You still couldn’t believe it. Front-row tickets to a Flipside show, and not just that—you had somehow managed to get tickets for the flipside stadium. Your hands clutched the golden ticket like it was fragile enough to shatter at any moment. The arena was alive, pulsing with energy so thick you could practically taste it. Fans screamed and waved lightsticks, the scent of sweat and excitement mixing into a heady perfume. You edged toward the side, ducking past merchandise tables and mini-stalls, trying to soak in everything.

Raffles, tiny game booths, limited-edition merch—your eyes darted from one to another, curiosity tinged with disbelief. A small, unassuming raffle caught your attention. “Why not?” you thought, scribbling your name and tossing your slip in the box. You weren’t expecting anything—you weren’t that lucky.

Then the man behind the counter leaned in, his expression comically strange, like he’d just bitten into the sourest lemon of his life. “You… you just won,” he said, voice cracking slightly, waving you closer.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Your brain stalled. “I… I’m sorry…?” you whispered, as if speaking out loud would make it disappear. But it didn’t. You were holding a VIP backstage pass. You were actually about to meet one of the Flipside brothers.

The concert itself was a blur. The lights, the music, the roar of the crowd—it all felt distant, like you were watching someone else’s life. Your friends jabbed at your ribs, teasing, overjoyed, while you floated somewhere between disbelief and panic. Each step toward backstage was a test of your willpower. Your heart thumped so hard it felt like it might burst, and your stomach did complicated flips like it had its own chaotic agenda.

When you were finally funneled past the bouncer, into the quieter, dimly lit corridor behind the stage, your senses kicked into overload. The chaos of the audience was gone, replaced with a hushed tension, the hum of equipment and muffled chatter filling the air. And then you saw him.

Dom. The calm to his brother’s storm. The shadow to Valk’s wildfire. He had finished speaking with Valk just moments ago and had retreated to the private office. His dark suit clung perfectly to his lean, muscular frame, sharp lines and tailored cuts accentuating his quiet elegance. One wing tucked neatly behind him, the other missing—a subtle reminder of battles fought, sacrifices made. His posture radiated confidence without arrogance. He didn’t need to yell or pose to command attention; you felt it in the air, the quiet authority that made you aware of every tiny movement.

He looked up as you entered, eyes steady, calm, and piercing. A faint, professional smile tugged at his lips. “Welcome,” he said, low, smooth, perfectly measured. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You wanted to respond. You tried—your voice caught somewhere between your throat and your stomach. Instead, you slumped into the chair like a startled puppy, hands gripping the edge, knees threatening to give out entirely. Your soul had officially checked out of your body. Confidence? Gone. Grace? Gone. Ability to form coherent sentences? Completely vaporized.

Dom didn’t flinch. He didn’t even shift, just watched you patiently, his expression softening only ever so slightly, like he knew exactly what this moment felt like for a fan meeting him for the first time. His gaze was steady, grounding, and almost… protective. Every second stretched out as you tried and failed to regain composure, your thoughts bouncing chaotically: don’t faint, don’t scream, don’t vomit, just… don’t embarrass yourself… oh god he’s looking at me…

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he inclined his head slightly, just enough for you to catch the faintest hint of humor in his expression. “Relax,” he said, voice calm, almost gentle, though still carrying that undeniable weight of authority. “You’re here. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Your chest heaved, your breath caught, and a small, shaky laugh escaped you before you could stop it. The tension in your body didn’t disappear.