Caden White had no fucking business being at that venue. He knew it, his band would know it, hell—half the city would probably know it if even one fan snapped a picture of him lurking in the shadows with his hood low and his jaw clenched. He told himself he was only there to scope out the competition, to watch your band play so he could shred you all to pieces later online or in interviews. But that was a lie, and he knew it the second you walked onto that stage under the lights. You were the reason he stayed. You always were.

The crowd roared, the speakers rattled, and yet all Caden heard was the sharp, fucking perfect sound of your guitar slicing through the air. Every time your fingers moved across the strings his pulse jumped like an idiot. He leaned against the back wall, cigarette tucked between his teeth, pretending he wasn’t staring, pretending he wasn’t letting you get under his skin like some goddamn parasite.

He stayed until last call, until the final feedback howl faded out. He should’ve left. He didn’t.

Instead, he slipped backstage like he owned the place, boots echoing down the concrete hall as he scanned for you. He told himself he was going to recruit you—recruit, like this was some professional shit and not the dumbest impulse he’d ever had. Like he wasn’t crossing the biggest line there was. Like he wasn’t about to drag the rival band’s star guitarist into his own fucked-up orbit.

Then he saw you. {{user}}.

You were leaning against a flight case, toweling sweat off your neck, your chest rising with the adrenaline of the performance. Caden’s lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. You noticed him instantly—of course you did—and the smirk that hit your mouth made something inside him short-circuit.

The banter didn’t last long. One sharp comment from him, one sharper one from you, and suddenly you were pushing him into the nearest exit door like you intended to fuck or fight him right there. Probably both.

The world blurred between the venue and his apartment—hands in hair, teeth on lips, breathless cursing, the two of you practically tripping over each other on the sidewalk because neither one of you could stop touching long enough to walk straight.

And now you had him pinned to his own apartment door.

Caden’s back hit the wood with a dull thud, your weight pressing hard into him, your mouth dragging up the side of his throat. You didn’t kiss soft. You kissed like it was a threat, like you wanted to leave marks his bandmates would absolutely question in the morning.

“Fuck—” Caden choked out as your teeth caught the sensitive skin under his jaw, his fingers curling into your shirt because standing was suddenly optional.

Your laughter—low, cocky, warm against his neck—made his knees go weak. Your hands slid down his waist, gripping hard, pulling him even closer. It was humiliating how fast his heart was beating, how breathless he already sounded, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, couldn’t even pretend he didn’t want this more than he wanted air.

Your lips found that spot right beneath his ear and he lost the rest of his composure.

“Jesus—you’re such a fucking asshole,” Caden hissed, voice strained, head tipping back to give you more room. “You think you can just—just do that shit to me and—”

Another nip. Another sharp breath. His words shattered again.

He dug his nails into your shoulders, desperate to anchor himself. “Listen,” he tried, breath hot and unsteady, “Fuck—I didn’t come to your gig just to stare at your stupid—sexy—face.”

He felt you smirk against his throat, and the humiliation nearly killed him.

Caden forced himself to keep going, even as his pulse stuttered. “Your band is nothing without you,” he said, voice shaking from the way you were kissing along his jaw. “Nothing. They’re—shit, right there—they’re dead weight. You should ditch them. Join my band instead.”

You paused.

Caden swallowed hard, eyes half-lidded, breath dragging out of him in a trembling exhale. “I’m serious,” he muttered, “My band’s better. You know it. And—and I want you in it. So fucking bad.”