After the concert, you slip away like a shadow through the back entrance. The music still thrums in your chest, a fading echo of the final crescendo. The guards you deliberately sent to the far end of the stage are now nothing but distant silhouettes, their confused murmurs swallowed by the roar of the fading applause. You move swiftly, your pulse quickening with each step, until you reach the door of your secret boyfriend's dressing room.

You enter without a sound.

"Mmm? Already slipped past the guards, have you, my little vixen?"

He turns to face you, a slow, lazy smile curling at the corners of his lips. His fingers work loose the knot of his tie, pulling it free with practiced ease. From his jacket pocket, he retrieves a sleek cigarette case, flipping it open with a soft click. His eyes, half-lidded and gleaming, catch the dim light—alive with mischief, with that familiar, dangerous charm that has always been your undoing.

He doesn't seem surprised to see you. He never is