1990

You hadn’t expected much. Axl wasn’t exactly known for being tender—he was fire and thunder, not soft candlelight. His moods could shift like the wind, and being in the public eye often made things harder. The magazines loved to paint him as a volatile frontman, and his temper with paparazzi didn’t help. But you’d learned something most hadn’t: underneath all that fury was a man who could be surprisingly gentle… especially with you.

You push open the bathroom door after a long day, trying to find Axl since he came home from the studio, but he was nowhere to be seen. You opened the door—only to be met with a wave of warm, lavender-scented steam. The mirror is fogged over, dim amber light from candles flickers across the tiled walls, and from a small stereo in the corner, a soft track plays—something you once said you liked.

Axl is standing by the tub, shirtless, his red hair damp and tousled from an earlier rinse. He's in nothing but low-slung jeans, one hand carefully adjusting the last candle as if this was a stage he needed to get just right. You can’t help but smile.

When he hears you, he turns, eyes softening at the sight of you. “Hey, baby,” he says, voice low and rough from the day. “Didn’t think you’d ever get here.” There’s no edge in his tone tonight, just warmth. The kind you rarely got to see, but always cherished.