Thirty-thousand feet over somewhere in the Midwest, Shawn peered out from his yellow-tinted goggles to make sure you were still there. As predicted, he huffed a sigh of relief at the sight of you curled up in your seat, knees tucked into your chest as a matted mess of soft hair rested atop his shoulder.

You slept soundly, not usually one to relax on planes but something about being nuzzled up against Shawn's side had you out like a light.

He grinned at the sight, gently tugging your left wrist out from the kangaroo pouch of your 'YOUTH' hoodie to toy with your fingers, amazed at the way such a tiny hand could fit so perfectly in his massive one.

His thumb danced across your knuckles, the back of your hand satin smooth beneath his calloused fingertip. He rubbed a few circles on your ring finger, smiling softly to himself as he imagined the day he'd finally be able to adorn it with a ring. Not yet, but eventually. He knew.

And that's why he'd already texted Andrew before takeoff, letting him know the cat was about to come out of the bag. And though it wouldn't be pretty, it was something beautiful. For Shawn, anyway.

Carefully, Shawn fished his phone out from his left pocket as he cradled your left hand in his right, fumbling with the flash option before snapping a picture. He swiped through the filters, finally landing on a black and white one and adding some black hearts. It was time.

He pressed 'Send To,' then 'Your Story,' and it was done. Word was out.

Shawn Mendes was in love.

____________________

LA was warm. Not like, hot, but a lot fucking warmer than Toronto in February. Your long-sleeved t-shirt dress was perfect for the weather, but it didn't really matter at the moment. Shawn was cooped up in the studio with Scott and Teddy, both lovely as ever and unbothered by having you curled up in a wing chair, dozing off to the sounds of their determined chatter.

Shawn in the studio was a whole other person, and you were in awe. You'd never experienced him so focused and raw, really searching within himself for the right feelings to express. He was being careful not to reveal anything he'd written about you, using this time to throw a last-minute pop single together a few weeks before tour started.

Somewhere between finding the right baseline and doubling the bridge you fell asleep, waking up hours later to a much darker, much emptier music studio.

Scott and Teddy were nowhere to be found, probably gone home, you concluded, considering it was past nine o'clock. Shawn was one to stay late. Especially when he had a deadline.

Your eyes roamed the room, admiring the guitars hanging from the beige walls and the deep red Persian rugs lining the hardwood floor. Seated at the computer desk was a very tense Shawn Mendes, hair messy from the headphones clamped around his skull, t-shirt long-abandoned.

He was staring at some version of Ableton, layers upon layers of sound waves displayed on the busy screen.

Shawn chewed his nail as he struggled to line something up, ready to burst into tears at any second due to how long this tiny little adjustment had been taking him. Combing your tangled waves with your fingers, you rose from your little nook and sauntered over to him quietly, the soft carpet feeling cozy beneath your bare feet.

You could feel the heat radiating from Shawn's frame as you stood behind him, his angry flush coating the expanse of skin you could see. He could feel your presence, too frustrated to peel his eyes from the screen burning holes in his retinas to pay you any mind.

You carefully placed your small hands on his bare shoulders, kneading them the way he did for you every time a paper wasn't flowing the way you'd hoped. He leaned back a bit, pressing his mess of curls into your abdomen without halting his assault on the keyboard. You knew it would take a little more than this.

Beats were blaring from the headset as your hands roamed to his soft chest, your upper half curling into him as you pressed your cheek to the crook of his burning neck. He nuzzled back with a frustrated exhale, too caught up in writing-land to notice you peppering kisses along his jaw, murmuring something about working too hard.

Your fingertips poked at his sternum as your lips found his left cheek, planting kisses on the dusting of stubble closest to his chin. Finally, he took the damn headphones off.

"Babe, I'm sorry, I really can't do this right now," he snapped, eyes falling shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

"Shawn, I'm not doing anything," you spoke softly, comfortingly rubbing his biceps with your small hands, "I just don't like seeing you stressed."

"Well, get fucking used to it," he groaned, leaning forward and shaking you off.

"Shawn," you spoke, shocked, crossing your arms over your chest, "I just, I would help you if I could, but I can't, and you just looked like you needed a hug or someth-"

"Baby," he breathed, an expression of sadness crossing his features. He placed the headphones on the desk in front of him and turned the swivelling chair in your direction, holding his hands out to reach for yours, "M'sorry, I didn't mean that. I'm just a little stressed out right now."

You took his hands, stepping forward and meeting his pleading gaze. He did look sorry.

"I just," you breathed, Shawn dropped your hands and patted his lap, reaching for your hips to station you on his thighs, "I flew out here and this weekend is gonna be such a big deal, I wish you wouldn't push yourself so hard," you paused, pushing his curls back from his warm forehead, "especially right now."

"I know, I'm sorry," he whispered, his forehead meeting yours as he took a deep breath.

"Don't apologize," you hummed, raking your fingers through his curls as his head fell to your shoulder, strong arms tightening around your middle as he held you closer, "come on, I came all the way here to see you win one of music's biggest awards," you grinned, pushing his chest away from you to get a look at his face, "and look what I'm wearing."

He raised his eyebrows as you reached for the hem of your grey dress, tugging the fabric up your thighs to reveal the blue lace he'd gifted you months prior.

His lips turned up at the corners, eyes falling shut as he leaned forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. You cupped his cheeks, holding his face against yours as you gently pecked his mouth, nudging his nose with your own in the process.

"Finally I get to see them," he grinned, separating his lips from your own as he tilted his head back in the chair, cheeks patched with pink—and not from frustration, "c'mere," he muttered, hands tightening around your waist as he pulled you in and kissed you hungrily, lips moving against yours with tender desperation.

You giggled as he gripped your sides and grinded against you, a soft moan vibrating from his throat before he spoke, "I love you," and then, "I need you."

"Are we alone?" you questioned, lifting yourself on your knees as he pushed his sweatpants and boxers down his thighs, revealing his now-hardened length, flush against his bare stomach.

"Mhm," he hummed, bunching your dress around your middle before you could lift it off your head. His lips were hot on your neck, careful not to leave any marks but unable to keep from playfully biting at your sweet spot. Your head tilted back involuntarily as you pushed the blue panties to one side, gripping his cock firmly to align it with your core and lower yourself onto him.

He stopped kissing you, forehead falling into the crook of your neck as he adjusted to the feeling of your snug walls tightly hugging his length, trying his best not to blow his load right then and there. Shawn inhaled sharply, grip finally loosening on your fleshy hips as he gave you permission to start moving, rocking you back and forth on his swollen cock.

"Jesus," he muttered, only illuminated by the dim light of the computer screen to your left, accentuating his bone structure as your lips took purchase on his sharp jaw, "baby?"

"Hm?"

"Can you kiss me?" he whispered softly, "Please?"

Your heart burst as you leaned against him, hungrily fucking yourself on his cock as you melted into his lips, feeling them move against yours like it was what they were fucking made to do. He got rough, nipping at your pout like he was ready to fucking devour you because he really, truly couldn't get enough. His hands were moving you against him and your fingers were wrapped around his throat, gripping for dear life because his restless hips were sending you into another fucking realm.

His hums were mantras in themselves, frantically begging for all of you as his right hand reached between your thighs, fingertips dancing on your clit like he thought you could fucking handle it.

You were putty in his hands, shaking and clenching and begging, "please don't stop" as he fucked you with desire, wild eyes searching yours as you threatened to spill over.

"Now, Shawn," you cried, pulsing around him vigorously as he held you against him, fingertips pressing into your thighs as his eyes shut tightly, crinkling at the corners.

"Gonna fucking come in you," he muttered, painfully slowly grinding his hips into your core as he exploded, filling you with everything he had.

You were still teetering over the edge, finally thrown into a pool of bliss as he flicked your clit one last time, your limbs a shaking mess atop his muscular thighs.

"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck," you muttered, reaching out to grip the wooden desk as Shawn's lips found your neck, words of love and praise being spoken into your reddened skin.

You must have pressed something on the keyboard, because muffled beats began blaring from the headphones on the mousepad and Shawn's head snapped up, swivelling the chair to pause the track.

"Sorry," you giggled, panting into his curls, still coming down from your orgasm.

"Oh my god," he muttered, breaking his gaze with the screen to cup your cheeks, moving your face to look at him, "I have no idea what you did, but you fixed it."

He pulled you in for a soft kiss, heavy breathing finally subsiding.

You grinned smugly, "Knew I could help."

____________________

"So, let me get this straight," you spoke, nudging Shawn's thigh with your toes as you sat on a waiting room couch, both of your red carpet outfits hanging on the wall, "you've broken the internet and you're gonna win a Grammy? I'm impressed, Mendes."

"We don't know that," he grinned, scrolling through his tiny-looking iPhone in his massive hand.

"I still can't believe you didn't tell me you were gonna do that."

"They were gonna find out this weekend anyway," Shawn mumbled, rising from the cushion to relocate to the vanity, his messy head of curls ready to be styled into a less-messy head of curls.

"Does this mean you're finally gonna follow me on Instagram?" you joked, Shawn's happy eyes meeting yours in the mirror in front of him.

"You said it, not me," he giggled, searching your name in the app and causing your phone to buzz seconds later. It was happening. No going back.

You accepted his follow request.

____________________

The red carpet wasn't as scary as you thought. You had worried you might fangirl at the sight of every celebrity you'd ever looked up to, but Shawn looked too gorgeous to peel your eyes from.

He claimed it was all you—the reason people were left stunned by the sight of the two of you together. You knew it was him, but in his mind, it was you. It was always you.

You squeezed in between Teddy and Shawn for the first few minutes of the event, your hand placed comfortingly on his jittery thigh as he was minutes away from performing.

Before you knew it, he was being pulled from his seat, leaning in for one last kiss before heading backstage to get changed, ready to floor you with In My Blood.

He sang beautifully. He even blew you a little kiss as he ran from the b-stage to the main stage, absolutely killing it as he performed his Grammy-nominated song.

And that's why you were absolutely devastated when they didn't call his name, faking a smile as you stood with him to clap anyway.

____________________

Tucked away somewhere backstage, the team celebrated their almost-win over champagne and laughter. You picked at your manicured cuticles, impatiently eyeing the black curtain as Shawn popped into the little room, a smile gracing his pink lips.

You didn't understand.

It wasn't that he didn't win. That was fine. It sucked a little, but it was fine.

It was the execution of the whole fucking thing.

And you'd only grown angrier as you watched the show on the tiny screen in front of you, Best Rap Album being awarded to Cardi B.

You put your feelings behind you, storing them in the back of your brain for a time you'd be able to freely express your emotions and sauntered over to the man of the hour, wrapping him up in a tight hug.

"Hi," he grinned with a kiss to your cheek, his jacket missing as only his black dress shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, the top three buttons undone.

"Hi," you smiled back, "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you for coming," he spoke lowly, pulling you into his lap on the fabric couch, careful not to fuck up your tight black dress.

"Thank you for everything," you hummed, unable to resist planting a gentle kiss on his nose, "for the music, for being so great, and for loving me."

Shawn's arms tightened around you, unsure of what to possibly say.

____________________

Eleven o'clock. It was eleven o'clock on Grammy night, and instead of going to one of the ten afterparties Shawn was invited to, he insisted on snuggling up in your hotel room and ordering a large pepperoni pizza.

You knew you loved him for a reason.

"So?" he asked, his red hoodie accentuating his drunken flush as he nibbled on the second last slice, "what's going on?"

"Hmm?" you hummed, reaching down to straighten out your twisted sock.

"You're been somewhere else all night. Come on, babe," he glared at you, nudging your knee with his, "we all knew I wasn't gonna win."

You took a deep breath.

"Well they sure made it fucking seem like you had it," you spat bitterly, Shawn's face faltering as he nodded.

"Part of the game, babe," he answered, his mouth full of crust.

"No, it's not," you insisted, turning toward him on the couch, "that was so fucked up. They put you on the fucking aisle, feet away from the stage, and then had Alicia Keys announce it, and then to top it all off, John fucking Mayer joined her? No, that was fucked up. Like taking candy from a fucking baby," you ranted, red in the face and teary-eyed.

"Everyone's idols are Alicia Keys and John Mayer," Shawn replied, wiping his fingers on a brown napkin before he pulled you into his lap.

"It wasn't just you," you whispered, "they invited Mac Miller's parents and said they'd play a tribute video if he won. Then he didn't fucking win. And they had to sit there the whole time, fucking thinking about it. Why would they even fly them out? Shit's fucked, Shawn," you breathed, Shawn's thumbs drawing small circles on your thighs in an attempt to calm you down.

"Yeah, I see what you mean."

"This is why no one fucking goes anymore," you rolled your eyes, "Taylor? Donald Glover? They fucking cut off Drake's speech, and he was right. It's censorship."

Shawn sighed, unable to argue. He knew you were right, and he admired you for voicing your opinion. Shit was fucked.

"A part of me's glad you didn't win," you muttered, "they don't deserve you."

"Be happy it's over, honey," Shawn giggled, tugging the knit blanket over the both of you.

"At least we get to go home tomorrow," you spoke, resting your head on his shoulder as he combed through your hair. He nodded.

"But for now," he muttered softly, "we have an entire hotel suite to ourselves."

"Mhm," you grinned, tilting your head a bit to pepper a few kisses on his neck, "and?"

"And," he started, "I think the marble countertop's too nice not to fuck you on."

"I like the way you think, Mendes," you giggled, squealing a little as he stood from the sofa, lifting your small frame with him.

____________________

"I never asked about your Instagram situation," Shawn spoke, finally freeing himself from the crowd of people awaiting his arrival at Toronto Pearson.

"I haven't looked," you responded, truly dreading the influx of follow requests and hate locked within the confines of your iPhone.

"You probably shouldn't," he giggled, loading your luggage into the Uber before opening the door for you, thankful for the shred of privacy the vehicle provided.

"Either way, I'm glad word's out," you muttered, Shawn's hand finding yours against the leather seat, "I'm so proud of you."

And that's why you had asked Tyler to sneak into the apartment with the few things you'd ordered, staging it all perfectly on the kitchen counter for Shawn to discover.

You darted into the apartment building as Shawn fumbled with the luggage, feeling mildly guilty for leaving him with both suitcases but knowing he'd understand later.

Pushing through the front door, you frantically zipped around the condo to light as many candles as you could, trying to make the place as home-y as possible.

"What the fuck?" Shawn called out to you as he busted into the kitchen with too much in his hands, face softening as he took in his surroundings.

A bouquet of yellow roses sat in a vase on the kitchen counter, matching the yellow piping on the little cake beside it. Shawn took a few steps forward, a toothy grin plastered on his face as he admired the dessert, an edible print of a golden gramophone with "Boyfriend of the Year" on its plaque.

He looked up at you, tears in his chocolate eyes as he tilted his head.

"Baby," he paused, looking down at the cake again, "you didn't have to do this."

"Yes I did," you grinned, padding over to his side of the kitchen island to pull him in for a tight embrace.

He reached up, wiping a fallen tear from his right eye as he rocked you back and forth, absorbing what it was like to be really, truly happy.

He didn't need the goddamn Grammy.

He'd already won.