Page 19

no pressure, just us

KIERAN

T he studio’s humming with that particular brand of chaos only a photoshoot can summon, fake calm layered over silent panic.

Stylists dart between racks of clothes, someone’s yelling about lighting, and the air’s thick with hairspray and nerves.

Overhead, the lights glare down like surgical lamps, hot and unforgiving.

I’m pretty sure I’m a walking fire hazard.

One spark near this fringe, and it’s game over.

A stylist circles like a predator, clicking her tongue and adjusting Luca’s outfit for the fourth—no, fifth time. He just stands there and takes it, scrolling on his phone like he’s already too famous to care.

One, he’s not. And two, I’m already over it.

I get why it matters. All the magazine spreads, socials, promo shots.

It’s part of the deal. But standing here, under lights that feel like they’re trying to microwave my soul from the inside out, the whole thing feels fake.

The forced poses, the plastic grins, the way you’ve got to act like someone you’re not just to sell an image.

We’re a band, not a brand. And this? This feels like a costume party where no one knows who they’re dressed as.

Luca leans against a column like he’s modelling for a designer ad he forgot to tell us about. Guitar slung over his shoulder, leather jacket worth more than my first car, hair somehow defying gravity and humidity with the same smug elegance.

“Come on, Kieran,” he calls, eyes still on his phone. “Quit auditioning for The Bachelor and give us something usable.”

I shoot him a look. “I’m just keeping it classy. You wouldn’t recognise it if it bit you.”

Ryder lifts his head from where he’s sprawled on the floor like a moody rock god, sunglasses on indoors, fake cigar in hand. Kid doesn’t even smoke. “Mate, you look like you’re about to deliver a TED Talk,” he says with a grin. “Give us some sex appeal.”

“My entire existence is sex appeal. You’re just not evolved enough to handle it.” I joke.

“Not evolved?” he laughs. “I’ve seen toast with more heat than you.”

“That’s what your last date said when you took your shirt off.”

Luca chokes on his drink. Theo cracks up from the corner. There’s a pause, then Ryder snatches one of Theo’s drumsticks and hurls it at my head. I duck, grinning as it bounces harmlessly off the white set wall.

“Oi!” Theo groans. “Respect the gear, you animal!”

The photographer waves from behind the lens. “Alright, lads. Band shots. Classic setup. Hands in pockets. Look relaxed. No statues. Natural energy.”

Theo, still lurking off to the side like a bored assassin, rolls his neck with a dramatic crack and stretches like he’s about to leap into combat. “Natural? Easy,” he says with a wink.

Luca scoffs. “He said natural, not fossilised. I’ve seen houseplants move more than you.”

I glance at Luca’s reflection in the polished chrome of a lighting rig. He’s fussing with his hair again, like he’s not already 90% camera-ready. “How much product did you use this morning? Your hair’s a global warming risk.”

“Listen,” Luca says, turning to the camera with a pout that could melt lenses, “some of us have standards. Am I giving tortured rockstar or high-end shampoo ad?”

Ryder snorts. Theo snickers. “You look like you’re about to flog a 2-in-1 conditioner at Boots,” he says, deadpan.

We crack up. The tension breaks. Just like that, it’s not a photoshoot anymore. It’s us. Chaotic and ridiculous. Then we shuffle into position, teasing each other between takes.

The lights flash.

The camera clicks.

The shoot finally wraps up, the photographer giving us a satisfied thumbs-up, like we’ve just passed some invisible test. Everyone’s still bantering as we drift toward the changing room in loose formation. Theo imitating Luca’s pout, Ryder humming some dramatic rock ballad off-key.

“Bus beers?” Luca calls, already herding the others toward the exit. “Picked up some of that weird IPA you like, Theo.”

Theo perks up immediately. “The mango one that tastes like bin juice? Fuck yeah.”

Ryder tosses me a look over his shoulder. “You coming?”

“Nah,” I say, tugging my hoodie over my head. “Gonna walk for a bit before crashing.”

Ryder raises a brow. “You alright?”

“Yeah, bro.” I say. And I mean it.

Theo whistles low. “Bloody hell. Kieran Hayes voluntarily skipping beers. Who are you?”

Luca chuckles, shoving the door open. “Next you’ll be telling us you made a salad on purpose.”

“Go fuck yourselves,” I mutter, laughing.

“Alright, man.” Ryder says, clapping me on the shoulder as they head on to the bus. “Have a good one.”

The door swings shut behind them with a dull metallic clunk, their voices fading into the distance. And just like that, it’s quiet.

The boys are always happy to crash on the bus.

It’s all part of the grind, the freedom, the chaos of being on the road.

And I love it. I really do. There’s something addictive about the movement, the noise, the late-night writing sessions fuelled by takeaway chips and half-sober philosophy. It’s what we’ve always dreamed of.

But when we’re parked somewhere for more than a night or two, I book a room.

Nothing fancy. Just a quiet bed, a working lock, and four walls that don’t move with the wind. There’s nothing deep about it. Some nights I just need the stillness—to press pause. A door I can close. A night where I can just stretch out without someone snoring in the bunk across from me.

The sun dips low now, casting a golden haze over the town. It’s one of those late afternoons where the heat loosens its grip, and the breeze slips in to take its place. I take a slow breath, letting it fill my chest.

This is one of my favourite things about being on the road. New places. New skies. The quiet magic of landing somewhere unfamiliar and letting it surprise you.

Even in the noise of tour life, there are these moments that feel still. Like the world’s pressing pause just long enough for you to notice it.

I walk without purpose through the town square, dragging my feet a little from the day’s chaos. Photoshoots, rehearsals, too many hours pretending to be cool when all I want is to collapse on a sofa.

But the town has other plans.

A food festival takes over the streets, a riot of colour and sound. Stalls overflowing with treats line both sides of the road, adorned with neon signs and paper lanterns. The air is thick with the scents of spice, sugar, and summer. I slow my steps, letting the hum of it all sink in.

The air is thick with life. Locals chatting, kids darting between legs, couples swaying lazily to an acoustic set drifting in from the next street. Music threads through the buzz like a heartbeat.

I blend in easily, just another face in the crowd.

I wander past a row of food stalls. Dumplings sizzling in woks, tacos stacked high with bright toppings, paella bubbling in wide, sun-scorched pans. The scent is everywhere. Rich, spiced, and mouthwatering.

But it’s the sweetness that catches me. That stops me in my tracks.

A wisp of warm sugar curls past on the breeze—thick with cinnamon.

I glance sideways.

There’s a bubblegum pink truck parked near the edge of the square, a string of fairy lights drapes lazily along the awning. A girl with space buns and gold hoops dusts fresh churros with sugar, then leans out to pass them to a waiting customer.

For a moment, I just stood there, frozen. The nostalgia hits me like a wave, and I’m transported back in time, the memory flooding in so quickly I almost lose my balance.

Because then I saw her. Clear as day.

Ellie moved as if the moment belonged to her.

Chin lifted, hair bouncing with every step, eyes cutting through the crowd with sharp precision.

No time for hesitation. No interest in subtlety.

She didn’t so much walk as glide, like the beat had crawled under her skin and decided to stay.

Like joy was something she didn’t just feel, but commanded.

She had my hand in hers, tugging me through the maze of food trucks like it was some kind of mission. Her laughter was loud, and her eyes sparkled with something wild and electric.

“We’re close,” she said, tugging my hand with renewed purpose.

“To what, exactly?”

“Salvation,” she shot over her shoulder. “In the form of fried sugar.”

I would’ve followed her anywhere, to be honest.

“There!” she gasped, skidding to a halt in front of a bubblegum pink truck.

“You dragged me through half a muddy field for this?” I teased, out of breath and entirely hers.

“I swear,” she said, flashing a grin that made my chest ache. “These are life-altering. Melt-in-your-mouth, ruin-you-for-all-other-donuts level of good.”

“Bit dramatic.”

“It’s called having standards, Hayes.”

The vendor is an older guy, thick grey moustache, and a t-shirt that reads DONUT WORRY, BE HAPPY. He clearly recognised her. Gave her a warm nod, as though she were a regular.

“Two boxes,” she said, then turned to me with mock-seriousness. “One for me, one for him.”

She was all sun and fire, and sugar cravings.

There was a rhythm to the way she moved, even when standing still.

Like her body was always half a beat ahead of the world.

She leaned her head against my shoulder, our fingers still laced together.

The sun caught in her hair. The moment held, slow and easy.

As we waited, she started swaying to the music coming from a nearby stage.

Something mellow and summery. Without thinking, I stepped in close and slid my hands to her waist, drawing her gently back into me.

She didn’t flinch. Just leaned in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I rested my chin on her shoulder, breathing her in as we swayed.

Just the two of us, moving to a rhythm no one else could feel.

She tilted her head back to look at me, curls falling over her shoulder. “They’re going to ruin you, you know,” she breathed.

“You’re already ruining me,” I murmured.