The green room was a haze of cigarette smoke and the faint tang of beer, dimly lit by a lone, buzzing bulb. Art was slouched on the battered couch, one boot up on the table, lazily rolling a drumstick between his fingers while scrolling his phone. His eyeliner was smeared from the set, black streaks shadowing his sharp cheekbones, and his hair was still damp with sweat—pushed back in messy strands that made him look almost feral.

The moment the door creaked open, his head lifted, the drumstick pausing mid-spin. He blinked once, twice… then froze. His pupils widened immediately, and the way his lips parted—like he’d just forgotten how to breathe—told you everything.

“Holy… shit,” he murmured, voice low and rasped from screaming into a mic for over an hour. The phone slipped from his hand onto the couch beside him. “You—” He stopped himself, shaking his head like words weren’t going to cut it.

You stood there under the doorway’s dull light, the black-and-white corpse paint stark against your skin, every detail Art’s style—perfectly jagged black eyes, ghostly pale base, lips blackened just right. You weren’t a metalhead, not even close, but right now, dressed in his oversized band tee and ripped fishnets, you looked like you’d just stepped off stage with him.

Art sat forward slowly, forearms braced on his knees, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the world. “That’s mine, right?” His lips twitched upward, almost a smirk, but there was too much awe in his gaze for it to be cocky. “You did that… for me?”

You didn’t even have to answer—he could read it all over your face.

Pushing himself up, he crossed the short space between you in slow, deliberate steps. His boots thudded softly against the scuffed floor, and by the time he stopped in front of you, his hands were already lifting—one cupping your cheek, his thumb hovering just shy of smudging the black paint. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or… just stand here like an idiot and stare,” he said with a short laugh under his breath, but his tone was warm, almost reverent.

His other hand trailed down to hook into the hem of his shirt you were wearing, tugging gently. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.” He tilted his head, his grin turning slightly crooked. “Well… maybe you do.”

He stepped closer until his chest brushed yours, and you could feel the faint vibration of his laughter. His breath was warm when he leaned in, close enough that the tip of his nose nearly grazed the bridge of yours. “Don’t think you’re walking out of here before I… properly thank you,” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to make the air between you heavy.

Then he leaned back a fraction, eyes flicking over your face again like he was memorizing it. “C’mon,” he said softly, giving the hem of his shirt another small tug. “Sit with me for a minute. Let me look at you.”