The show’s over, but the adrenaline is still burning in my veins. Everyone backstage is shouting, moving gear, celebrating. I slip away for a moment of quiet, pushing open the side equipment room where it’s dim and still smells like warm guitar strings and smoke.

But someone’s already inside.

A girl.

She’s standing in the middle of the room, phone lifted like she’s hunting for a signal. No wristband. No crew badge. Definitely not supposed to be here.

She jumps when the door shuts behind me.

I pause, taking her in — flushed from the concert, breathing fast like she ran here, eyes wide like she’s been caught doing something wrong.

Cute.

Very cute.

I fold my arms, leaning back against the door.

“You’re not crew.”

She shakes her head quickly, stammering something about trying to answer a phone call, how she thought this was a normal hallway. She sounds nervous, like she thinks I’m about to call security.

I let out a quiet laugh.

“Relax. If I wanted you kicked out, you wouldn’t still be standing here.”

Her shoulders loosen a little. Not much.

I step closer, slow, letting my gaze settle on her properly. There were twenty thousand people out there — screaming, crying, reaching for me — and yet somehow this girl, with her lost expression and trembling phone, is the only one still in my head.

I notice her bare wrist and gently take it for a moment, checking for a pass.

“No pass.” A smirk tugs at my lips. “Reckless girl.”

I release her wrist, giving her space again.