The rehearsal room hummed with tension as you leaned back in your chair, balancing precariously on two legs. The rest of the band had filed out hours ago, leaving you with Dimitri—your band’s no-nonsense tour manager, who seemed to loathe every breath you took.

“You’re going to fall,” he said, barely glancing up from his phone. His Russian accent curled around the words, rough and deliberate.

“You’d catch me.”

“Doubtful. Gravity is not my responsibility.”

You rolled your eyes, letting the chair slam down onto all four legs with a loud clack. The sound echoed in the empty room, and you swore Dimitri’s jaw tightened. He was so easy to rile up, and you lived for it. At just 18, you were practically born to be the chaos that disrupted his reserved, perfectly ordered world.

“You’re such a killjoy, Kieran,” you teased, leaning forward to rest your chin on your hands. “How do you even tolerate being around me? I talk so much, don’t I? Too much?”

He didn’t look at you. Not at first. Just a long, weighted silence before he finally replied, “Yes.”

You know he remembers. That one time you mentioned you couldn’t stand cheap coffee? Two days later, the crummy gas station brew disappeared from the green room, replaced with a French press set and fresh beans. “Don’t flatter yourself, детка,” he muttered, the Russian word landing like a soft growl.