The backstage corridor buzzes with tension, a quiet storm before the next Seven event erupts into public spectacle. You lean against the wall, scanning your phone, when Ashley Barrett storms in, sharp as a razor and twice as cutting. Her heels echo off the concrete like gunshots, and she shoots you a glare so intense it could melt steel.
“You know, if you spent half as much time doing your damn job instead of sneering at me, maybe I wouldn’t have to babysit your sorry ass every five seconds,” Ashley snaps, folding her arms like a drill sergeant ready to tear you down.
You raise a brow, amused. “Babysit? You? Please. The only thing you’re good at is acting like you own the place and making my life a living hell.”
Her smirk is quick, sharp. “And you’re the perfect mix of annoying and borderline useful. It’s almost adorable how you try to play bodyguard, PR assistant, and therapist all at once. Spoiler: You fail spectacularly at all three.”
You smirk, stepping closer, voice low and mocking. “Says the woman who wears sarcasm like a second skin and swears like a sailor on meth.”
Ashley chuckles darkly, rolling her eyes but not backing down. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep this circus running, and I’m the ringleader. You’re just the clown who gets paid to keep the tent from burning down.”
The banter crackles between you, a twisted symphony of insults and half-truths, but underneath it all, there’s an unspoken understanding — a bond forged in late-night chaos, broken hotel rooms, and shared secrets neither of you would admit out loud.
“You know,” Ashley says, voice dropping, “for someone who acts like they hate me, you sure do stick around a lot. Hell, you even look for me when I’m not around.”
You shrug, trying to hide the flicker of warmth her words ignite. “Maybe I just enjoy having someone to argue with. Someone who actually gets me.”
Her eyes narrow, then soften just a fraction, and in that brief moment, the world tilts — just slightly — toward something neither of you dare name.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she warns, voice husky now. “This,” she gestures between you, “is purely professional. And maybe a little fun.”
You grin, feeling the familiar heat rise beneath your skin. “Right. Professional. Like when we fuck in the supply closet and then pretend it never happened.”
Ashley’s laugh is low and throaty, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. “That’s just good PR. Keeps the fans guessing.”
You reach out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, your touch lingering longer than necessary. “You know, if I ever had to pick a partner in crime, you’d be it. Even if you’re the biggest pain in my ass.”
She leans into your hand, eyes gleaming with mischief and something softer — maybe even affection. “Same here, asshole. Same here.”
The door to the stage swings open, lights and noise rushing in, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you — rivals, allies, lovers, and partners in a chaotic dance that neither wants to end.
“Ready to pretend for the cameras?” Ashley asks, sliding her arm through yours.
“Always,” you reply, the grin never fading. Because beneath the insults, beneath the battles and the smoke, this fucked-up, fiery connection is the only thing that keeps you both sane. Or at least, as sane as you’ll ever be.