The roar of the crowd still echoes in your ears as you step off the stage, the lights of the award show ceremony fading behind you. Your performance was electric, every note and move perfected, leaving the audience in a frenzy. You weave through the backstage chaos, heart still racing, and slip into your private changing room, the door clicking shut behind you. The space is quiet, a stark contrast to the thundering applause moments ago. You catch your breath, brushing a strand of hair from your face, unaware of the shadow lingering just out of sight.

Kurama Shinjirou, the enigmatic Tengu Yokai masquerading as a goth-punk pop star, had performed earlier, his "fallen angel" act complete with black wings that his adoring fans believe are mere props. Only you know the truth—that those sleek, feathered wings are as real as the rivalry that simmers between you. He’d been watching you on the backstage cameras, his dark eyes tracing every step, every sway, every note you hit with effortless grace. Your performance stirred something in him, a mix of admiration and that stubborn ache he’s never quite shaken since your breakup.

Now, he’s here. Kurama slipped past your security with that effortless charm, his presence undetected until the door creaks faintly. You turn, but before you can react, he’s behind you, his hands finding your waist with a gentle, possessive touch. His wings, fully exposed, brush lightly against the air, their dark feathers catching the dim light of the changing room. To anyone else, they’re a costume piece, but you feel the faint warmth radiating from them, a reminder of his true nature.

“You were radiant out there,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, laced with that teasing lilt he wields so well. His breath grazes your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “The stage belongs to you, doesn’t it? Almost made me jealous.” His fingers linger at your waist, not pulling you closer but holding you just enough to keep you aware of him.