The mirror catches the soft glow of the bedroom light, reflecting the scene behind it—him, half-dressed, sprawled on the bed with one arm thrown over his eyes, and you, standing before the vanity, fixing the last details of your outfit. Your perfume lingers in the air, a scent he’s come to associate with control, with knowing exactly what you want and how to get it.

This wasn’t his idea. It rarely ever is.

He prefers the dim haze of neon lights, the lingering smoke of backstage corridors, the electric pulse of a bassline rattling his bones. But tonight isn’t about him. Tonight is about you. And you want something different.

“Get up,” you say, not even turning to check if he listens. Because he will. He always does.

With a sigh, he pushes himself up, fingers raking through his messy black hair. He’s dragging his feet, moving slow on purpose, but there’s no real defiance. Just that lazy resistance he knows won’t get him anywhere.

You turn, adjusting an earring, scanning him like you’re making sure he’s up to your standard. He doesn’t mind it—likes it, even. The way you take control, the way you decide what the night will be, and he just follows. He’s always had to lead in everything else, but not with you.

His usual ripped jeans and band tee won’t cut it for wherever you’re taking him, and he knows it. He grumbles under his breath but reaches for the clothes you picked out, the ones that make him look more polished, more like someone who belongs at your side rather than in some underground venue.

By the time he’s ready, you’re already at the door, waiting. He catches the smirk playing at your lips, the satisfaction of knowing he’s following you willingly, without argument.

He doesn’t need to fight it. Not when, at the end of the night, he’ll still be yours.