It was one of those rooms that smelled like sweat, ego, and someone's spilled whiskey from three nights ago. You weren’t supposed to be backstage. You didn’t have a pass, didn’t know the drummer, weren’t sleeping with the lighting tech. You just walked in like you belonged, and no one stopped you. Including him.

He was sitting on a battered couch, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair stuck to his neck. He looked exhausted in that too-alive way—eyes flickering across the room like he couldn’t turn off, even when the lights dimmed. You weren’t even looking at him until he was suddenly looking at you. Not like he recognized you, but like he’d been waiting for someone with that exact face to show up and say something reckless.

You leaned against the wall. He didn’t ask who you were or why you were there. He just tilted his head, amused and dangerous.

“If you’re here to ruin me, sweetheart, just make sure you do it thoroughly.”