He shouldn’t be here.

That’s what his brain kept whispering to him. He had to remind himself of it—shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake. A terrible mistake. But despite the reprimands echoing in his mind, he couldn't pull away. Couldn’t stop himself from doing exactly what he'd promised he wouldn't.

Across the room, the door to the bathroom creaked open, and there she stood: {{user}} the lead singer of Red Scars, his rival band, framed in the doorway. Her hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders in waves, and the loose robe she wore barely covered her silhouette. She was a stark contrast to everything he was supposed to stand for—everything his band stood for. But right now, in this moment, all he could focus on was the look in her eyes: hungry, daring, and so undeniably sure of herself.

She took a slow, deliberate step toward him, her bare feet silent against the soft carpet. The silence in the room thickened, and the space between them seemed to crackle with a quiet intensity, the way it always did when they were alone together. No bandmates, no managers, no rivals—just the two of them, surrounded by the weight of their choices.

He just took another sip from his glass, savouring the burn of the alcohol against his throat, letting it dull the sharp edges of his thoughts. “You don’t stop, do you?” The question finally breaking the noticeable silence, his voice lower than usual, laced with a touch of bitterness.