A/N
This is my main fantasy right now, it's based on my life and what I hope is a real possibility, although I'm probably deluded. However, the companies are different cause privacy and all that jazz. Enjoy :)
When you work at one of the UK's biggest retailers, you'd think lunch breaks would be glamorous — networking at rooftop cafes or rushing to fittings with models in Soho.
Reality check: they were usually twenty rushed minutes at my desk, balancing a sandwich in one hand and a supplier call in the other.
But today, the sun was shining — that rare, soft London sun that made everything look kinder — and I decided to escape my rather swanky office (no dull grey cubicles here!) for a proper lunch. Something fresh. Something nice. Something that would make me feel like I wasn't just a cog in a very large, very ancient machine.
I wandered into the Waitrose on Marylebone High Street (honestly, where else would you go) soaking in the cool blast of air conditioning, the glossy aisles, the hum of posh customers pretending they weren't checking each other out.
I wasn't paying much attention — I had my headphones in listening to U2 whilst texting my manager about some stock levels — when I turned a corner and crashed straight into someone.
Hard.
There was a sickening crack — like glass meeting tile — and I gasped, looking down at the mess of broken... whatever it was.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" I blurted, already dropping my suede shoulder bag to crouch down and pick up the shards.
"No, no — leave it," came a rough voice, laced with a Mancunian drawl that made something funny twist low in my stomach.
I looked up.
And froze.
Noel Gallagher — stood over me, squinting, a half-smirk pulling at his mouth. Not just anyone, my all time fucking major crush. For 57 he looked fucking AMAZING.
He was wearing a battered leather jacket, dark jeans, and that expression of faint amusement you always saw in photos — like the world was one long, private joke only he got.
"You alright, love?" he asked, cocking his head.
"I — uh — yeah. I'm fine. I didn't— I mean, I wasn't—"
Smooth, Bella. Real smooth.
He laughed under his breath, a warm, gravelly sound.
"I didn't want that anyway. Don't worry about it."
Still kneeling like an idiot in front of him, I realized I was gawking. I scrambled to my feet, cheeks burning.
He straightened up too, giving me a once-over that wasn't exactly subtle.
"You always bowl people over in supermarkets, or am I just lucky?" he teased.
I let out a nervous laugh. "Only on special occasions."
He grinned — wide, sexy, a little wicked.
It hit me right in the chest. Noel never smiled at anyone in public.
For a second, neither of us said anything. The world around us — the murmurs of shoppers, the crackle of announcements over the speakers — faded into a blur. I suddenly tuned back in and realised I had one AirPod blasting Gloria (the live at red rocks version) and my other was no where to be seen.
Noel frowned at me.
"You ok?"
"Oh- um. I've lost my AirPod."
He then knelt down and rummaged under the fixture, and resurfaced holding my missing AirPod, covered in red goo. It was only then I realised I caused him to drop tomato sauce. Which is probably the worst thing you can drop. That stuff stains, BAD.
