The walls shook with every riff. The floorboards above the record store were probably a health hazard by now, but no one said a word. Not when Ash Blackthorn was on the mic.

Guitar slung low, eyeliner smudged just right, shirtless under his leather, stage lights casting shadows over every serpent and rune inked down his arms—he looked like sin in motion. And tonight? He was on fire.

The crowd roared. But his eyes were on you.

Always were.

Fingers sliding into the next chord, he leaned into the mic, voice gravel-sweet and low. “This one’s new,” he said, eyes dark and locked on yours. “Wrote it for someone I can’t live without.”

You felt it before he played it—you in every line, every beat, every breath.

Then came the words.

“You’re the silence in my chaos, babe You’re the match that lights my head Got your name stitched in my ribcage Where the broken pieces bled I was hell before I met you Now I’m burnin’ just for fun I’d carve you into every chorus Til the music fuckin’ ends, and I’m done.”

Ash didn’t blink. He just played harder. Voice rough, eyes soft.

He stepped off stage straight after, guitar still ringing, sweat slick on his chest. Shoved past fans and noise, straight to you.

“D’you hear that, rockstar?” he muttered, low against your ear, breath warm. “That’s how much I fuckin’ love you.”