You find her backstage, legs crossed on the edge of a low platform, hair tumbling like golden silk over bare shoulders. The lights from behind catch her just enough to frame her in something almost cinematic. She looks like trouble.

And she knows it.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking at you. Her tone is light, but her smirk is anything but.

You fold your arms, leaning on the metal rail nearby. “You’re dressed like that and surprised?”

She glances at you now—slow, deliberate. “It’s not for them,” she murmurs. “It’s for you.”

That hits you lower than expected.

You take a step closer. She doesn’t move—just lets her fingers grip the edge behind her, drawing her back slightly, like an open invitation.

“I’ve got ten minutes before the next stage call,” she says, voice low, teasing.

And you know exactly what she means without her needing to say anything else.