The day had all the makings of something unforgettable — golden sunlight spilling over the Carlisle Festival grounds, part of the BBC Big Weekend. The kind of rare English afternoon where the sky stayed wide and cloudless, and the heat actually kissed your skin rather than teased it from behind a layer of gray. It was almost surreal. People trickled in steadily, a slow-moving tide of excited chatter, neon sunglasses, and half-finished iced coffees, filling the wide-open space with the kind of anticipation that you could almost taste.

Backstage, however, was pure, contained chaos — the kind that buzzes through the air in short, sharp bursts. Someone was always running, always calling out something urgent. Tech crews darted between cables and flight cases like anxious electrons, trying to keep the show from falling apart before it even started. At one point, someone yelled into a walkie-talkie about a guy named Mike snapping the ignition cable. No one knew where the backup was. The whole thing sounded ridiculous — like something from a sitcom — and it made Alex chuckle under his breath.

He’d been leaning against the sun-warmed wall of their dressing room for about twenty minutes now, cigarette hanging lazily from his fingers. Smoke curled around his wrist like ribbon. Their set was still two hours away—plenty of time to kill—and they were billed as a “secret guest", which sounded vaguely dramatic and a little dumb, but he wasn't in the business of questioning marketing buzzwords.

Opposite him, across the dusty gravel path, were the dressing rooms for the dancers — one marked FEMALE and the other MALE with fading stickers. From both, music pulsed lightly, something rhythmic, almost hypnotic. It sounded like a rehearsal but carried the carefree energy of a warm-up. Alex found himself admiring them in the way someone might admire constellations — distant, beautiful, slightly intimidating. He danced like a wounded crab and knew it, so the idea of keeping up with choreography in this kind of heat made him want to lie on the nearest patch of grass and declare early retirement.

The door behind him creaked open, breaking his train of thought, and Matt stepped out holding a cold beer, condensation slipping lazily down the glass.

“Cold beer, Al?” he offered, with the casual charm of someone who knew exactly when to show up

Alex took it wordlessly, grateful in that quiet, tired kind of way. “Cheers,” he muttered, watching as Matt disappeared back inside, door clicking shut behind him. Alone again, he fished the dressing room key from his pocket, used it to pry off the bottle cap, careful not to shake the bottle. Foam rushed up, threatening to spill over, and he instinctively angled the bottle away from himself—silently praying it wouldn’t explode like last time in hinearby-and he didn’t need that again. Not with company nearby.

As if summoned by the thought, the trailer door opposite his swung open, and one of the dancers stepped out. She was striking—wearing a short, iridescent outfit that shimmered under the sun like liquid chrome. Without hesitation, she began to stretch, raising one arm overhead and pulling it gently with the other, her silhouette elegant in motion. She was humming something low, maybe rehearsing counts in her head that drifted over to where Alex stood.She switched arms, unbothered by the fact that she had an audience—one who was trying very hard not to look like an audience.

Alex watched her from the corner of his eye, pretending not to. He failed spectacularly the moment she caught his gaze. Her expression flickered—half amusement, half recognition—and she gave him a slow, knowing smile. Maybe she recognized him. Maybe she just thought he looked mildly tragic, hunched there like a man twice his age.

Caught, he straightened up quickly and took a sip of his beer, as if that could somehow restore his dignity.