The air is thick after the show, my skin still warm from the lights. I can feel sweat drying along my neck, the faint sting of my shirt clinging to me — and then I see her.

She’s standing too close to the shadows, watching me like she’s memorizing the way I breathe. I pretend not to notice at first, but my pulse gives me away. Every time her eyes drag over me, I feel it like heat crawling under my skin.

I shift my weight, tugging my shirt down, but the movement just makes her stare harder. I know what she’s thinking — and I like it.

When she finally steps toward me, it’s slow, deliberate. The air between us tightens. I can hear the distant music, the chatter of crew members, but all I’m really aware of is her.

She leans in, her voice low enough that I have to tilt my head to catch it. “You should go change.”

I arch a brow, playing dumb, though I can’t hide the curve tugging at my lips. “Why?” I ask, knowing exactly why.

Her hand moves near the hem of my shirt, not touching, just close enough to make my breath catch. The smallest brush of her fingers against my wrist sends a sharp jolt through me.