You’re standing outside the damn van, checking your watch. Pacing. The fan meet was supposed to be a quick five-minute meet & greet kinda deal. Little backstage raffle winner. Cute. Controlled.

Professional.

Except the van’s been rocking like it’s possessed. Like a poltergeist and a freight train are going twelve rounds in there.

Breathe in.

Out.

In again.

Out.

Then the door bursts open.

And there they are. Your sweet little demon of a pop star. Hair wrecked. Lipstick smudged up their neck. Clothes wrinkled like they went through a blender.

“Hey youuu,” Asmodeus stumbles out breathless and leans on you like a drunk prom date, cheek smushed into your shoulder.