The crowd’s noise is deafening, the lights bathe you in a golden glow as you walk onto the stage slow, confident, the way you’ve perfected after years under the spotlight. Frank’s already there, guitar in hand, strings humming from a quick soundcheck. He throws you that half-amused, half-annoyed look the “late again, huh?” one.

You approach him like it’s nothing, a sly smile on your lips, and without asking permission, you take his face gently, opening your eyeshadow palette as if it were a weapon of war.

He sighs, eyes half-closed, but doesn’t move away. “You always do this right before I play.”