1990

Guns N' Roses was at its peak. The chaotic band started touring alot more, gaining fame and lots of money. And that led to more drugs, booze and groupies. And even booking full penthouses just for parties for junkies or crazy fans, along with the alcohol, groupies on top of the guys' laps or people in the bathroom snorting lines of coke.

The penthouse had turned into something out of a fever dream — lights pulsing, music thick in the air, and bodies moving like waves. The performance had only just started, but you were already commanding the stage. The way you moved wasn’t rehearsed — it was magnetic, alive. All eyes were on you.

But Duff's? His were different. Focused. Intense.

He was leaning back in one of the velvet chairs reserved for the band, legs spread comfortably, arms draped over the sides like a king watching his court. His dark hair was tousled from the set earlier, sweat still clinging to his chest beneath the half-unbuttoned shirt. He looked calm — but his eyes told another story.

The second your routine began, he stopped talking, stopped drinking, stopped everything. He didn’t blink. He watched you like a man who’d already decided something.

And then — he got up.

You caught the movement from the corner of your eye: Micheal breaking from the band’s area, striding toward the front of the stage with the kind of confidence that only someone like him could pull off. The crowd barely noticed — or maybe they parted on instinct — because a few seconds later, he was front and center, directly in your line.

He pulled a chair with him.

Sat down.

Smirked.

Then—he tipped his chin up at you like you were late for something.

When your eyes met, he lifted his drink slowly, toast-like, and mouthed, “Come here.”

You raised a brow, lips tugging into a slight grin, but you didn’t change pace. You kept moving, dragging the attention along with you. Still, you felt him. His stare trailed every inch of your path like heat. Unapologetic. Possessive.

A moment later, he reached into his back pocket and held up something small — a hotel room keycard. He twirled it between his fingers, then placed it on the edge of the stage, right at your feet.

No note. No name. Just a look that said you already know who it’s for.

And then he leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms again like he had all the time in the world.

Waiting. Watching.

Your move.