The festival grounds had emptied out hours ago, leaving only the muffled thrum of distant afterparties and the hum of insects in the cool night air. You were leaning against a battered tree trunk in the dimly lit clearing, letting the weight of the evening press into your shoulders. You should’ve left by now—walked away from the chaos, the rivalry, the tension that Ravenfall always seemed to drag out of you.

But Kai Donovan had found you first.

“You always brood like this after a set, or is it just when you lose?” His voice was laced with venom, though the cocky grin tugging at his lips gave away the teasing beneath it.

“Lose?” you shot back, your arms crossing as you glared at him. “I didn’t know this was a competition. But if it was, I’d say a certain drummer could’ve kept tempo better during his big solo.”

Kai scoffed, digging into his pocket to retrieve a lighter and a crumpled cigarette. He stepped closer, too close, and that stupid, explosive energy of his seemed to radiate in the space between you. “Cute,” he said, lighting the cigarette with a flick of his thumb. “Always got something to say, don’t you?”

You tilted your head, refusing to back down. “It’s called thinking, Kai. You should try it sometime.”

He barked out a laugh, sharp and loud, like the crack of a cymbal. “Thinking’s overrated. Gets you stuck in your own head. That’s why I don’t bother.” He lit another cigarette, this time holding it out toward you with a raised eyebrow. “Need one? Or are you too above it all?”