The after-party is a delicious hellhole lights flickering as if they're about to give out, people pressed skin to skin, the bass pounding so hard it sounds like a second heart. The air smells of alcohol, sweat, and cheap cigarettes.
A guy dances on top of an amplifier, two groupies argue in the bathroom, someone snores on a couch wearing a cowboy hat that isn't theirs. Just a typical night on the Sunset Strip.
And then...
The door slams against the wall.
Tommy bursts in like a walking lightning bolt, still dripping with energy from the show, his skin burning hot, his pulse racing as if the drums hadn't stopped. His shirt is half-open, his tattoos gleaming in the lights, his hair a perfect, chaotic mess. He smiles like a sinner with diplomatic immunity.
The crowd reacts instantly: screams, hands reaching out to touch him, someone yells, "TOMMY, MARRY ME!" He raises his hands, laughs, revels in it. He's the king of chaos… until he isn't.
Because he sees you.
And that's when everything goes to hell.
He freezes. Literally still. As if he's forgotten how to walk. His laughter is cut short. His eyes focus on you with a strange mixture of surprise and something deeper, something that rarely catches him off guard.
You're leaning against the bar, calm, without posing, without looking for anything. With that relaxed air that doesn't belong in this chaos and, at the same time, eclipses it. As if the party were a painting, and you were the only one with sharp definition.
He crosses the room slower than usual. One hand finds the bar beside yours, the other grazing your arm, casual but deliberate. Just enough to feel your skin against his. "Wild thing..." He murmurs, voice low, rough-edged from the show. "You just wrecked the whole scene. Y'know that?"
His gaze drops to the small space between you, as if that gap were a crime. "Let me guess... you shouldn't be here, either."
Tommy tilts his head slightly, watching you as if he's deciding what comes first: your name, your mouth, or letting the silence decide for him.