This is my alt-rock NA serialised story — the book my younger self needed, written by my older self who finally knows what to do with all the bruises.
New here? Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16.
Or you can go to the chapter index.
Sadie
Gray always took the seat with his back to the wall.
Not because he was jumpy — just because it meant he could stretch out properly without worrying about someone clipping his shoulder as they passed.
Today, he did exactly that. Hoodie unzipped. Legs long. Leaning back like a man who finally trusted the space he was taking up.
We took the back booth like we always did — side by side, backs against the wall, coffees lined up in front of us. It meant no craning, no leaning across the table, and when Gray’s phone inevitably became a group activity, we could both see it without making a thing of it.
“How’s it feeling today?” I asked, nodding to his chest.
He grinned, the kind that could light up a mediocre rom-com. “Like it’s mine. Like it’s always been mine, but now the paperwork’s caught up.”
There was still a faint stiffness in his movements, but he’d stopped flinching when someone bumped him in a crowd. His tee hung easy across his chest — not oversized, not strategic. Just… right. Like he’d finally stopped negotiating with his own reflection.
I felt a brief, unexpected swell of it — pride, maybe. Or relief. I let it sit there, unnamed, stirring my coffee.
“Think you’ll be ready for a proper shift at Margot’s next week?”
He shrugged. “If I can survive Aunt Pauline’s Sunday roast without passing out, I can handle a pub shift.”
I winced. “Christ. Did she still do the Yorkshire puddings the size of a child’s head?”
“Two. And she tried to send me home with one.”
He asked about my week, and I pretended not to be smug when I said, “Fine. Just… more messages than usual.”
Blurred Edge had been out long enough now to have a life of its own. My @ sat quietly in the credits, but it had been enough — strangers commenting, fire emojis, a handful of people asking about prints. And, every so often, something thoughtful that made me sit up straighter at my desk.
Gray grinned. “Bet you’re loving the attention.”
“I am loving the algorithm,” I corrected.
We let the conversation go, shoulders resting together as we watched the room drift past. A kid dropped his muffin; a woman in a trench coat chased her runaway scarf. Life, in all its small chaos — and us, oddly content inside it.
Gray’s phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at it, grinning. “Connor. Your mate.”
I shrugged and lifted my coffee before answering. “You’re the one who keeps talking to him.”
I glanced at Gray’s phone as Connor’s face appeared, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, sitting in front of his drum kit. He shifted, knocking the edge of a cymbal behind him so it sang sharp through the mic. I flinched.
The low rumble of men’s voices followed — indistinct, overlapping — and my attention snagged on it before I could stop myself. A bass thump landed close enough to make the screen judder.
“Just checking in, bruv. How’s the chest?”
Gray leaned back, patting himself. “Still here. Still mine.”
“Good lad.” Connor grinned – then his eyes flicked sideways. “Hang on. Is Sadie there?”
Gray angled the phone so I came into view.
Connor’s smile went feral. “Oi, it’s my New Zealand bestie. I’ve been giving your boy here top-tier advice about recovery. Also, giving Dev endless shit about you, but that’s more of a public service.”
From somewhere off-screen, Dev’s voice: “Oh, piss off.”
Oh shit. There he is.
Connor’s grin only widened. “Speaking of –” He flipped the camera.
The whole band was crammed into the room, shirtless, glistening, instruments scattered about during rehearsal break. Dev was mid-swig from a water bottle, hoodie abandoned in the corner, pants riding obscenely low.
I opened my mouth to say something polite.
“Wow,” I said instead. “So, is this rehearsal or some kind of fuckboy calendar shoot?”
Connor and the other lads cackled. Dev froze, bottle halfway down, and gave me the slowest, most unimpressed blink in history.
“Careful,” Connor chuckled. “You’ll bruise his delicate ego.”
“I think it’s surviving just fine,” I said, leaning even closer to the screen. “Tell him to put his hoodie back on before someone mistakes this for a Peloton ad.”
Connor was still laughing when Dev wandered over, slow as sin, dragging a hand through his hair — the kind of movement he made when he knew the camera was on him.
He leaned down into frame, bracing one hand on his knee, giving me that look — the one that said he was about to say something I’d be thinking about later whether I wanted to or not.
I made a point of not looking at the way the light caught on his shoulders.
“Careful with that mouth, Pike,” he drawled, Sheffield in every rounded vowel, voice low enough I felt it more than heard it. “Might have to find out what else it’s good for when we’re in your neighbourhood.”
The room behind him erupted, Connor howling loudest. Dev just smirked, took another slow swig from his bottle like the exchange was nothing, and strolled deliberately out of shot.
The camera flipped back round. Connor grinned like the cat that got the cream. “Anyway, I’ll let you two get back to your flat white therapy session.”
“Bye, mate,” Gray said, hanging up.
Neither of us spoke straight away.
“What did he mean?” Gray asked. “‘When we’re in your neighbourhood’?”
I shrugged. Why did it suddenly feel so warm in here? “Dunno. Tour maybe?”
Gray’s mouth curved slow and wicked. “Mm-hm.” He took a long slow sip of his coffee, hazel eyes twinkling at me over the cup. “So… you’re gonna pretend that wasn’t flirty?”
“It wasn’t flirty.” My answer burst out, way too quick.
He snorted so hard he nearly choked on his coffee. “Please. That was hot AF. I mean, I like girls, but I was totally into whatever Dev was serving you.”
I laughed, shoving his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re rattled,” he said, sing-song.
Right on cue, my phone buzzed in my lap.
I glanced down. New notification.
New chat created: RUIN GC 🖤🔥🍆
(added by Connor McKenzie)
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Connor: Welcome to hell, Pike 😈
Population: 5 sweaty fuckboys + 1 Kiwi artist
Owen: CONNOR. bruv, why u add her? 💀
Simon: she’s going to leave in 3…2…1…
Mateo: nah let her stay. i need a witness when Dev finally combusts 😂
Dev: combust this, Teo. 🖕
Connor: OI Pike – you like the little show earlier? 👀💦
Dev was serving.
Owen: literally looked like a porn intro.
[GIF of a guy pouring water down his chest]
Simon: RIP Sadie’s dignity.
Mateo: nah she held her own.
“Fuckboy calendar shoot” line nearly killed me 💀
what a gob on her
Dev: Careful, lads.
That mouth’s mine to worry about. 😏💋
I dropped my phone like it had burned me.
Gray raised an eyebrow, far too entertained. “What now?”
“Nothing,” I lied. Badly.
My coffee had gone cold.
On our way home, we passed Mum’s mural. Gray made his usual salute.
I let my hand fall the way it always did, brushing the little painted flower by a woman’s side – barely noticeable, almost hidden. Habit. Muscle memory. A hello that didn’t need words.
Later, shoes kicked off, I scrolled through my DMs. More fire emojis. A request for a mural quote.
And one notification from Dev I’d been pretending not to see.
This time, I tapped it.
Dev @pls_sage_me): Connor reckons u got the best lines in the room. I reckon that mouth’s wasted on jokes when it could be on me.
Sadie: Bold of you to assume you could even keep up.
The second it sent, his “seen” popped up. Three dots appeared immediately. He’d been waiting.
Dev: Oh, I’ll keep up. Question is whether u cn handle me when I do.
Heat spiked low in my stomach. I typed before I could stop myself:
Sadie: Big talk from a man on the other side of the world.
Three dots. Pause. Three dots again.
Dev: World’s smaller than u think, Pike.
The next morning another notification slid in beneath Dev’s last one. A photo.
The shot was cropped close, low on his stomach, waistband riding scandalously low.
The familiar ink was there — the tattoo I remembered from the hut, the one my eyes had followed before I’d meant them to.
And just like before, my gaze slipped lower, right to the waistband.
This time, though, something new waited for me. Fresh ink, edges still raw and red, peeking out where skin disappeared beneath fabric: a pair of lips, open just enough to suggest trouble, etched right into the path of the old tattoo.
Accompanied by a caption:
Your lips, Pike. Always on me. Mine now. 🖤
I dropped the phone face-down so hard it bounced, heart slamming against my ribs, but the image burned behind my eyelids like it was seared there.
"Dev: World’s smaller than u think, Pike."- such a tease 😩
Oh, I missed them.