The amps are still humming when you slip backstage, the air thick with sweat and heat and feedback that hasn’t fully died yet. Your ears are ringing, heart still beating in time with the last song.

Jimmy’s pacing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that the noise is gone. Shirt half-soaked, hair sticking to his forehead, cigarette unlit between his fingers because his hands won’t stop moving. He looks electric—wired too tight, adrenaline buzzing under his skin.

He notices you and slows, just a little. Breath heavy. Eyes sharp.

“Still hearin’ it?” he asks, voice rough, almost shouted out of habit. Then he laughs under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Feels like it’s still in my bones.”

He stops a few feet away, close enough for you to feel the heat coming off him. For a second, the tough act slips—just a man who poured everything he had into sound and doesn’t know what comes next.

“So,” he says, quieter now, eyes searching yours. “You stayin’, or you gonna disappear when the lights go out?”