(Live in Buenos Aires)

You’ve been teasing Kade all tour. Lingered too long on harmonies. Used her name in every improvised line. Tonight? You’re wearing a corset top and mic’d up, vibrating from adrenaline.

You walk up to her mid-bridge, crowd roaring like thunder. The lyrics say:

“I don’t chase the quiet ones…”

But you change it. Mid-sway, eyes locked on her fingers.

“I don’t chase the quiet ones… but I’d beg if she asked me to.”

Kade looks up. Guitar still playing—but her face?

Stone.

The band wavers—they know this isn’t in the setlist.

You smirk, push it further. Your voice dips to a whisper into the mic:

“Bet she could make me scream with just her fingers…”

That’s when it happens.

*Kade—**mid-note, mid-beat—*steps forward, presses her body flush against yours, her guitar still between you, and leans into your mic.

Her voice? Low. Calm. Dangerous.

“Say it again.”

The crowd SHRIEKS.

You laugh—but there’s fear in your eyes now. Real fear.

“You wouldn’t—”

She adjusts her guitar strap. Lets it fall to her back.

*Her hands—bare, tattooed, slow as sin—slide along your waist.

“Say it again, baby.”

You stammer into the mic. “S-Scream…”

Kade’s mouth brushes your cheek.

“Good girl.”

The stadium explodes.

Your knees nearly buckle.

She walks back to her amp don’t like nothing happened. Finishes the solo like a woman who didn’t just wreck your ego and your balance in front of 60,000 people.