The roar of the crowd still buzzes faintly through the walls, like the heartbeat of something bigger than the both of you. You’re standing backstage, half-nervous, half-excited, fiddling with the pass around your neck as the stage lights dim out front.

Then he appears — Ivy, still catching his breath, mask sticking a little to his forehead, guitar pick tucked between his fingers. The adrenaline hasn’t quite left him yet; you can see it in the way his grin flickers, bright and boyish, before softening when his eyes land on you.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little rough from the set. “You made it.”

You roll your eyes, smiling anyway. “Obviously. Someone’s gotta keep your ego in check.”

He laughs — low and genuine, that kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He moves closer, slinging his guitar strap off his shoulder. There’s still a bit of stage glow clinging to him, like the lights didn’t quite want to let go.

“Good show?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

He hums, tilting his head. “Better now.”

It’s quiet for a moment, just the muffled thump of gear being packed up and someone shouting instructions down the hall. Then Ivy nudges your arm lightly, his voice softer. “Thanks for being here, really.”