Bandom One-shots book 3

Thin Walls, Thinner Excuses (Duzzy)

Izzy's POV — The Next Morning

The morning after a sleepless, thigh-aching, vocal-cord-shredding night on the tour bus was brutal. My knees ached. My hair looked like I got electrocuted. And I was certain my hoodie didn't belong to me.

I crawled out of Duff's bunk at an ungodly hour, doing my best impersonation of a stealthy escape artist. Not that it mattered—he was dead asleep, mouth open slightly, one arm flung dramatically over his head like he was posing for an After Dark calendar.

I snorted. Softly. Affectionately.
Then bolted.

In the microscopic tour bus bathroom, I stared at my reflection: puffy lips, red cheeks, a very obvious bite mark peeking out from my collar.

"Fuck," I muttered, tugging my hoodie higher, like fabric could fix the night.

Cue the sound of judgment incarnate: Axl Rose, leaning in the hallway like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"Subtle," he deadpanned, sipping his coffee.

I jumped a little, muttered, "Jesus," and tried to act cool. Which never worked with Axl. He could smell guilt the way Slash smelled weed.

"Rough night?" he said, too casually. "Bus was hot?"

I blinked. "Uh. Yeah. Really hot. Couldn't sleep."

"Right. That's what we're calling it now."

He raised an eyebrow so high it almost hit the ceiling. I mumbled something about minding his business, but he just grinned and sipped his swamp water.

Then, the final nail in my dignity:

"Dude. You moaned his name. Loud. Like, twice. And Steven thought we hit a possum. I don't care who you fuck—but if I hear one more squeaky bunk spring at 3 a.m., I'm personally setting it on fire."

I flushed ten different shades of red. "Okay, okay! Jesus! You done?"

Axl clapped my shoulder, way too smug for a man wearing fuzzy slippers. "Just tell Duff how you feel. Unless you'd rather keep practicing your love confession at maximum volume."

I gave him the finger. He gave me finger guns.

I was still sulking over burnt coffee when he walked in—Duff, glowing in that how-the-hell-do-you-wake-up-handsome kind of way, hair sticking up, shirt twisted, lips pink from last night.

He sat across from me and smirked. Knew he was smirking.

"Morning," he said, voice raspy.

"Don't," I warned, but the corner of my mouth already twitched.

"Bus still too hot?" he teased.

I threw a napkin at him. He caught it like it was a love letter.

He leaned closer, still sleep-warm, breath smelling like mint and sin. "You sneakin' out on me now?"

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

His eyes were soft. Not teasing anymore. Just... open. Like a door I'd been too scared to walk through.

I swallowed hard. "Maybe I just didn't wanna get caught by your bunk fan club."

"Too late for that," he murmured.

And then his fingers brushed mine.

And then he leaned in.

And then I kissed him like I needed him to breathe.

It started playful—teeth clashing, soft laughs—but then I pulled him closer. Rougher. Like if I held on tight enough, maybe the ache in my chest would stop.

I kissed his jaw, his throat, that damn scar near his collarbone.

"Iz," he breathed, eyes fluttering. "What's wrong?"

I pulled back. Just enough to see him. "Nothing."

"Feels like something."

I hesitated.

Then whispered it. Like a secret. Like a prayer.

"I love you."

His eyes shot wide.

My heart thudded like it wanted out of my chest.

He didn't move.

He didn't say anything.

I started to pull away.

And then—he crushed me in his arms.

Not hard. But full. Whole. Like all the pieces fell into place.

"Iz," he whispered into my hair, voice trembling, "Jesus... I love you too."

I exhaled against his neck.

And that was it. The big secret. The loudest silence. The thing I'd held onto for so long finally had a name.

Love.

And yeah, we missed soundcheck.
But Axl forgave us.
Eventually.

(After threatening to staple my bunk shut.)