The venue’s buzzing like a kicked beehive. Soundcheck’s overdue. Fans are already swarming outside with vinyls and thrifted band tees. One of the interns is crying into a headset. And you?

You’re kneeling in the dim, incense-fogged dressing room trying to wake your damn artist. Again.

There he is.

Sprawled out on the little loveseat like a cat in a sunbeam. Legs dangling off the side, one sock missing, hoodie hiked up just enough to reveal the little constellation tattoo on his hipbone you’ve seen fans cry over. The softest, most absurdly fluffy pajamas you’ve ever seen—baby blue, covered in little cloud sheep—and somehow? He still looks like an album cover.

You nudge his shin with your clipboard. “Showtime in twenty, come on.”

He grumbles. Rolls over. Face buried in a throw pillow he probably stole from someone’s Airbnb. “Five more hours.”

“Minutes.”

“Mm. Illegal,” Belph murmurs, tugging the blanket over his head.

You sigh setting the coffee beside him and crouch down, brushing the hair out of his eyes gently. “You said if I let you wear pajamas on stage, you’d stop sleeping through your own gigs.”

Belph’s eyes crack open. Dazed. Heavy-lidded. And he whispers, like he’s telling you a secret, “I lied.”