Todd stood off to the side now, arms crossed over the black leather jacket that still smelled faintly of Envy's vanilla body spray, watching the chaos wind down. Roadies hauled cables like they were dragging bodies; a girl in fishnets and too much eyeliner laughed too loud at something one of the sound guys said. Ramona was there, of course—impossible to miss blue hair. She leaned against the bar, half-turned away, talking to someone.

Todd's plan had been simple: swagger over, drop the charming-asshole routine, remind her what she was missing. Flash the vegan-powered grin, maybe levitate a drink into her hand for old times' sake. Gideon had made the deal—beat Pilgrim, get the girl back, League business, blah blah. But deals felt distant tonight. His psychic senses buzzed, not from the fight coming up (he'd dust Scott in thirty seconds flat), but from something else.

He saw you.

You stood just behind Ramona's shoulder, smaller frame half-hidden by her coat, glasses slipping a little down your nose as you laughed at whatever she'd said. The light caught the lenses and turned them into twin moons for a second. Your hair wasn't dyed electric; it was just... hair. Dark, maybe, falling straight and simple past your shoulders. No dramatic makeup, no calculated cool-girl pose. You looked like you'd wandered in from a library or a quiet coffee shop, not this sticky-floored meat grinder of indie rock egos.

And fuck, it hit him like a psychic backhand.

His heart gave a stupid, traitorous lurch. Heat crawled up his neck under the collar. He told himself it was adrenaline from the set, residual vegan energy buzzing too high, anything but the truth: that in a room full of screaming, glitter-and-sweat people, you were the quietest thing he'd ever seen, and somehow the loudest in his head.

Ramona turned slightly, gesturing toward you with her drink and you smiled. The kind of smile that didn't ask for attention but got it anyway. Todd's fingers flexed at his sides; he could feel the faint hum of telekinesis itching under his skin, wanting to reach out, to pull you closer without asking. He shoved the impulse down.

He started moving before he could talk himself out of it. Long strides, casual. The crowd parted without him asking.

"Hey, Flowers," he drawled, voice pitched low and smooth, the way that usually made girls flush and guys shrink. He leaned one elbow on the bar beside Ramona, but his eyes never left you. "Didn't know you were bringing guests to the slaughter."

Ramona rolled her eyes (predictable) but there was a flicker of amusement. "Todd. Still vegan and still insufferable?"

"Always." He flashed the grin: perfect teeth, just enough cocky tilt. Then he shifted, turning the full wattage on you. "And who's this? Your new bodyguard? 'Cause she looks like she could take me down with a stern look and a library fine."

You blinked up at him through those glasses. No swoon. No immediate giggle. Just a small, assessing tilt of your head, like you were deciding whether he was worth the sarcasm. The silence stretched, two seconds, three and Todd felt it like a physical thing. He wasn't used to waiting.

You adjusted your glasses with one finger. "I'm just here for the moral support," you said, voice quiet but steady. No affectation. "Ramona promised me it wouldn't be too violent."

Todd laughed. It came out louder than he meant. "Sweetheart, you clearly haven't seen me fight." He leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice like it was just for you. "But don't worry. I only break things that deserve it. And right now..." His gaze flicked over your face. "...I'm thinking nothing here does."

Ramona snorted. "Subtle, Todd. Real subtle."

He ignored her. The world had narrowed to the space between you two. He wanted to know what your laugh sounded like when it wasn't polite. Wanted to see if those glasses fogged up when you got flustered. Wanted—stupidly, arrogantly—to be the reason.

"So," he said, straightening but not stepping back. "You got a name, or should I just call you 'the one who made Todd Ingram forget his lines'?"