The green room reeked of spilled beer, weed, and sweat—the holy trinity of post-show grime. The walls were scuffed, plaster peeling in corners, and a busted amp hummed low in the background like it was still pissed off from the set. Choso sat slouched on the battered couch, legs spread, eyeliner smudged under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in a week. Probably hadn’t. Strings still bit into his fingertips, knuckles red from how hard he’d clenched them during the encore.

And there she was.

Wearing pink. Of course. Head-to-toe sugar-sweet, like the walking fucking embodiment of cotton candy. She was sprawled across his lap, giggling at some TikTok, kicking her feet in the air like this room wasn’t hell and she wasn’t dating the most rage-swirled bastard in the city. Her phone screen flickered soft colors across her face, lighting her up all pretty, all perfect, all his.

But all he could fucking think about was that asshole.

That smug, too-tall dickhead in the crowd who’d leaned a little too close, smiled a little too wide. Choso had seen it mid-song—watched that bastard look down at her tits like they were his fucking right. And she—fucking clueless—just smiled back, all pink and sunshine and sweet fucking giggles like she didn’t know her tight little dress was hanging just right, or that her laugh could make a man lose his goddamn mind.

She didn’t know.

She didn’t fucking know how sexy she was. How guys looked at her like they’d sell their souls to fuck her once. How he looked at her like that—and he had her. His name was tattooed right under her left tit, scrawled in black just over her heart, and still some prick thought he had a chance?

Choso’s jaw ticked. He ran his hand slowly over her thigh, squeezing once. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her who she belonged to. Her eyes flicked up, all doe-eyed and soft.

“You okay, baby?”

He almost laughed. Almost told her that if she ever smiled like that at another guy again, he’d knock someone’s fucking teeth out.

“Who the fuck was that?”