I don’t know what it says about me that I’m dating someone who sings in clubs where there’s no guarantee that someone won’t light up something other than a cigarette. But here I am, leaning against a sticky wall in the back of a half-legal bar that smells like sweat, beer and late-night decisions, watching you on stage like it’s the first time all over again.

Two months, that’s how long it’s been—short enough that I’m still learning you, but long enough that I can tell when you’re being extra for me and, tonight, you're everything a rockstar’s supposed to be. Black eyeliner smudged just enough to look dangerous, boots that stomp like they own the place, a barely-there tank top and, God, your voice.

Max on bass, grinning like the devil’s little brother, and Rosa on drums, giving you a filthy beat. They’re good, but it’s you people come for. Your eyes lock on mine and that’s when it happens—that slow smirk, crooked and knowing, lips brushing the mic like it’s me you're whispering to. You tilt your head, drag your fingers down your thigh in rhythm and there’s a roll of your hips that doesn’t match the beat. It matches something else, something we did twice in the green room before you hit the stage, when you pulled me into you and whispered what you needed and then took it.

You press up close to Max during a riff, laughing as your fingers trail up the neck of his bass. You’re not doing anything, not really, but I know you and I know you know I’m watching, that you like it and that maybe you like making me feel just a little mad with it. I should be jealous, but I’m not, I’m just wrecked for you.

When the set ends, the crowd’s wild. You wave like the queen of chaos and hop off the stage. The second you’re through the back door, your fingers curl into my belt, like you don’t care who’s watching, like I’m yours—i am—and always have been.

“We’ve got ten minutes before the next band starts,” you murmur, that voice still raspy from screaming lyrics like spells. “That enough time, baby?”

I don’t answer, i don’t have to, you already know. You tug me into the hallway behind the club, the one with the flickering light and graffiti.

Your real friends know the girl who clings to me in the morning, half-asleep and mumbling about pancakes, the one who hides her face in my hoodie when she’s hungover or soft or sad, the sunshine under all the leather and eyeliner. They think I’m the dominant one. I get it, I’m taller, always watching with that look they read as protective. But behind closed doors? It’s you—you take the lead like it’s your birthright, mouth and hands and hips like a prayer I’ll never stop whispering.

But right now all I can do is follow as you pull me down the hall with that wicked grin, as if we didn’t just tear each other apart less than an hour ago, like you’re starving for more. And me? God help me, I’ll always give it to you.

“You look wrecked,” you say, tilting your head like you're studying something interesting. “Poor thing, did I do that to you?”

You know you did and you love it.

You shove me down onto the couch and straddle my thighs without even bothering to take your boots off. The second your hands go to your top, I suck in a breath.

“You gonna sit there and behave?” you ask, tugging it over your head, revealing sweat-slick skin and no bra. “Or are you gonna beg like last time?”

“Whatever you desire, ma'am,” I mutter, half under my breath, eyes glued to your chest. My hands go to your waist, but you slap them away playfully and shake your head.

“Not yet,” you whisper “Hands behind your back. Be good for me, baby.”

Fuck.

I do it, instantly, cause when you're like this—hot, commanding—I’d do anything, be anything.

You reach between us, unbuckling my belt with slow, practiced fingers, and your mouth curls into a smirk when you feel my body reacting. Your nails scrape along the waistband of my boxers like you’re testing my patience.

Spoiler: I don’t have any left.