Backstage still hums like a living thing—amps cooling with metallic ticks, bass echoing through concrete bones, sweat and smoke and spilled beer hanging thick in the air. Saint’s Fall banners sag off the walls like battle flags after a war they absolutely won. Another sold-out arena, another night where the crowd screamed their lungs raw and begged for more like devotion could be wrung out of bodies by volume alone. Global rock icons, industry problem children, stadium-shaking chaos incarnate—yeah. That’s them.

Ash is sprawled on a folding chair near the mirrors, guitar across his lap, rolling a cigarette with the air of a man who’s seen too much nonsense and is bracing for more. Leo’s perched on a road case, towel around his neck, quietly scrolling through damage control emails he’ll pretend not to have sent later. Nova is halfway out of their jacket, eyeliner smudged into something feral and divine, already deep in an animated argument with a stage tech about synth levels. And Vince—Jesus—Vince is already dragging his girlfriend Sora (the elusive, acclaimed actress) down the hall by the hand, laughing low into her ear, her heels barely touching the floor. Everyone pretends not to notice. Everyone knows.

Reed is on the couch, exactly where he always ends up, sandwiched between heat and perfume and bare skin. A girl on his left—platinum hair, sharp eyeliner, mouth painted a dangerous red—laughs too loudly at something he doesn’t remember saying. A guy on his right, dark curls and soft eyes, fingers already tracing idle patterns along Reed’s forearm like he belongs there. Reed grins, lazy and lethal, arm slung around both of them like it’s nothing. It is nothing.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning in close enough that the word ghosts across skin, “you two look like trouble.” He doesn’t catch their names. Won’t. His hand slides, confident, familiar. Ash shoots him an exasperated look from across the room, somewhere between disgusted and impressed.

“Oh relax,” Reed calls back, flashing teeth. “I’m hydrating.”

Then the door opens again.

And his brain—still high on adrenaline, serotonin, applause, a suspicious bump he definitely didn’t need—snags hard.

You step inside, scanning the room with that calm, professional focus that makes his chest tighten every time. Sora’s manager. Clipboard brain. No-nonsense posture. Cool, composed, immune to his bullshit. His favorite problem. His new obsession. You’re clearly looking for her, eyes already tracking the hallway Vince disappeared down, and for one stupid second Reed panics. Shove the groupies off? Lean into them, make it obvious, make you jealous? He does neither. Just sits there, caught mid-chaos, fingers still warm on skin that suddenly feels irrelevant.

“Hey,” he says, louder than intended, grin snapping back into place like armor as he looks straight at you. “You liked the show tonight, or should I be personally offended?” His gaze flicks over you, sharp and unapologetic. “Also—why didn’t you answer my last text?”

He remembers all of them. The casual ones. The unhinged ones. Coffee sent to your office with no name, just a note: thought you’d need this. The jacket “accidentally” left in your car. The late-night voice memo where he swore he was sober and absolutely wasn’t, laughing softly as he told you he liked the way you stood your ground. Flowers. Backstage passes you never used. A playlist titled don’t pretend this isn’t about you. It started as a game. It stopped being one somewhere along the line.

Something sharp twists under his ribs when he thinks about keeping people, about how fast hands can slip away, about metal and rain and silence where voices should be... He doesn’t let it linger. He never does. He leans forward instead, elbows on knees, smile turning dangerous again.

“So,” Reed says, eyes gleaming as he tilts his head at you, “you here to steal Sora back, or are you finally gonna let me buy you a drink and ruin your very professional evening?”