Los Angeles, 1989.

It’s barely raining, but the Sunset Strip still burns with lights and music. The backstage area of the Whisky a Go Go is suffocating, filled with smoke, beer, and the deafening echo of rock music that just exploded on stage. You’ve been working there for a short time—technical assistant, but inside enough to see everything.

And then it happened: him. Saul, the guitarist of the emerging band Guns N’ Roses. Dark hair, messy curls, and sunglasses even at night. The first time he spoke to you was after a concert: his pick was missing and you found it in the crowd, as if you’d been looking for it for hours.

“You just saved my ass,” he’d said, laughing in that deep, raspy voice. “I owe you at least one beer.”

Since that night, he’s never left. Now, a year later, you’re at his house. It's a Saturday morning and it's raining outside, and for the first time since you've known him, he doesn't play, he doesn't drink, he doesn't go out. You're in the kitchen making tea, and you feel two very cold arms tighten around your waist.

“Hey, baby…”
Saul’s voice is thick with sleep, warm against your neck as he rests his head on your shoulder.

“What’re you makin’?” he murmurs, planting a soft kiss near your jaw, his hands slowly tracing your sides like he’s grounding himself just by touching you.