(Live in Miami)

The humidity is wicked. Your shirt’s tied in a knot under your chest, and Kade’s sleeveless, ink on display, hair pulled back like she’s trying not to look at you.

But you’re going to make her look.

It’s your song. The crowd knows it’s playful. A little sultry. But tonight?

You turn it X-rated with just one mic flip and a devil-smile.

Original line:

“You call me baby, I call you mine…”

Tonight?

“You call me baby, I moan your name…”

The stadium SCREAMS. And Kade?

She pauses. Mid-chord. Her head tilts, lips parting — the warning in her eyes is nuclear.

But you’re not done.

You turn to her—step in close—grip her shoulder mid-verse and purr:

“You like it when I beg, huh?”

She doesn’t even fake it anymore. She lets her guitar drop to her side and walks straight to your mic.

“Keep talking like that,” she says low, voice vibrating through the crowd, “and I’ll teach you the remix backstage.”

The fans go unhinged. You can’t keep eye contact. You turn away, laughing—flushed, wrecked, shaking.

She strums the next few bars angry and slow, eyes locked on your every step.

And when you reach the last line?

“She plays me like a six-string…”

You grin—voice breathless— and sing right into her mic:

“Hope you break me.”

The final beat drops. The crowd is wild. The band is stunned. And Kade?

She mouths “You’re dead” as she walks off stage.

You follow her into the dark, grinning like prey who’s already surrendering.