You weren’t in the band.

You didn’t play bass or scream into microphones or smash guitars onstage. But that didn’t matter. You had a reputation — black boots, chipped nail polish, a mouth full of venom, and brass knuckles buried somewhere in your jacket just in case.

You were the kind of girl people didn’t cross. And if they did, they learned fast.

So when some drunk arsehole backstage started running his mouth — talking shit about Sid, calling him a poser, a joke, “not even real punk” — you didn’t even blink.

You stepped forward.

And without a word, you decked him.

The guy hit the floor like a sack of bricks. The room went dead quiet.

And Sid?

Sid was standing just off to the side, cigarette halfway to his lips, eyes wide with something between admiration and straight-up arousal.

He let out a low whistle, then walked up to you with that lazy, crooked grin.

“That’s my girl,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. Not for a second.

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

You’d set the world on fire for him — same as he would for you. Burn first, ask questions never.