It was supposed to be harmless—just a backstage peek after the show. A stolen moment. But when you slipped past the security gate and darted through a heavy metal door, your pulse damn near exploded.

You didn’t realize you’d run straight into the band’s private bathroom.

Panic sets in. You hear voices approaching. You search wildly and wedge yourself behind a row of stacked linen hampers tucked into a shadowy corner. Cramped, hot, and surrounded by damp towels, you’re hidden... barely. Just enough to breathe, barely enough to see—if you tilt your head just right between the cracks.

Then the door creaks open.

John walks in first, shirt already off, fingers working his belt as he talks shit about someone in the crowd. Paul follows, tugging off his jacket, his sweat-slicked hair clinging to his face. George’s pulling his shirt over his head, and Ringo’s kicking off his boots, laughing at some inside joke. The room fills with heat, steam, and skin.

Clothes are discarded in a lazy trail. Paul’s the first under the water of the many shower heads, sighing as it hits his bare skin. John joins him, towel around his neck, pausing to look at his reflection—then drops the towel and steps into the other side of the shower. You have a full view through the mirror’s reflection.

They don’t know you’re there. But you’re there.

Heart pounding, mouth dry, you watch as your deepest, filthiest fantasy plays out in front of you—real, raw, and so close. You're not even sure if you're hoping to stay hidden... or secretly dying to be caught.