(Lisbon, Next Night, Bed Set Pt. IV)

Kade thinks you’re gonna behave tonight.

She’s back on the upper platform, unbothered, calm, guitar slung low, eyes scanning the crowd like she’s already won.

But you? You’ve rewritten the second verse. And halfway through the bridge, you saunter up the stairs—slow, hips swaying, voice like sugar and smoke.

You walk behind her. Reach out— Slide your hand over her chest, down the guitar strap, and unclip it. It falls to the floor.

She freezes.

You don’t. You press to her back, whisper into her mic:

“Don’t worry. I’ll play you tonight.”

And then—you take her hand. Walk her down the stairs. Push her back onto the bed. STRADDLE. HER.

The crowd?? PANDEMONIUM.

You grind. Slow. Obscene. Hands on her chest, head tossed back— singing that filthily reworded verse right into her face.

She tries to sit up— You pin her.

Your mic drops between you both, still hot.

“Don’t steal my spotlight, baby,” you whisper. “I’m not done riding it.”

Kade’s jaw clenches—hands digging into your thighs. But she doesn’t move.