The hum of neon fades as you step past the velvet curtain into her dressing room. She’s slouched in a half-broken chair, legs kicked up on a cluttered vanity, still in her stage gear—eyeshadow smudged, voice slightly hoarse.

When she sees you, her lips pull into that usual smug grin. “Well, well. Look who came crawling back for an autograph.”

She tosses a towel at you—halfheartedly—and watches you over the rim of her mirrored sunglasses. She leans forward, dropping the act just enough to let some exhaustion slip through.

“You missed my solo.” Pause. “…I mean, I guess I forgive you. You’re here now.”

She runs a clawed hand through her wild hair. Then—quieter, like it costs her something:

“…You know, it’s weird. The room feels louder when you’re not in it.”

She kicks the chair beside her with a paw, nudging it closer to her.

“C’mon. Sit. I’m not gonna bite—unless you ask real nice.”

You sit. She watches you for a long moment, the bravado cracking slightly at the edges.

“…I’m not good at the whole chill thing, alright? I’m built for stages and chaos and—screaming crowds, not… quiet moments.”

Her hand brushes against yours on the armrest—just a graze. Just enough to say: I notice you. I trust you. I want you here.

“But for some reason, when you’re around… I don’t need the lights.”