me, easy as breathing, like we’d done this a hundred times.
We didn’t speak for half a block.
The city had cooled.
Less neon, more halogen.
Crisp air, street steam, leftover sound.
We came up on Mum’s mural in the pocket park at the corner, colours muted in the streetlight. My hand drifted out, fingertips skimming the same painted flower. Habit. Then over the figures of my brother and father that I’d added. After.
I felt Dev watching me. When I glanced over, he wasn’t looking at the street at all – at my hand on the wall, like he’d seen it before.
“What are you in the mood for?” he asked finally. Casual. Like it wasn’t absolutely loaded.
I hesitated.
Then he reached out and gently tugged my jacket back up onto my shoulder – an outrageously soft gesture from someone who once made a music video where he set a piano on fire and sang through the smoke.
My heart, the absolute traitor, stuttered.
“Honestly?” I said, doing everything in my power not to look at his mouth. “I’m dying for a massive steak.”
Dev blinked. “Oh, so you weren’t joking when you said half a cow.”
“My flatmates are all vegan,” I explained. “Spiritually and socially and… oat-milk evangelically. If I eat meat, it has to be in secret. Like a crime. Or a kink.”
He did that laugh where he tipped his head back. It started in his chest and rolled out like warm thunder. Not for show. Not for the crowd. Just... for me.
“Well then, as you know, I’m all about kinks,” he said with a wink, pulling open the door to a steakhouse squished between a vape shop and a psychic. “Let’s make it count.”
Inside smelled like garlic butter and good choices.
Lighting: low.
Booths: cracked vinyl.
Menu: printed in a font that hadn’t seen the 2000s.
I ordered the ribeye. Plus fries. And a side of “whatever greens aren’t trying to guilt me.”
Dev raised an eyebrow but matched me. “I respect this energy,” he said.
“I haven’t had real butter in weeks,” I deadpanned. “If I die tonight, bury me in béarnaise.”
He grinned, helpless. “Are you always this dramatic?”
“Only when I’m hungry.”
We ate.
Talked.
Didn’t talk.
There was this lull between us – not awkward. Just alive. Like the breath between one of his chords and the next. Every now and then he glanced at me, quick little flicks like he was listening for the next note.
“So,” I said finally, blotting a smear of steak juice from my chin with what was definitely just a paper towel masquerading as a napkin, “what are you actually doing here? In Auckland. Again.”
Dev tapped his fork once against his plate, a tiny metallic sound, then set it aside. When he looked at me, it wasn’t the showman’s glint or the smug bastard smirk he used onstage – it was quieter. Intent.
“Because I got sick of you being a voice note,” he said.
I stared at him. “What?”
He didn’t hedge. Didn’t grin. If anything, his voice softened, like he’d decided to stop trying to make this moment safe.
“I wanted you in the room. That’s it.”
My breath snagged on that. Not dramatic – just a misfire somewhere between ribs and throat.
“You flew halfway round the world because you missed my voice?” I said, trying for sarcasm and failing miserably.
He shrugged, and somehow the movement made the truth worse. “Oh, I was feral for your voice. But yeah. That.”
Heat crawled under my skin. He nudged his empty glass with one finger, casual, like he was letting me sit with the fact he’d just lobbed something intimate between us and wasn’t planning to take it back.
“And the label stuff’s real,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Tama’s good. Work feels good. But mostly? I wanted to see you. Properly.”
My pulse went rogue. Stomach began flip-flopping like a chaos goblin. “Dev…”
He tilted his head, mouth curving – not cocky, not slick, just warm in a way that made my stomach fold in on itself.
“And maybe the next thing,” he said.
“The next what?”
“Whatever we make it.”
The restaurant noise fell away at the edges, like someone had turned the world down a notch.
I felt it settle between my shoulder blades, in the ridiculous flutter under my ribs, in the way I suddenly couldn’t remember what temperature the room was.
He leaned in, voice low. “I’m not here to play it cool. Then he leaned back slightly, eyes skimming my mouth, voice dropping into that lazy, wrecking-crew drawl.
“You want to see where this goes?” he murmured. “Kiss me.”
My stomach flipped so hard it annoyed me.
He let the beat hang just long enough for sincerity to spark in his eyes –
and then, like always, he detonated it with a grin.
“Or, you know. Grab my cock under the table. Dealer’s choice.”
A laugh burst out of me – sharp, relieved, grateful for the out.
There it was. Dev being Dev.
Something I could file under harmless flirtation instead of the heart-clenching truth he’d just handed me.
He stole the last fry like nothing happened.
“Think about it,” he added, all faux-casual menace. “No pressure.”
My phone buzzed on the table. Dev’s buzzed too.
We both glanced down.
[RUINed 🖤🔥🍆]
Connor: status update lads: our boy actually did it 😈
date night with Pike 💋🥂
Owen: rip sadie. he’s 100% already turned the menu into foreplay 🥩🍆
Simon: odds on him saying something about “meat” in under 5 mins?
Mateo: nah nah – dessert. he’ll hold it til dessert 🍫💦
I groaned, dropped my phone face-down. “They’re unbearable.”
Dev smirked across the booth, all lazy menace. “Told you. Fuckboys.”
Then, without breaking eye contact, he thumbed out a reply. My phone buzzed again.
Dev: still here lads.
she’s sat across from me right now.
and yes – that mouth’s as distracting as you think 😏💋
I choked on my water. “You didn’t.”
He raised his glass, smug as hell. “Oh, I did.”
"Owen smiling so sweet the whole table forgot he’s a menace," 😂
Love the group! So chaotic!
"Because I got sick of you being a voice note,” he said." I didn't expect him to confess like that. 😁
Dev is getting serious serious...
He is emotional whiplash in a man's body!