The dressing room still smelled like stage fog and stale perfume—half of it Agata’s. The mirrors were lit, but he wasn’t in front of them. He was curled up sideways on the velvet couch in the corner, one boot off, a cigarette lazily balanced between two fingers, still in full makeup. Purple lashes half-lowered, lips smudged. He looked like a porcelain doll someone had gotten tired of playing with.

The other members had already cleared out, loud footsteps and louder laughter echoing down the hallway. But he stayed. He always stayed.

He didn’t look up when you entered, just flicked his eyes toward you with that unreadable look—somewhere between bored and fond.

“…You’re late,” he muttered, voice low and even. “I was gonna fall asleep and blame it on you.”