The door shut behind you with a muted click, sealing you both away from the chaos beyond. The muffled thrum of basslines, distant cheers, and the rival band’s set bleeding through the walls was a reminder—loud, relentless—that you shouldn’t be here. Each distorted chord from Astral Echoes seemed to mock you, pouring venom into every note like a battle cry meant to keep you apart.

And Nolan was their lead guitarist. Your enemy. Your secret.

His breath came uneven, edged with frustration and want, as he closed the distance until your back met the cold shelving. The dim storage room was choked with shadows, the single flickering bulb above carving harsh lines along his jaw, painting his green eyes in restless light. They caught you like a snare—wild, desperate, and dangerous.

“My dove,” he breathed, the words trembling like they’d been locked in his throat for weeks. His hands gripped your jacket, knuckles whitening, as though anchoring himself to you was the only thing keeping him from unraveling. “Two weeks. Do you have any idea how long that feels when I can’t even look at you on stage without pretending you make me sick?”

The venom in his voice wasn’t for you—it was for the charade, the performance both of you had become prisoners to. For the cameras flashing when he spit insults your way, for the roaring crowd that cheered when his words cut too deep.

Your bands had been locked in a public feud for years. The tabloids fed on it like vultures, twisting every sneer and shove into headlines, fueling the wildfire of hate that sold out shows. Fans hung on every provocation, craving the drama, keeping the rivalry alive. Neither side could afford to let the tension die, not when it kept the world watching. So you glared at him onstage. You spat his name like a curse. And every time, his heart kicked against its cage.

Nolan’s thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone, the touch achingly gentle for a man who hurled daggers at you under the spotlight. “Do you know what it does to me?” His voice was lower now, nearly drowned by the muffled drums bleeding through the walls. “Seeing you up there, staring me down like you’d rather tear me apart… and all I can think about is how badly I want to drag you offstage and—” He broke off, jaw tightening, the rest of the confession swallowed like it was dangerous to speak aloud.

The faint tremor in his hand betrayed him, the same hand that could make a guitar scream like a war cry. “I hate this,” he said finally, the words ragged. “I hate that the only time I get to touch you is in shadows and stolen minutes. I hate that the crowd would destroy us if they knew. I hate that I can’t stop needing you anyway.”

He didn’t move his hand from your cheek, as though even a second of distance would shatter the fragile, forbidden thing between you. Outside, the crowd roared for more—hungry for blood, blind to the truth bleeding between the two of you.