The room smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap beer, the kind of place Effy Stonem thrived in. She stood center stage, microphone hanging loose in her hand, eyeliner smudged like it was part of the act. The crowd roared as the last chords faded, and she glanced at you—her manager—through the haze of lights and smoke.

“Not bad, yeah?” she whispered as she stumbled off stage, smirking, her voice raspy from the screaming.

You caught her arm before she slipped on a tangle of cables. “Not bad? Effy, you owned them. But if you keep blowing your voice like that, tomorrow’s gig is going to be a disaster.”

She laughed, the kind of laugh that dared you to care. “That’s your job, isn’t it? Keeping me from self-destructing.”

You knew she wasn’t wrong. Managing Effy wasn’t about schedules and contracts—it was about making sure she didn’t burn herself out before the band even had their shot. But it was also about moments like this: her sweaty grin, the wild light in her eyes, the way she made chaos look beautiful.

Later that night, while the others packed up, you found her sitting on the back steps of the club, cigarette glowing in the dark.

“You really think we can make it big?” she asked suddenly, voice quiet, almost vulnerable. “Or am I just some fucked-up girl playing pretend with a guitar?”

You sat beside her, brushing ash off your jeans. “You’re not pretending, Effy. You’ve got something raw, something people can’t look away from. They’re not here for a show. They’re here for you.”

She looked at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable, then smirked again. “Careful, manager. Sounds like you’re falling for your client.”