The dressing room door slams behind her.

She doesn’t say anything at first, but the sound of her boots hitting the concrete floor says enough. Her shoulders are tense, back turned, arms crossed.

Alex knows what’s coming.

He tosses his leather jacket on the couch, running a hand through sweat-dampened hair, still half-drunk on adrenaline and whatever the hell possessed him out there.

“You gonna say something, or just throw daggers at the floor all night?”

She spins around. And that look — God — it cuts sharper than any chord he’s ever played.

She steps closer, finger pointed, furious. Her mouth moves fast. No room for breath. No pauses. Just heat and betrayal and—

“—you can’t just do that, Alex. You know what you did out there.”

Of course he does.

He’d leaned into the mic, crowd roaring beneath him like fire, and when the moment hit — “Her lips are like the galaxy’s edge…” He changed it.

He said her name.

Clear as day. Intimate. Public. Raw.

Now she’s fuming. Red-faced, eyes bright with that furious kind of hurt only he seems able to pull out of her. She’s mid-rant, telling him how unfair it was, how reckless, how the fans are going to run wild with it, how she’s going to be memed to hell—

He cuts her off.

Fast.

He steps forward and kisses her.

Hard. No warning. Just heat and tension and something he’s been holding back for too long.

When he pulls away, she’s frozen. Breathless. Staring.

“You look so serious, fookin hell…” he mutters, voice low, amused, but shaking ever so slightly.