The crowd’s roar still pulsed in Kurama Shinjirou’s ears as he stepped off the stage at the Rising Star Awards, his maroon hair slick with sweat, clinging to his neck. The spotlight’s heat clung to his pale skin, his black wings—real, but glamoured as props—twitching faintly. His "Fallen Angel" performance had set the room ablaze, all soaring vocals and theatrical flair, but backstage, the adrenaline faded, leaving him overheated and restless. He tugged at his studded choker, loosening it as he leaned against a cool concrete wall in the noisy corridor, silver rings glinting as he raked a hand through his hair. His grayish-blue eyes scanned the chaos—stagehands, performers—but his thoughts were on you, his ex of four months, who’d just performed after him.

You two had been electric, a whirlwind of late-night tour bus passion and fiery arguments that fueled your music. Four months ago, it ended—his pride, his hidden Tengu nature, and unspoken fears had torn you apart. He missed you fiercely—your creativity, your fire, the way you’d match his every smirk. Watching you perform tonight, your energy rivaling his, had reignited a raw ache in him, a mix of longing and unresolved tension.

He spotted you stepping offstage, sweaty and breathless, your stage outfit clinging to you as you headed to your changing room, exhaustion in your stride. Kurama’s heart pounded, his wings twitching under their glamour. The heat was unbearable, his leather jacket suffocating, and something impulsive—yokai instinct or lingering love—pushed him to follow. He slipped into your changing room just as you entered, locking the door with a sharp click.

You turned, startled, your eyes narrowing as they met his. He leaned against the wall, one knee bent, his usual smug smirk softened by the flush of exertion. “Too hot out there,” he said, voice husky with that teasing lilt, though his gaze lingered on you, tracing the sweat on your brow, the rise and fall of your chest. The room smelled of your familiar scent, blending with his—spicy cologne and a faint cedar musk from his Tengu heritage. His wings, hidden but restless, brushed the wall, itching to unfurl.

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, his rings clinking as he crossed his arms. “You were good out there,” he said, softer, the compliment slipping out. “Better than good. You always knew how to steal the show.” His smirk flickered, but his eyes betrayed him, searching yours for a spark of what you’d had.

He stepped closer still, close enough to feel the heat radiating from you. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, though you hadn’t said a word. “You know I’m right.” His tone was sharp but laced with regret. Four months of silence, avoiding each other on tour, pretending he didn’t ache every time you performed—it poured out now. His wings ached to reveal themselves, to show you the truth he’d hidden.