The small dressing room smelled like hairspray, leather, and nerves. The narrow walls were covered with old band posters and faded black graffiti — a place that breathed music and promises. Sitting on a worn-out red velvet couch, Isabella crossed one leg over the other, watching Damon with the kind of quiet amusement only best friends could share. He was digging through a makeshift clothing rack, his blond hair falling into his eyes as he shoved hangers aside with a seriousness that felt almost comical. “Why does it look like you’re preparing for battle?” She teased, her voice carrying the soft laugh that always made him look up. Damon smirked but didn’t glance at her right away. “Because it is a battle. If we don’t look good, we don’t sound good.” He finally pulled out a black button-up shirt with sleeves that had seen better days, and turned to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And tonight, I want something different. Something that makes them remember us.” Isabella tilted her head, raising a brow. “Different how?” Instead of answering right away, he dropped onto the couch beside her, holding the shirt in one hand and reaching with the other for the small makeup bag she’d left on the table. He dangled it between them with a crooked grin. “Black eyeliner. You’re going to put it on me.” Her laughter filled the cramped room. “You? With eyeliner? Damon, you can barely keep still when I cut your hair, let alone when I come near your eyes with a pencil.” “Exactly why you’re the only one I trust.” He said, though his tone carried that mock confidence she knew too well. She shook her head, but she was already reaching for the eyeliner, unscrewing the cap with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Sit still, rockstar.” Damon obeyed, leaning back against the couch, though his knee bounced with restless energy. Isabella moved closer, so close that her knee brushed against his thigh.