Bandom One-shots book 3

Seattle (Duzzy)

1993.
Duff's Penthouse.
Point of View: Duff McKagan

Seattle was quieter than L.A.

The air felt cleaner. The streets didn't reek of smog and sin. You could breathe here. You could think.

I'd been laying low—penthouse near the Space Needle, overlooking a city that didn't give a shit about me. I liked that. I liked the quiet.

But I didn't like the silence in my head.
The one that echoed his name.

Izzy.

It'd been two years.
Two fucking years since he walked out.
No explanation. No goodbye. Just a note on a napkin left on my amp and a blank stare when I tried to follow him.

He disappeared like smoke.

And yet... I kept waiting for him to come back.

It was 3:08 AM when I heard the knocking.

More like pounding.

Frantic. Messy. Desperate.

I sat up on the couch, blinked at the front door, unsure if I was dreaming or if the ghosts had finally decided to knock this time.

Then the pounding again.

I stood. Barefoot. Shirtless. My heart already hammering for reasons I hadn't admitted to myself in years.

I opened the door.

And there he was.

Izzy Stradlin.

Hair wet from the rain. Leather jacket clinging to him like it had been dragged through hell. Eyes wild, bloodshot. Mouth parted like he was about to say something—but didn't.

He didn't need to.

Because in the next second, he shoved past me.

Didn't say a word.
Didn't even look me in the eye.

I turned, confused as hell—just as the door clicked shut behind me—and suddenly he was on me.

Mouth crushed to mine.

Fingers in my hair.

Breath like gasoline and nicotine and unsaid things.

And I kissed him back.
Because of course I did.

Because it had been two years and my hands never forgot the shape of him, and his kiss felt like fire and closure and the start of something I never got to finish.

He pushed me against the wall. I didn't fight it. I didn't want to.

His lips moved like he was trying to erase the time between us. His breath was shaky. Mine was worse.

He pulled back for half a second—just enough to look me in the eye.

"I couldn't stay away anymore," he whispered, voice hoarse.

I stared at him. My throat burned.

"You were gone for two years, Izzy."

"I know."

"Not a call. Not a letter. I didn't even know if you were alive."

"I know." He looked down, jaw tight. "I didn't know how to come back."

My voice cracked. "But you did."

He nodded, silent again.

And then he kissed me harder.

We didn't talk that night.
We didn't need to.

We collapsed into each other like it was the only thing we knew how to do right. All the anger, the questions, the missing pieces—they could wait.

That night wasn't about fixing things.
It was about feeling again.
And remembering that love never really left.
It just hid in the shadows and waited for 3AM.