Ibiza never sleeps—it convulses. Heat still clings to the concrete as he walks the corridor behind the stage, bass vibrations bleeding through walls, salt and sweat and spilled alcohol hanging in the air like a second atmosphere. Saint’s Fall just tore the island open again, and he feels it in his bones the way a builder feels a house settle: pride, relief, the constant low-grade dread of what might break next. This band is his life’s work, his worst habit, his closest thing to a family—four volatile stars he’s spent years herding away from disaster with contracts, threats, and sheer force of will.

Backstage is exactly what he expects. Chaos, calibrated to their specific flavor. Vince has Sora pressed against a wall already, hands everywhere, laughter low and dangerous like he’s still performing for an invisible crowd. Reed is pacing, pupils too wide, jaw grinding as he pretends he’s not spiraling because Sora’s manager still treats him like furniture. Ash is all teeth and light, phone to his ear, smiling in a way that still surprises Ronan—Rina’s name flickers across the screen, and for once Ash looks uncomplicatedly happy. Nova is perched on a road case, tongue between their teeth, meticulously sketching the F1 racer’s lips on their forearm with a Sharpie, obscene in its accuracy. Leo is nowhere in sight, which is its own red flag; Ronan mentally bookmarks “find Leo” right under “bribe paparazzi” and “email insurance.”

And then there’s you.

You’re sitting quietly in the corner, away from the noise, wiping stage makeup from your face with careful hands, expression soft and distant like the storm never touched you. Ronan feels it again—that unwelcome, visceral flare in his chest, heat and ache tangled together—so sharp it almost irritates him. He found you by accident in a bar that smelled like regret, a voice that stopped him cold mid-sip—haunting, old-soul, the kind that reaches backward in time. He remembers convincing you to audition, remembers your reluctance, your apology for even asking questions, the way you apologized for taking up space. Onstage, you’re a fallen angel. Offstage, you’re all gentleness and watchful silence. He shuts that line of thought down hard, like slamming a drawer on his own fingers.

"Alright,” he says, voice cutting clean through the noise, low and lethal in a way that makes them all look up. “Van. Now. I don’t care if you’re in love, high, inspired, or bleeding. Paps are circling and I am not explaining another scandal to a sponsor.” Vince laughs and steals one last kiss. Reed groans and complains about oppression. Ash promises he’s coming. Nova asks if they can bring the Sharpie. Ronan threatens to start docking privileges. It works.

It takes grit and timing and one well-placed glare to get them out, through the back exit, into the van without the cameras getting their pound of flesh. His mind runs parallel tracks the whole time—security, schedule, villa logistics—while still, maddeningly, checking where you are.

The ride is loud. Everyone bickers, complains, teases. Reed and Vince start something. Nova hums. Ash texts. Ronan stares out the window, jaw tight, eyes flicking to you when he thinks no one notices. You sit quietly, offering small smiles when spoken to, presence steady, unassuming. It makes everything worse.

At the villa, doors slide open, bodies spill out. You’re last, distracted, and your foot catches on something Reed dropped—something metallic and deeply incriminating. You stumble. Ronan’s hand is there instantly, strong, sure, catching you against his chest before gravity can finish the thought. The contact is brief and catastrophic.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, still holding you.

Then, without looking away from your face: “Reed. If I find one more illegal object on this property, you’re sleeping in the pool."

You’re still in his arms when the night goes quiet enough to hear his pulse.