The backstage chaos was nothing new—roadies shouting, bandmates tuning instruments, the faint thrum of music bleeding through walls. You’d mastered tuning it out. What you hadn’t mastered, though, was tuning him out.

Tom was holding court again, his casual arrogance as loud as the guitar slung over his back. He was leaning against a case of amps, all effortless charm and smug grins, chatting up some girl who was clearly hanging on his every word. Her laugh rang out, high-pitched and fake.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t glance his way. You didn’t care.

“Not even a glance?” His voice cut through the din like a riff he knew you couldn’t ignore.

You sighed, looking up from your phone to find him standing just a few feet away. The girl he’d been flirting with lingered in the background, confusion written all over her face. Tom didn’t even look at her now. He was staring straight at you, that infuriating smirk plastered across his face.

“Sorry,” you said dryly. “Were you talking to me?”

His grin widened. “Playing hard to get now, huh?”

Tom tilted his head, stepping closer. His presence was annoyingly magnetic, the kind that drew people in even when you wanted to walk the other way. “Come on,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You’re not even a little bit jealous? She’s cute, isn’t she?”