Bandom One-shots book 3

For You, Always (Izzy Stradlin x Mick Mars)

Izzy's birthday — sometime in 1987

Mick's POV

"...and Mick, what was the writing process like for that track?"

I blinked.

Shit. What was the question again?

I cleared my throat, shifting in my chair. "Uh... y'know, same as usual. Mess around until it works."

Nikki snorted next to me, shooting a look like dude, what is going on with you?

Tommy was already bored, tapping out some rhythm on his thigh, but Vince was watching me too—his brows lifted like he knew I was lying.

And maybe I was.

Because for the last thirty minutes, I hadn't stopped checking my watch.

The time was crawling.

4:07 PM.

Dammit.

I had 53 minutes until Izzy's birthday would officially be ruined. We didn't make any big plans—Izzy hated that kind of thing—but I'd promised him I'd be there. And I meant it.

"I think Mick's got a hot date," Tommy teased, nudging me.

Vince smirked. "Didn't know you were seeing anyone."

I kept my face still, practiced, unreadable.

"Nah," I muttered, leaning back in my seat. "Just don't wanna miss Murder, She Wrote."

They laughed. I didn't.

Because it wasn't TV I was racing to.

It was him.

20 Minutes Later

I was out the door the second the interview ended, practically speed-walking to my car like the damn thing would disappear if I didn't move fast enough.

Keys. Ignition. Seatbelt.

Then I floored it.

I knew Izzy wouldn't expect much. He never did. That was the worst part.

He deserved the world and expected none of it.

Which is why I slammed on the brakes in front of the tiny bakery near his place, ran inside like a madman, and pointed at the case.

"Those. The red velvet ones. And those cookies too—the ones with the chocolate chips and the caramel swirl."

The girl at the counter blinked but nodded. "Rough day?"

I glanced at the time.

4:41 PM.

"...Just trying not to mess up the best part of it."

Izzy's POV

I wasn't mad.

Really.

I was used to birthdays being nothing special. Sometimes I'd even forget it was happening until someone brought it up. I'd gotten used to blending into the background, fading in and out of the chaos that was rock 'n' roll.

But still.

I'd been looking at the door all day. Waiting.

Not because I expected Mick to show up, but because I hoped he would.

That was worse.

I was about to get up and light a cigarette when I heard tires screech outside.

Then frantic footsteps.

Then—

Knock knock knock

I froze.

Then cracked the door open.

There he was.

Mick Mars. Breathless. Hair windblown. Holding a little white box in one hand, a bag in the other, and looking at me like I was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Happy birthday, baby," he said softly.

My chest clenched.

I stepped aside, let him in.

"You're late."

"I know." He held up the box. "But I brought peace offerings."

I took it, opened it—and immediately laughed.

"You remembered."

"Course I did."

Cupcakes. Red velvet. My favorite.

Cookies. Chocolate and caramel. Still warm.

"I didn't think you'd come," I said quietly, setting the box down.

Mick wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close. "You think I'd miss your birthday? I practically ran out of an interview, nearly lied myself into a corner, and sped across L.A. to make it here."

I leaned into him. "Why the hell would you do all that?"

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.

"Because it's you, Izzy. And you're worth showing up for."

My throat tightened. I kissed him before I could say something stupid.

And just like that—my whole birthday turned around.