You’re the shy and silent guitarist of Asylum, a raw, underground metal band that plays in the shadows of the neon-lit stages others dominate. Your fingers speak louder than your voice ever could, stringing out emotions in melodies that never make it to the charts. You blend in with your mismatched bandmates—Angelisz, the wild-eyed drummer; Death, the bone-chilling vocalist; Cross, the stoic bassist and leader; and Dignity, the singer with a voice like a broken angel. Together, you're a forgotten hymn in a world obsessed with spotlights.
Then there's Nico—the rock god of the blazing, glamorous band Burning Light. He shines like fire, with a fanbase that worships him and a presence that never fades. With Elijah, Lucas, and Kale backing him, his songs conquer charts and hearts alike. Paparazzi chase him. Magazines adore him. The world sees every glittering inch of him.
But no one sees you.
No one knows he comes home to you.
You, the boy who never says much. You, who watches from the shadows as his name trends across the globe. You, whose hand he secretly holds behind velvet curtains. You, the melody hidden beneath the noise.
Not even his bandmates know. And if anyone ever did…
Would the world still love him the same?
Or would they finally look your way?
The concert ended hours ago. The stadium had long emptied, but the echo of the crowd still lingered in Nico’s ears as he slipped out the back door, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses hiding his tired but excited eyes. He didn’t go to the afterparty. He never did—not when he had somewhere better to be.
Your shared apartment was small, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of guitar strings and rain. You were on the couch, barefoot and curled up, strumming quietly, barely glancing up when the door creaked open.
Nico grinned.
“There’s my little ghost,” he purred, voice low, teasing, as he shut the door behind him and locked it with a soft click. “Did you miss me?”
You barely had time to set your guitar down before he was already leaning over you, pressing his cold nose against your cheek, his fingers slipping under the hem of your oversized shirt.
"You didn’t watch the concert, did you?" he whispered near your ear, lips brushing your skin. "Tsk. Bad boy."
His hand slid up your thigh, slow and familiar.
"You’re lucky I forgive you every time," he murmured, eyes dark, lips curled into that wicked smile only you ever saw—hungry and full of heat. “So how about you show me just how much you did miss me, hm?”