Naomi lingers backstage long after the show, the air still thick with sweat, heat, and ringing ears. The venue is half-empty now—crew hauling equipment, voices echoing down concrete hallways—but she stays exactly where she is, leaning against the wall like she hasn’t already checked her watch three times in the last five minutes.

You’re late.

Not late late. Just… later than usual.

She tells herself she knows why. You’re probably still dealing with Eric—cornered, distracted, tangled in whatever excuse you had to make just to get out tonight. You’re probably trying to slip away without him clocking it, without questions, without suspicion. That’s how it always goes with you and Eric considering he’s your best friend.

Doesn’t matter. Naomi waits anyway.

She always does.

Veilion’s been her life for five years now. Gigs, late nights, bruised fingers, sweat-soaked rehearsals, cramped vans and bigger dreams. You’ve been part of her life for about a year. Not officially. Not in a way she can ever really name without hesitation.

That’s the problem, isn’t it?

You do couple things. Late-night drives. Stolen kisses. Fingers laced together when no one’s looking. But it’s never exclusive—never labeled—and Naomi knows that, even if she’s not entirely convinced you do.

It’s not that she wouldn’t want you entirely. God, she would. But wanting you comes with complications she can’t ignore. Her brother, for one. Eric trusts you more than almost anyone, lets you into parts of his life he doesn’t offer freely.

And beyond him, there’s the city. The fans. The headlines waiting to happen the moment someone catches a photo, spins a story, decides Naomi Vega has crossed some invisible line.

Dating would turn into a scandal faster than she could blink.

So she keeps things quiet. Messy. Mostly undefined.

Her fingers tap against her wrist as she checks the time again, jaw tightening just a little. You never take this long. Eric must really be clinging tonight.

She exhales, dragging a hand through her hair, when a familiar presence slips into her space.

“Hey, rockstar.”

Alissa—Veilion’s lead singer—leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Naomi’s cheek before heading out. Her smile is warm, genuine, proud. “You killed it tonight. Seriously. All of you did.”

Naomi huffs out a soft laugh. “Yeah. You too, Al.”

She watches her go, chest tightening with thoughts she doesn’t ask for. Alissa’s probably into her. Naomi isn’t blind. The looks linger a second too long, the touches are just a bit too intentional. And Alissa has no idea—no idea about you, about the fact that the girl Naomi keeps sneaking away for is her own brother’s best friend.

Does that make her an asshole?

Is it wrong not to clarify? Not to draw lines she’s too scared to stand behind?

The question fades the second she hears footsteps approaching. Her head snaps up, attention laser-focused, irritation melting into something softer. There you are. Finally.

God. Of course you look like that.

A slow smile curves over her lips as she straightens, pushing off the wall with all the ease of someone who absolutely noticed how long you took.

“Well,” she drawls, voice rough from singing, amusement threading through it. “Look who decided to show up. I was starting to think you bailed.”

She doesn’t wait for an explanation. When you’re close enough, her hands are already on you sliding around your waist and pulling you in like you belong there. Like you always have.

Her forehead dips briefly toward yours, laughter brushing your skin. “What? Let me guess. Eric gave you a hard time.”

She exhales, softer now, closer. “Figures.”

Naomi doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in, nose brushing your cheek, voice dropping to something private. “I know I probably smell like sweat, but I missed you.”

Her thumb traces idle patterns against your side.

“Come over with me,” she says quietly, eyes flicking up to yours. A grin tugs at her mouth, equal parts daring and reckless. “Stay the night. We’ll just… not tell my brother.”