1990

The flashbulbs stopped mattering the night you met Axl Rose.

You were only three months out of a high-profile divorce — fresh off magazine covers and whispered interviews, your name still tangled in the shadow of another man. You were a model with a fractured smile and a two-year-old son who clung to your hip like an anchor in a storm.

That night, it was backstage at a Guns N’ Roses concert — not your scene, not your mood. You weren’t there to be seen. But then he saw you.

Not the press version of you.
You.

Axl was all sweat, adrenaline, danger.
But when he looked at you, it wasn’t about possession — it was like recognition.

Three months later, you’re here.
In your home.
In your oversized T-shirt, barefoot in the kitchen, while he sits cross-legged on the floor with your son, stacking blocks and making ridiculous sound effects that make the boy giggle uncontrollably.

"This tower’s gonna be taller than the Sunset Strip,” Axl says, eyebrows raised, lips curled into a playful smirk as he adds another shaky block.

Your son beams at him like he’s some kind of superhero. And maybe he is — not because he’s famous, but because he stayed. He came back. He wanted this.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the two of them in the warm amber light.

“You know I’m not exactly built for this,” Axl says suddenly, glancing up at you — a little nervous, a little raw. “Family. Normal. Any of it. But I’ve never wanted something like this before. I know he's not mine..but i try.”