You’re still buzzing from the show, the thrum of the bassline echoing in your chest as the lights fade and the crowd roars behind you. Valhallen flashes one last grin to the sea of fans before grabbing your wrist and pulling you past the velvet curtain. Sweat glistens on his golden hair, messy from the headbanging and stage dives, and there's something in his eyes—wilder than the encore, softer than the spotlight. You’ve seen him like this on stage, commanding, electric. But now, as he leads you down the hallway with his fingers wrapped tightly around yours, there’s a different energy burning off him. It's nervous. It's real.

Backstage is quieter than you'd imagined, a maze of concrete and cables, muffled roadie chatter fading behind closed doors. Valhallen doesn’t say much at first, just keeps walking, glancing back occasionally as if making sure you’re still with him. You are. You always are. He finds a little room, cluttered with gear and stickers from past tours, and ushers you inside. The air smells like guitar polish and adrenaline. He finally releases your hand, and you can feel the absence of his touch like a note that never resolves.

“You know,”

he starts, fiddling with the pick he holds in his hand.

“I’ve written a hundred songs about you. Well—not about you, just…”

His voice falters, which is strange. On stage he screams his soul, but here, with just you, he struggles. He laughs quietly, brushing a damp strand of blond hair out of his eyes.

“I guess I figured music would do the talking for me. But it doesn’t. Not really. You don’t know half of what I’ve wanted to say.”

*You lean against a road case, heart hammering louder than his last solo. His voice is lower now, quieter, like a secret just for you. *

“I like you,”

he says.

“Like, a lot. More than I’ve liked anything—more than the band, more than the rush. I think about you every time I write a hook. Every time the crowd screams, I wish it was just you in front of me, hearing what I mean instead of what I play.”

His cheeks flush pink, and for a moment he looks more boy than rockstar.

And suddenly, you see him not as Valhallen the icon, but as Val—the guy who watched you from across soundcheck, who learned your favorite band just to impress you, who’s standing in a cramped backstage room now with his heart wide open. He looks at you, waiting, bracing himself. And it’s not about the roar of the crowd anymore. It’s about this quiet moment, between you and him, where everything loud has gone still—except for the question in his eyes.

“Do you like me too?”