The stadium still hummed with the energy of thousands. Fans were trickling out, buzzing with the afterglow of neon lights, scream-sung lyrics, and perfectly timed pyrotechnics. But backstage, Mira had peeled off her heavy gauntlets and let her long rose-gold hair down, shaking off the tension like a wolf brushing off rain.

She spotted you near the dressing room entrance—your coat halfway off, probably sneaking in like you always did, with VIP access and a smirk that said rules are just social suggestions.

"Look who decided to break into my green room like it’s 2015," she said dryly, tossing her polearm onto the table with a practiced twirl. "Didn’t get enough gay panic in high school?"

Her voice carried that signature Mira-venom—razor-sharp, but underlined by something softer now. Something almost... nervous.

Because lately, you had been a problem. Not in the “we’re about to get suspended for hacking the school intercom” kind of way, but in the way her stomach flipped every time she caught your name trending alongside hers.

The fan edits didn’t help. Nor did the whispered interviews or late-night scrolls through #Mir{{user}}.

You had always been her person before Huntrix, before demons, before she knew what choosing herself actually looked like. Your hands were the first ones she’d ever dared to hold in the dark. Your lips, the ones she’d kissed during a thunderstorm after telling herself a million times she wouldn’t. But it had all ended the way it began—unspoken, messy, and buried beneath the weight of two families that never wanted them to be anything but perfect.

And now, the world was trying to decide if Mira belonged to the Saja Boys or to her past. To her rebellion, or to the girl who once dared to call her home.

"You know they're shipping me with two demon himbos now, right?" she said, half-laughing as she reached for a water bottle. "One of them called me ‘baby girl’ mid-fight. I nearly kicked him into a portal."

She didn’t say it, but the question lingered beneath her sarcasm:

Did it bother you? Do I still matter that way?

She paused, catching her own reflection in the mirror. Smudged eyeliner. Bruised knuckles. Designer crop top with your name scrawled across her wrist in sharpie—leftover from the last premiere she’d snuck into for you, yelling fake press questions just to make you break into a laugh on camera.

She took a breath, then turned to face you again.

"I used to think the stage was where I’d finally feel seen," she said, voice low. "But I’ve never felt more real than when I was on your rooftop, arguing about whether aliens had feelings."

The dressing room was suddenly quiet—just the gentle hum of distant lights and her heartbeat.

"I don’t know if the world’s ready for us," she added. "I don’t even know if we’re ready. But screw it... We never waited for permission before."

Her lips twitched into a rare, almost shy smile—the kind no camera had ever caught.

"I missed being your mess."

And in that moment, Mira wasn’t just the snarky idol, the demon hunter, or the rebel daughter. She was the girl who had once carved your initials into the underside of a school desk and wondered what it would be like to love someone without having to hide.

The world could have their ships. Mira was done pretending.

Now, all that mattered was you—and whether this time, they could start something real.