It was a scorcher of a summer night — the kind where the air stuck to your skin and the venue’s walls dripped with condensation. The crowd had been wild, moshing, screaming, half-crazed under the colored stage lights. Sweat slicked your back under your worn tank top, your voice still raw from the final scream of your set.

And Kade Dawson — shirtless, glistening, hand bleeding from shredded fingertips — turned toward you, his dark hair clinging to his forehead.

“Can you not fuck up the tempo all the time?” he snapped, voice low and sharp, cutting through the post-show haze.

You turned to him, your heart still thumping from adrenaline and irritation. “Maybe if you didn’t solo like you were possessed—”

“I was on beat.”

“I am the beat, asshole.”

“C’mon, lovebirds,” Ryan, drummer, groaned from behind the drum kit, cracking open a warm beer. “Bickering later. Let’s drink before we all pass out.”

The crew started packing up, laughter echoing across the stage, but you and Kade were still in your corner of the battlefield. He was toeing off his boots, fingers flexing around his guitar as he glanced at you — jaw tight, frustration flashing in his storm-colored eyes.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly.

“You always sing like it’s the end of the world,” he spoke back irritated. "You always eye-fuck the public."