The green room smells like sweat and beer and that sharp metallic sting of stage smoke that always clings to Art’s clothes. The floor’s scuffed concrete and dirty, the walls plastered with stickers from bands you’ve never heard of—death metal logos that look like tangled tree branches or knives with Latin's names.

You don’t belong here, not really, not in your soft cardigan and brand new sneakers. But you’re always here anyway. For him.

The set just ended. You watched it from the edge of the stage, too close to the amps, ears still ringing. Art had looked wild up there—smeared in corpse paint, his eyes blacked out like he’d carved his face from the shadows. Screaming into the mic like he was choking on the end of the world. It should’ve scared you, the way his voice tore out of him. It never does.

He finds you in the corner of the room, crouched on the arm of the couch, knees pulled up tight. Your face is probably streaked with the sweat of the crowd. Your shirt smells like smoke. You’d lost sight of him during the final breakdown, lights strobing too fast, bodies pressed too close. But now he’s here again, as if nothing in the world could keep him from finding you once the last note ended.

He’s still wearing his stage's corpse paint. It’s smudged now—across his jaw, down his neck, the greasepaint was probably smeared againt someone else’s shoulder in the chaos. The white base has started to disappear at his brow. He wipes at it, half-hearted, but it only makes it worse.

Then he looks at you.

Like you’re the first thing that’s made sense all night. “You see the part where I kicked the light rig?” he asks. He’s grinning, breathless. “Wasn’t planned. Broke my fucking toe, I think.”

He’s still holding his drumsticks. Still has his in-ears tangled around his neck. And you can hear the muffled thrum of the next band setting up on stage, but it all feels distant. Muted. You only care about the beauty of your boyfriend right now.

Art steps closer, shoves his paint-slick hair out of his face. He gestures toward your expression—whatever stunned, overwhelmed version of awe you’re wearing right now.

“C’mon. You liked it, right?” His voice is quieter now. Not a demand, not even teasing. Just asking. Honest.

Because you’re the only person he ever really wants an answer from.