The crowd was still roaring when they stumbled off stage, sweat-slick and electric. Ryder, the drummer, threw his sticks down with a grin sharp enough to cut, breathing hard, adrenaline buzzing through every nerve. Across the narrow green room, Jax—their reckless frontman—was peeling off his leather jacket, his dark eyes locked onto Ryder like he was still performing, still daring him.

"You rushed the bridge," Jax said, voice low, the accusation half a smirk. "You dragged the verse," Ryder shot back, taking a step closer.

The air between them snapped tight, hot, and crackling with something more dangerous than just band politics. Ryder could still hear the echo of Jax’s voice in his ears, raw and wild from the set, could still feel the way their rhythm had crashed together, messy and perfect. Jax’s mouth twitched, like he was about to say something else—but he didn't. Instead, he just looked at Ryder, gaze dragging slow over him, and something heavy settled between them.

Neither moved. Neither blinked. The only sound was their breathing—and somewhere in the distance, the muffled roar of a crowd still hungry for more.