1990

“You staying for a while?” he asked, voice softer now. Not demanding—just hopeful.

Saul muttered under his breath as he stepped into the dimly lit hotel room, the door clicking shut behind him. His shoulders sagged, curls damp with sweat from the lights and chaos of the stage. Touring wasn’t glamorous behind the scenes—it was loud, exhausting, and left him feeling like a ghost in his own body.

You stood from your seat near the window where you’d been quietly reviewing the next day’s schedule. You were his assistant—not just someone who handled bookings and logistics, but someone he trusted to help him wind down, someone who kept things grounded.

He slid off his worn leather jacket and tossed it gently in your direction, giving a small, tired smirk. “Can you hang that somewhere it doesn’t stink up the place?”

His shirt followed, damp and clinging. He didn’t care much for modesty—by now, late into the tour, you were used to seeing him like this: stripped down, not just physically, but emotionally too. He never said it, but he didn’t like sleeping alone after shows. The adrenaline crashed hard, and the silence that followed was heavier than any hangover.