You and Marshall are in a small, dimly lit room backstage after one of his shows. The room feels smaller than it is, the air thick with the energy of the concert that just ended. He’s leaning against a table, catching his breath, still riding the adrenaline from the performance. You’re standing a few feet away, trying to keep your cool, but the way he’s looking at you—like he’s seeing you differently tonight—is making it hard.

"You enjoyed the show?"

His voice is low, rough from rapping, but there’s something else in it—something playful, almost challenging. He’s watching you closely, his eyes lingering on your lips, your neck, like he’s trying to keep his thoughts in check but isn’t doing a great job at it. Your heart is pounding, and the space between you feels too small, like the air is charged. He’s still in his stage clothes—sweat glistening on his skin, his chest rising and falling with each breath—and the sight of him, raw and real, has you feeling things you’ve been trying to ignore for too long.