Page 23

when the music stops

KIERAN

T he tour’s finally over—six long months—and the moment my boots meet solid ground, the weight of it hits me.

No more swaying floors beneath my feet, just unmoving pavement pressing up through worn soles.

My body registers the stillness before my mind can even catch up.

My shoulders scream, my legs throb, and sweat clings to my skin in a sticky film. It all lands at once.

And with it, the exhaustion.

Not the kind that makes you want to crawl into bed and disappear. No, this is different. It’s bone-deep, sure, but it’s earned. Worn like a medal. The tiredness that follows a high you never want to come down from.

Last night’s show? Wild.

Another sold-out venue. Our third this week.

What used to be rooms crammed with a hundred—maybe two hundred—faces pressed against the stage has turned into something else entirely.

Last night, it was over fifteen hundred. A packed-out hall, the kind that echoes even before the music starts. Balcony seats. Security barriers. A lighting rig that looked like something from a bloody awards show.

And they came for us .

A crowd so loud we could barely hear ourselves on stage. People screaming lyrics back like they’d been waiting their whole lives to let them out. Like our songs weren’t just ours anymore—but theirs too.

The lights, the heat, the pulse of it all still buzzes at the back of my skull.

I can still feel the bass vibrating through the soles of my feet, even now.

Like my body hasn’t quite accepted that it’s over.

That the stage is behind us and not beneath me.

But for now, the adrenaline’s gone, and we’re standing in a hotel corridor, waiting to meet with Nick, when all I want is a hot shower and a bed that doesn’t sway with motion.

The door swings open, and we shuffle into the conference room like a pack of sleep-deprived zombies.

The energy is all muted groans and slumped shoulders, a collective exhaustion that needs no explanation.

We look like hell.

Nick’s already standing at the head of the room, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Grinning like a man who’s definitely not been surviving on 3am petrol station snacks and thirty-minute naps. His blazer is crisp, his shoes are polished, and his optimism is borderline offensive this early in the day.

“Fellas,” he says, clapping his hands together like he’s about to deliver a wedding toast nobody asked for. “I just want to say. I’m beyond proud of what you’ve done over the last few months.”

We mutter a few tired thank-yous under our breaths.

“The entire country knows your names now. Hell, you’ve made a mark bigger than any of us could’ve imagined this last six months. And I’m thrilled to tell you...” He lets the moment hang, milking it. “The label officially wants to sign you for an album.”

A beat of stunned silence. Then… “LET’S GOOOOO!” Ryder launches out of his chair like he’s been tasered, fists in the air, grabbing Luca’s shoulders and shaking him like he’s trying to resuscitate him.

Luca just smirks, shrugging him off. “An entire album?” he says, looking at Nick. “Guess we’re stuck together a little longer, mate.”

Theo leans back in his chair, arms folded, smug as ever. “He’d be lost without us.”

Ryder’s still vibrating. “We have to celebrate. Big night. Champagne. Fireworks. A private island…”

“Let’s scale it down, Bezos,” I cut in, but I’m grinning too.

Nick holds up a hand, still smiling. “Before you start designing your own yacht, let me add one more thing.”

We all quiet down.

“You’ve earned this. Every single one of you. The shows, the interviews, the photoshoots. You’ve killed it. And now?” He spreads his arms wide. “You get the rest of the year off.”

The room falls still.

“A break?” Luca echoes, like the words are in a foreign language.

Nick nods. “Yeah. Go. Rest. Be with your people. Live a little. You’ll hit the studio fresh in the new year.”

And just like that, relief crashes over me like a wave. I hadn’t realised how tight my chest had been. How much I’ve been holding in. The deadlines, the pressure, the endless movement… all of it loosens.

A break. Three months. Time to be Kieran. Not just Kieran from the band. It’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to Dad.

Tour’s done. Break till January. Labels signing us.

Dad [08:37]

Brilliant news, Kieran. Well done, son! Never been more proud of you.

I stare at that for a moment. Let it sink in. Let it matter.

“HELL YEAH!” Luca crows, tossing his phone onto the table like he’s just won the lottery. “I’m already booking a flight to Italy, baby.”

“Make that two! I’m coming with you,” Theo says, dead serious. “Your nonna loves me.”

“She’s my nonna,” Luca says, shaking his head.

“She said I have nice hair,” Theo grins.

“She also said you eat like a stray dog,” Luca fires back.

“I took that as affection.” Theo shrugs. “I swear to God, I’m going to hibernate for the next three months. Wake me up when it’s January.”

“Can’t wait to see the feral little swamp creature you emerge as,” Luca says, kicking the leg of his chair.

Theo flips him off without moving. “Joke’s on you. I’ll be well rested and hotter.”

The laughter that erupts around the table is the good kind. The kind that scrapes the stress out of your lungs, the kind that makes you feel like yourself again. It’s messy and stupid, and honest.

For the first time in months, it feels like we’re not bracing for impact. Like we’re just... us. Four idiots who somehow turned noise into something people care about.

This moment?

Yeah.

This one’s ours.

The sun’s already dipping by the time we stumble out of the hotel. After the meeting, we all just... collapsed. There was no champagne toast, no rooftop party, no ridiculous backstage blowout like we used to dream about. Just this strange, heavy quiet that none of us quite knew what to do with.

We sprawled out on the beds, or any spare bit of floor not covered in bags, eating greasy takeaway and scrolling mindlessly on our phones, while the silence stretched between us like an old jumper. Worn out, but weirdly comforting.

We’re not used to stopping. We’re used to chaos, to noise, to motion. Standing still feels a little too much like free-fall.

Theo’s the one who cracks through the moment, flopping onto the floor with a dramatic groan and waving his phone in the air like a flag.

“ Boys ,” he announces, eyes gleaming, “there’s an end-of-summer bonfire happening down at Coral Point tonight. Locals, music, drinks. Real low-key. Last blowout before everything shuts down for winter.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Coral Point?” The name doesn't ring any immediate bells.

Theo tosses his phone at me, and I catch it. A quick search later, I piece it together. It’s a small village close to where we are. Tucked near the edge of the Lakes, all private beaches and craggy little coves.

The photos are all misty coastlines and low, rolling hills. It looks... peaceful. Hidden.

The kind of place you could disappear into for a night.

We look at each other. Don’t even need to vote.

“YESSS BOYSSSS!” Ryder yells, knocking over his takeaway as he jumps up, already halfway to the door.

Because, of course, we’re not starting our first night of freedom by being responsible.

Not yet.

The drive to Coral Point doesn’t take long.

The hotel receptionist sorted us a minibus after Theo sweet-talked her with that grin he saves for getting what he wants.

It’s nothing fancy. One of those beat-up local shuttles with peeling upholstery and a rattle in the dashboard that comes and goes like it’s got a mind of its own. But it gets us from A to B.

Theo claimed the front seat, naturally. He’s half-turned around, knee on the seat, chanting directions to the driver like we’re in some kind of low-budget road rally. “Left! No—the next left! Straight! Well... straight-ish! Right!”

The driver, a wiry guy with grey hair and patience worn thin, just grunts now and then, steering us through the winding roads like it’s all part of the deal.

In the back, chaos brews. Ryder’s trying to hijack the speaker with a playlist that sounds like a bad school disco circa 2003, cueing tracks with deadly seriousness. Luca keeps wrestling the phone back, switching songs with a sigh that says he’s questioning every life choice that led him here.

I stretch out as far as the seat will let me, head tilted against the window.

The cool glass vibrates faintly, a low hum against the jarring bumps of the uneven road.

A chill clings to its surface. Outside, the hills blur past. Soft slopes, dry-stone walls, and flashes of the lake catching the last of the evening sun.

The driver pulls up near a faded wooden sign that reads Coral Point Cove. We pile out of the minibus—the door clanging shut behind us. My boots sink into the sand as soon as I step onto the beach, the warmth from the day still lingering in the air.

It isn't a big tourist spot. Not the flashy kind, anyway.

It's tucked along the west coast, a hidden strip of sand with a handful of flashy cabins dotting the shoreline, a few weathered shops still open with hand-painted signs and twinkling fairy lights.

A scattering of locals and tourists roam the beach, trailing footprints through the cooling sand.

The heat clings, heavy and damp, but the breeze off the water cools the sweat at the back of my neck. I roll my shoulders, shaking off the leftover tension from the tour, letting the ground steady me.

The guys scatter almost immediately. Theo’s already deep in conversation with someone near a taco truck, Luca flips his sunglasses down like he’s going incognito (he’s not), and Ryder is already halfway through charming a group of sun-kissed girls by the cooler.

But I hang back for a second and breathe it in.