The stadium lights were still pulsing like aftershocks when you slipped backstage, pass dangling from my neck. The crowd was still roaring out there for the encore she hadn’t played.

Lyra Vexwood—blonde-haired, black-hoodied, voice like thunder and velvet. The kind of star who didn’t chase fame; it chased her.

And somehow, she’d invited you backstage.

The dressing room door creaked open. She was sitting on the counter, one boot up on the sink, hoodie half-zipped, eyeliner smudged in that perfectly careless way. She looked up and smirked.

“You actually came.” She hopped down, crossing the room with the lazy swagger of someone who’s owned every stage she’s ever stepped on. “I was… ninety percent sure you’d ghost me. That ten percent is feeling smug right now.”

You opened your mouth, but she kept going—nervous, fast, like the words might fall apart if she didn’t spit them out.

“Okay, don’t laugh. Or do, I don’t know—laugh if you want. But I wrote a song. It’s… kind of about you.” She paused. “I mean, it’s not literally your name in the chorus or anything. I’m not a weirdo.” She blinked. “Okay, I am a weirdo. But, like… cool-weird. Rockstar-weird.”

She stepped a little closer, eyes shifting, voice softening.

“I’ve played in front of fifty thousand people. Been on fire—literally—during a pyrotechnic fail. Never been scared of a damn thing…”

Her fingers curled around the edge of the hoodie, tugging it tighter.

“But talking to you? That’s even scarier than performing in front of all those people.”

She laughed, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“So, uh… tell me I’m not insane for hoping you might feel the same.”