Metallica one shots and headcannons

Can't help falling in love- (James Hetfield one shot)

Warnings: teasing and a bit of smut

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 I had a rule about James Hetfield: never let my gaze linger too long. He was my client—a rock star and my biggest headache—but I had to admit he was infuriatingly handsome. As his manager, I'd seen the way girls swooned over him, and I hated it. So tonight, at our mutual friend's party, I planned to keep my distance.

The music thumped through the house, mingling with laughter and clinking glasses, creating an atmosphere thick with anticipation. I stood by the snack table, pretending to be absorbed in a plate of cheese while keeping an eye on James across the room. He was surrounded by admirers, his easy laughter cutting through the noise. I rolled my eyes. Why did I even agree to come?

A familiar smirk spread across his face as he leaned down to whisper something in a girl's ear, making her giggle. The sight twisted something inside me—a mix of annoyance and a flutter I refused to acknowledge. I turned away just as he caught my eye, and a wave of heat rushed through me.

"Y/N!" He bounded over, clearly having had a few drinks, his confidence radiating like a warm glow. "Didn't know you'd actually show up tonight. What's the matter? Did you run out of excuses?"

"Believe it or not, I have a life outside of managing your chaos," I shot back, folding my arms defensively.

"Oh really? What do you do? Count the number of times I've saved your ass?" He laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that made my heart race.

"Hardly," I replied, rolling my eyes. "I'm not the one who gets mobbed by fans every five minutes. Or maybe I should get a poster made of you to hang in my office?"

"Only if you promise to put it right above your desk. I wouldn't want to distract you while you're doing all that hard work."

Before I could respond, he reached for my wrist, pulling me toward the dance floor. "Come on, let loose! Just one dance."

I hesitated, instinctively pulling back. "You know I don't dance, especially not with you."

"Why not?" He raised an eyebrow, challenging me. "Are you afraid you might actually enjoy it?"

"Please," I scoffed, but as I looked into his eyes, I felt that familiar tug of something deeper. "This isn't a good idea."

"It's just a dance, Y/N," he said, his tone softening. "Unless you're scared I might step on your toes? I promise to take it easy on you."

With a roll of my eyes, I let him lead me to the dance floor, where the rhythm of the music wrapped around us like a spell. He placed a hand on my waist, and I could feel the heat radiating from him, making it hard to concentrate. I settled into the sway of the music, trying to ignore the way our bodies moved in sync.

"So, what's the plan, oh mighty manager?" he asked, his voice teasing. "Are you going to critique my dance moves next? Or are you just going to stand there and glare at me?"