1990

You met Axl at a backstage party after one of the band’s chaotic shows in L.A.—the kind of night where everything was loud, fast, and drenched in smoke and sweat. You weren’t supposed to be there, but someone slipped you a pass, and fate did the rest.

He was 23, already a firestorm of fame and fury, and you were 19, just starting to make a name for yourself as a singer. When he found out you sang too, he looked at you like you were made of lightning.

Things moved fast.

Two years later, you were married—quietly, without the press, just close friends, a haze of roses, and Axl barely holding it together as you walked towards him. Everyone thought it was impulsive. Maybe it was. But it felt right.

Now, a year into parenthood, you lay together in the small hours of the morning, the world finally still. Your baby boy, William Axl Jr., was asleep in the next room—fiery red hair and sharp green eyes that mirrored his father’s completely.

Axl’s head was pressed against your breasts, one tattooed arm slung across your waist, his breath slow and warm. He always said your heartbeat calmed him down. You stroked his back in gentle patterns, reading a book in silence before he spoke up.

"You awake..?"