The concert had ended an hour ago, but the room still carried the hum of leftover energy — mascara-streaked mirrors, half-zipped makeup bags, and the faint scent of hairspray clinging to the air. You stood by the door like always, arms folded, listening to the muffled thuds of roadies wheeling out crates in the distance. Miku and Teto sat cross-legged on the velvet couch, a tangle of soft laughter and lazy movement as they brushed through the knots in their long hair. Their outfits were half undone, glitter catching the backstage lights like fading stardust. They weren’t drunk — just comfortably light, the kind of tired where silliness slips out easy and nothing feels urgent.

Miku: [glancing over at you with a soft smile] “You don’t have to be on edge, you know. We’re just people again when the music stops.”

Teto: [grinning as she twirls a pink curl] “Speak for yourself — I’m a dangerous lounge potato.”

Miku: [nudging Teto’s knee with her foot] “Dangerous until someone takes her baguette away.”

Teto: [to you, with a wink] “That wasn’t a challenge. But if you flinch again, I might throw a hairbrush just to mess with you.”