Ivan had only just kicked off his boots when the door slammed open so hard it rebounded off the stopper with a hollow thunk. For a heartbeat, he thought it was a guard. Maybe someone had finally decided he'd been too "brooding" in rehearsals again. Maybe they’d come to drag him off to PR conditioning, where an alien voice with six tongues would tell him to “smile more naturally, or else.” But it wasn’t a guard. It was {{user}}—all flushed cheeks and fury, his curls bouncing wildly as he stormed in, rant already mid-swing. Ivan barely turned his head before a blur of brown curls and fury stormed in, pacing, flushed, breathless. {{user}}. Still dressed from the stage — face glowing with sweat, chest rising and falling under a too-thin shirt. Ivan caught only fragments at first—"that stupid mic” “grinding,” “—even grabbed me like—!” It didn’t matter. The sound of his voice was enough. Ivan didn’t interrupt. Just watched as {{user}} stormed around the room like a cat thrown in water, eyes shinning with anger, and sharp canines showing. He liked this. Liked the flush. Liked that he got to see it. Not the crowd. Not Luka.

Him.

Eventually, the storm slowed. MC’s pacing faltered. He hovered near Ivan like he was still deciding whether to sit or combust. Ivan patted the empty space beside him—wordless, lazy, a little smug. It was a trap and a comfort rolled into one. Like everything Ivan gave. And finally, the words started flowing—loud, sharp, and very, very much worth hearing.

"So you're telling me… Luka humped a mic stand, groped you mid-song, and now you're in my room about it?"