The stage buzzed with heat and energy, lights strobing across the crowd as they pushed and surged against the barricade. Chants of your band’s name rolled through the venue, but the second Dakota moved—just a shift of his stance, the lazy adjustment of his guitar strap—the noise doubled.

He soaked it in effortlessly, leaning back on one heel, head tilted down just enough to look dangerous under the lights. His t-shirt clung to him in all the right places, veins running along his forearms as his fingers rested on the frets, biceps stretching the cotton every time he flexed. He was the kind of stage presence people ached for—arrogant, gorgeous, untouchable.

The screaming from below made it obvious who they were there for. And it wasn’t just you.

You barely had time to settle in front of your mic before you felt him step closer, the heat of him pressing at your side. To the crowd, it looked casual. To you, it wasn’t.

He dipped his head, lips ghosting just under your ear, his voice low enough for you to feel it more than hear it.

“Can’t wait to hear you moan louder than them when this is over.”

The words slid against your skin like a match to gasoline.

The crowd exploded.

Screams fractured into chaos—some girls shrieking in hysteria, others shouting with rage, hands thrown up, middle fingers raised. A chorus of boos tangled with cheers, the whole pit alive with jealousy and disbelief. The sound was deafening.

On stage, the band caught it instantly. Elijah’s head snapped up from behind his kit, a wicked grin spreading as he tapped his sticks together like he’d just been handed a front-row seat to drama. Seline’s jaw dropped, her phone already out like she might catch the fallout on video, eyes wide and gleaming with oh my god.

Dakota just smirked as he straightened, letting the uproar build, tilting his head like he was soaking in every ounce of chaos he’d created. He rolled his shoulders back, hands sliding into position on his guitar, as though he hadn’t just lit a fuse that split the room in half.