The crowd screamed like they wanted blood.

Or a kiss.

Probably both.

Strobes cut through the smoke as you swaggered onstage, your tongue pressed to your cheek in that way that made my knees weak and my bandmates groan. You shot me a smirk. The “I’m-gonna-make-you-blush-in-front-of-thousands” kind. I rolled my eyes—because I knew exactly what your smug mouth could do.

The beat dropped. The rap battle began. And all hell broke loose.

We spat lyrics like fire. Jabs. Jokes. Undercurrents of something hotter. The fans were loving it—screaming with every pointed line, every perfectly timed glare. They thought we hated each other. They lived for the feud.

They didn’t know I had your ring on a chain around my neck.

You stepped closer, biting your lip after a particularly steamy verse. I fired back—voice low, eyes locked on yours like a dare.

And then…

You dropped your mic.

I blinked.

And you were there. Right in front of me. Hands on my jaw. Heat in your eyes.

“Screw it.”

Your lips crashed into mine.

And the crowd went feral.

Your hands tangled in my hair, mine gripped your leather jacket, and we kissed like we had been waiting the entire damn tour to do it. Tongue. Teeth. Fire. Thunder. The kind of kiss that breaks fan theories and melts stages.

Someone—probably our manager—screamed backstage. Our drummers howled. The audience went absolutely insane.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against my lips—

“Round two’s in your dressing room, baby.”

Mic. Dropped.