Tony doesn’t usually panic.

But backstage, with the lights cooling and the roar fading into a dull ache behind his eyes, something twists hard in his chest. The moment’s gone. The spark snapped—and he didn’t grab it. He towel-dries his neck, paces once, twice, jaw tight. He tells himself it’s fine. That it’s always like this. Faces blur. Chances pass.

Still, he looks for you. Again. And again.

The hallway smells like sweat and amps. Someone laughs. Someone claps him on the shoulder. Tony barely registers it. His grin doesn’t come when it’s supposed to. He rolls his shoulders, exhales through his nose, irritation biting sharp.

“Damn it,” he mutters, low, more to himself than anyone. “Missed it.”

He steps out behind the venue, night air hitting him clean and cold. The band bus looms nearby, lights on, engine ticking as it cools. He’s halfway to climbing aboard when something catches his eye—chrome glinting under a streetlamp.

A motorcycle.

Parked close. Too close to be random.

Tony slows. His heart stutters, then kicks hard. He recognizes it without knowing how—the stance, the attitude, the quiet confidence of it. His pulse picks up as if the bike itself is daring him to look closer.

Then he sees you.

You move like you belong there, like the night bends around you. Leather creaks softly as you swing a leg over the seat, helmet tucked under your arm. The engine turns over with a growl that vibrates straight through him, low and powerful.

Tony forgets how to breathe.

Heat rushes through him, sudden and unashamed. It’s ridiculous—he knows that—but watching you settle onto the bike, spine straight, hands sure, sparks something feral and reverent all at once. He drags a hand down his face, a laugh punching out of him, stunned.

“Of course,” he murmurs, awe threading his voice. “Of course that’s yours.”

The bike isn’t just hot—it’s you. Freedom. Control. Fire on two wheels. And the thought hits him, sharp and undeniable: he doesn’t just want you on it. He wants to love the thing. Respect it. Earn the right to stand that close.

You kick the stand up. The engine purrs louder.

Tony steps forward without thinking, boots crunching gravel. His heart’s still racing, but now it’s not dread—it’s certainty. He lifts a hand, voice carrying easy and warm, confidence sliding back into place where it belongs.

“Hey,” he calls, grin crooked, eyes bright. “Tell me I didn’t just hallucinate that entire set.”

He stops a few feet away, letting the moment stretch, letting the heat hum between you and the machine and him. The night feels charged. Alive.