059

The venue is buzzing. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke and sweat hangs in the air, beer sloshing in plastic cups, voices overlapping in excitement and impatience. Bodies press together, shifting on their feet as the stage crew rushes to set up for the first band.

Eddie stands close, an arm draped around your waist, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your hip through the fabric of your Corroded Coffin shirt. His rings are cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off him. Every so often, he leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, murmuring something either obnoxiously dirty or stupidly sweet, keeping you caught between rolling your eyes and biting back a smile. "Y’know," he hums, voice low, teasing, "we could just leave now, run off into the night, have a little fun before I have to go be a rock god..."

You snort, nudging him with your elbow, "You think you got what it takes, mh?"

Eddie scoffs, "Pfft. Baby, I could play that stage blindfolded and still blow everyone else outta the water."

"Then prove it." You smirk.

Before he can retort, the house lights dim, and the entire venue explodes with cheers.

The radio host from 92.3 FM, one of the biggest rock stations in Indiana, struts onto the stage, dressed in leather and denim, a mic clutched in his hand. The crowd surges forward, pushing against the barrier, their excitement vibrating through the floor.

"WELCOME TO THE 92.3 FM BATTLE OF THE BANDS!"

The host’s voice booms through the speakers, sending another wave of cheers rippling through the audience. Eddie squeezes your hip, his bandmates bouncing on their heels, cracking their knuckles, fists pumping in the air. "Tonight, we have fifteen bands battling it out for the grand prize - two thousand dollars, a gig at The Black Cat, and a featured spot on our very own rock show, including an interview and radio play of their song!"

Another eruption of cheers, a few shouts of "Fuck yeah!" from somewhere in the back.

Eddie tilts his head, smirking down at you. "Guess that cash is gonna buy me all the slushies I want."

You roll your eyes. "Or, y’know, actual band equipment".

"Boring," he teases, lips brushing your temple.

Meanwhile, the host is still hyping up the crowd. "But it’s not just you deciding the winner tonight - oh, no! We’ve got four of the biggest names in rock sitting on our jury panel!"

The big screen above the stage flickers, revealing the judges' names and faces one by one.

Your stomach drops. Eddie stiffens beside you.

Because there, sitting at the far end of the judges’ table, looking cold, cool, and untouchable, is Rick Vaughn.

Rick. The lead singer of Vanguard.

The same Rick you met last week, when you’d stumbled into his band the morning after their gig, still hungover from a night of way too much drinking. You still remember how they laughed at you, teasing you about how you and Greg, their bassist, shared a birthday that night, how it made sense you were still recovering. Rick had been so nice then. Warm, even. Interested in you when he found out you were a musician yourself. He asked for your number, told you to call him about the song you played for them.

And now?

Now he looks like a completely different person. All business. Detached. A rockstar in his natural habitat.

You blink, your gaze flickering to the rest of the jury as the host keeps announcing.

"We’ve also got Kenny Jones of High Voltage Records, the queen of rock journalism herself, Nancy Stone, and the one and only Mark Mendoza of The Shakedown!"

More cheers, but you and Eddie barely react, still locked in that shared, silent shock. "Holy shit," you whisper.

"No fucking way," Eddie breathes, then suddenly grins, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

"This is huge," you murmur, scanning the venue. Because if Rick is here… are the rest of them, too?

Greg, the bassist. Matt, the guitarist. Salva, the drummer. Joe, the keyboardist.

You liked them. And they liked you. And Eddie.

"Think they’re here?" you ask, still searching the crowd.

"Dunno," Eddie mutters. "Guess we’ll find out soon enough."

Before you can say anything else, the host raises the mic again. "Alright, enough talk - let’s get this battle started! Give it up for our first band of the night... Crimson Riot!"

A mix of cheers and polite applause follows as the first band scrambles onto the stage.

They look young, nervous but eager, adjusting their straps and muttering to each other as the drummer counts them in.Then they start. And… they’re fine.Not bad, but not great. The music is tight, the singer is on pitch, but there’s something missing. No bite, no fire. No raw, reckless energy.

Eddie watches, unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest. "Well," he leans down, lips brushing your ear, "this is gonna be easier than I thought."

You snicker. "Cocky much?"

"Just honest, sweetheart." He presses a slow kiss beneath your jaw, "You really think that is competition?"

You shake your head, watching the band try to hype up the crowd. A few people nod along, but there’s no explosion, no electricity. "No," you admit, smirking. "I really don’t"

After their 15-minute-slot, the first band finishes their last note, and the audience responds with polite applause. Not disappointed, but not thrilled either. The kind of clapping that says, Thanks for trying, now please get off the stage.

The jury nods along as the band gathers near the mic, waiting for feedback. Rick barely glances up from his notes. "Solid performance", he says coolly, "Tight sound, but missing a hook. Something to really grab the crowd."

Nancy Stone, the rock journalist, tilts her head. "Vocals were clean, but maybe too clean. Nothing raw to make me feel it."

Kenny Jones scribbles something before nodding. "You guys clearly rehearsed. But sometimes it’s not about being polished - it’s about being memorable."

Mark Mendoza simply leans into his mic. "Good job. Next."

Ouch.

The host tries to keep the energy up, motioning for the audience to give them one last round of applause, but the response is still lukewarm. The band waves and clears off, clearly trying not to look too crushed. "Alright, let’s see if our next band can turn up the heat!" the host shouts, and the screen flickers again.

BLACK SIRENS.

And from the second they step on stage, the energy shifts. Four women, dressed in ripped black denim, leather, and attitude, take their places. Then the lead singer steps up.

And the entire room holds its breath.

She’s gorgeous. Tall, dark-haired, dangerously confident. She grips the mic like it owes her money, gives the audience a slow, deliberate once-over, then signals the band to start. And when she sings... No, when she growls into the mic - the crowd loses its fucking mind. Her voice is rich, deep, full of smoke and danger, slipping effortlessly between haunting melodies and vicious snarls.

The jury perks up. Rick finally lifts his head, brow furrowing in interest.

And beside you? Jeff, Gareth, and Grant are gone. Completely entranced. Jeff actually mouths the words holy shit, gripping Gareth’s arm. Grant hasn’t blinked since she opened her mouth. And Eddie?Eddie is watching very closely. Not like he’s in love, not like the guys, more like he respects the hell out of her. Like he recognizes that this? This is real competition.

You narrow your eyes at him.

His head tilts slightly, watching the way she grips the mic stand, how she commands the room without even trying.

You squint harder. Like, really hard.

He immediately picks up on it. And snorts. Then, without even glancing your way, he grabs you, yanks you in, and kisses you senseless. Not just a peck. A real, hungry, claiming kiss. Like he’s sealing a deal, marking territory, burning away even the faintest trace of jealousy before it can take root. You barely have time to react before his hands are on your hips, pulling you closer, moving with you, even as the band keeps playing.

Yeah, okay. That does the trick.

Because when he finally pulls back, his nose brushing against yours, all you can do is blink at him, breathless, dizzy, and completely uninterested in whatever woman is currently destroying the stage.

Eddie smirks, "All better, sweetheart?"

You pretend to think. Then shrug, smirking smugly, "Maybe. Might need another one, just to be sure."

His grin widens, "Insatiable." And then he kisses you again. Making you giggle into his kiss, holding you tight, showing everyone you're his, and he's yours.

Neither of you notice how across the venue, from the edge of the crowd, Lauren is watching you both. Not just watching. Staring. Expression unreadable.A beer in one hand. A cigarette in the other.Silent. Waiting.

As soon as Black Sirens finish their set, the venue erupts. Cheers, whistles, even a few outright screams. This is different. The energy just shifted. Before, the crowd was just watching. Listening. Now? Now, they’re invested. Now, they’re feeling it.

The jury reacts, too. Rick leans forward, actually interested for the first time tonight. Kenny mutters something to Nancy, nodding, impressed. Mark Mendoza, the hardest to crack, grins. The girls bow, and as they step off, the host’s voice booms through the speakers: "Now that’s what we’re talking about! Let’s hear it one more time for Black Sirens!"

The cheers double.

And suddenly? This just got serious.

Jeff, Gareth, and Grant are still completely gone, crushing so hard it’s painful.

"I’m in love."

"I’ll kill for her."

"I’ll kill for a chance with her."

You snort. "Wow. Simping in real-time. It’s beautiful to witness."

Jeff doesn’t even look at you, "Don’t ruin this."

Meanwhile, Eddie? He doesn’t give a single shit about the Black Sirens. Nope. Since your kiss, he suddenly can't stop touching you. His hands are on your hips, tugging you closer into his chest as you stand in front of him. His breath is warm against your neck, lips brushing your ear as he leans in. "That shirt looks so fuckin’ good on you."

You shiver, "Yeah?"

He hums, nipping your earlobe, just a little. "Yeah. Can't stop thinking about how you'd look in it with nothing underneath."

You choke, "Eddie".

"What?" His smirk is all teeth, hands tightening on your waist, "Just thinking out loud, sweetheart. Can’t help it. You’re standin’ right in front of me, pressed up all nice, smellin’ so fuckin’ good, wearing my band’s name on your tits. You expect me to behave? Fuck, I'm this close to taking a quick look at those photos of them you gave me".

Your face is on fire. "Jesus Christ."

"Mm-mm", he grins, dragging his lips down your neck, "Try again. I still have them in my pocket".

You slap at his arm, "You’re ridiculous."

He laughs, hands sliding lower, fingertips playing with the waistband of your jeans. "Can’t help it, baby. It’s the atmosphere. The energy. The way you fit against me. Makin’ me wanna skip the whole damn show, take you backstage, let you ride me ‘til my brain stops working".

"Eddie!"

He just grins, delighted at your reaction. "What?" He presses a slow, filthy kiss just below your jaw, "I’m just excited. It’s a big night."

You roll your eyes, "You’re not excited about the battle, dumbass."

He laughs, low and wicked, gripping your hips harder. "Nope." His grip tightens on your waist, his fingers kneading slow, deliberate circles into your hips like he has nowhere else to be, nothing else to do but touch you. The third band is setting up on stage, their drummer testing the snare with sharp, echoing cracks, but Eddie doesn’t even glance up. His focus is all on you. "Y'know, sweetheart," he murmurs, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, "we could just… disappear for a bit. No one would even notice."

You swallow hard, the heat of his words sinking into your skin, "Eddie, we can't".

"I mean, look at ‘em," he huffs, flicking his gaze briefly toward the band on stage before dragging his lips along the curve of your neck. "They’re fine, I guess. But we both know there’s no way they’re winning this thing. So really…" His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, ghosting along your lower back, "We wouldn’t be missing much."

Your breath catches, heart pounding in your ears as you fight the very real urge to let him drag you away. Because you know he would. He’d grab your hand, pull you through the crowd, slip past the green room door like he owns the damn place, and press you up against some backstage wall, his hands greedy, his mouth hungrier.

And the worst part? You want to.

But you roll your eyes instead, pretending you’re not burning alive under his touch. "Behave," you scold, though it comes out weaker than intended.

Eddie just grins. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he knows how close you are to breaking, "Never." His lips brush just below your jaw, and you shiver.

Jeff groans. "Jesus Christ, you two. Can you keep it in your pants for five minutes?"

"Nope," Eddie states immediately, not even looking at him, his chin resting on your shoulder, his fingers still teasing at the waistband of your jeans.

Grant snorts, shaking his head, "They’re literally incapable".

"You’re just jealous," Eddie shoots back, grinning against your skin, "Not my fault I got the hottest girl in the venue wearing my band’s name across her tits."

Jeff throws up his hands, "Oh my God."

You bite your lip, torn between laughter and sheer, burning frustration. You need him to stop. Or maybe you need him to not stop. You’re not sure anymore.

Eddie's watching you closely now, eyes dark, dangerous. He knows you’re fighting it. Knows you’re teetering on the edge. "Ten minutes," he murmurs, just for you, "Just give me ten minutes, baby, I swear I’ll make it worth your while-"

You spin on your heel, shoving a hand over his mouth before he can finish that sentence, because if he does, you will give in. "Shut up."

He laughs, biting playfully at your palm before pulling it away. A cheeky grin grows on his lips as he leans closer, "How about you make me, mh?" His lips fall on yours. Slow but insistent he kisses you, all tongue and teasing, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the curve of your ribs. You gasp against him, and he takes advantage, deepening it, tilting his head just right until your knees threaten to buckle. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, holding on, letting yourself drown in him for just a moment before... fuck.

You’re supposed to be watching the band.It takes every last ounce of strength to pull back, to turn around in his arms and face the stage again. Eddie huffs a quiet laugh against the back of your ear, way too pleased with himself, but he doesn’t fight you. Not really. Instead, he just… waits.Lets you try to focus. Lets you pretend you’re still in control. But his hands don’t stay still for long. They wander, slowly, subtly, like he’s got all the time in the world. Fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. The waistband of your jeans. Dipping lower, then pulling away before it becomes too much. Too obvious. His breath is warm against your skin, lips brushing over the shell of your ear. "Y’know," he hums, voice as sinful as ever, "I really don’t think this band is gonna make it past the first round."

You swallow hard, "Mhm."

"Kinda boring, huh?", he continues, luring another stifled hum from you.

"Mm."

"Bet I could make things more interesting for you…"

You press your lips together, determined not to react. Eddie grins against your neck. Oh, he loves this game. "Can feel you tryin’ so hard, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice like honey, "Tryin’ not to squirm. Tryin’ not to press back against me." His hands tighten on your waist, just for a second, before relaxing again. "God, you’re so fuckin’ sexy when you fight it." You suck in a sharp breath, eyes locked on the stage but seeing nothing. "Y’know what else?" he continues, dragging his lips just below your jaw, "I can see your nipples through your shirt." Your entire body ignites. "Even through your bra," he goes on, his tone all low and dark and wicked, "Goddamn, baby, you must be fucking desperate".

You inhale sharply. "Eds".

"Mm?" His nose brushes your pulse point, his fingers toying with the waistband of your jeans again, "What’s wrong, sweetheart? You wanna tell me to stop?*"

You should. You really, really should.But your panties are soaked, and he knows it. And the heat pooling in your stomach is unbearable, and if he doesn’t stop, if he doesn’t fix it...

"Or maybe…" Eddie murmurs, pressing a barely-there kiss to your neck, "maybe you wanna let me."

You don’t even think, you just grab his wrist, wrench his hand away from the waistband of your jeans, and drag him through the crowd, away from his confused friends. Eddie barely stumbles before catching up, a low, breathless chuckle escaping him as he follows. "Knew you’d crack, baby," he teases, "Knew you couldn’t hold out on me."

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re too wound up, too frustrated, too needy to play along.

Eddie loves it. "Where we goin’?" he murmurs, lips grazing the back of your ear as he leans in close again, "Backstage? Bathroom? Alley? Fuck, I’ll take you anywhere, baby".

You whirl around, cutting him off with a glare, not saying anything as you shove him through the nearest door. You two stumble into a hallway, barely noticing the stagehand who glances at your passes before waving you through. Eddie is right on your heels, hands already wandering, fingers squeezing at your hips, dragging you back into him as you move. The hallway is buzzing, bands waiting for their turn, pacing, tuning guitars, murmuring nervously as they listen to the performance on stage. You don’t care. You’re barely aware of them. Eddie’s breath is hot against your neck, his hands shameless, teasing, grabbing, squeezing. He’s laughing, husky and wicked, as you drag him along, pushing through another door at random.

A storage room. Big. Cluttered. Dimly lit. Stacks of crates, cases of beer, extra stage equipment shoved into corners. No one’s in here.

That’ll do.

You barely take a second to look around before yanking Eddie into you, crashing your mouth against his as the door clicks shut behind you, muffling the music. He groans into it, low and hungry, his hands already on you, tugging at your shirt, cupping your boob, teasing your nipple through your shirt, his other hand falling down, cupping your ass, squeezing, tugging you up against him. His belt buckle bites into your stomach as he presses close. "Jesus," he mutters, "fuckin’ look at you." You barely register what he’s talking about, until his thumb drags over your nipple again, through your shirt, through your bra, feeling how hard you are for him. You whimper, arching into his touch. "Knew it," he grins, "knew you’d be like this. Gettin’ all worked up out there, pressed up against me, listenin’ to me whisper all those nasty little things in your ear…" He backs you against a stack of crates, a breathless laugh tumbling from his lips as he grabs your hips, grinding into you, letting you feel just how hard he is with his hot lips dragging down your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as his hand slides under your shirt, into your bra, rolling your nipple between his fingers. You arch into him, gasping, pleasure sparking through you like a live wire, "Fuck, Eddie".

"Shh, I know, baby". His voice is all gravel and heat, his breath hot against your jaw.

Your hands move between you, fumbling with his belt, dragging the leather free with a sense of urgency that makes him chuckle. "That desperate for me, huh?"

"Shut up", you gasp, popping the button of his jeans, palming the thick length of him through his boxers.

His head tips back, a low, guttural groan slipping past his lips. But he recovers quick, gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze to his and kisses you, hard and hungry, tongue sliding against yours as his hand drops between your bodies, opening the button of your jeans, slipping inside. His fingers push past the waistband of your panties, finding you soaked, and he groans into your mouth. He teases you, barely-there touches, dipping his fingers between your folds but not giving you enough, his breath ragged as he nips at your lips, "S’this all for me?"

You bite down a moan, hips canting into his touch, chasing more, but he just grins against your mouth, dragging his fingers away before he gives you what you need.

That bastard.

Your annoyed groan turns into a surprised gasp at how he suddenly pushes down your jeans and panties, grabs your naked ass and lifts you up, placing you on the edge of a crate. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling, tilting his head back so you can crash your lips against his, biting at his bottom lip, panting against his mouth, "Fuck me already".

His grip tightens, a low groan vibrating against your lips as he shifts, reaching into his boxers and lining his dick up with you, teasing for just a second before he presses in, sinking into you with a shuddering breath. Your gasp turns into a whimper, your nails raking down his back through his shirt as he stretches you, fills you, claims you in the way only he can. "Fuck," he mutters, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath ragged, "I'm fucking addicted to your pussy, baby".

Your head falls back, you're arching into him , rocking your hips to take him deeper, feeling the way he fits inside you, the way your bodies mold together. "Oh god, give it to me", you gasp, feeling how his fingers grip your waist, guiding your movements, his teeth grazing your throat, sucking a mark there, needing to leave something behind, something to remind you, and anyone else, that you are his.

The music from the stage is muffled behind the door, the bass vibrating through the walls, mixing with the sound of your panting breaths. Everything is hot, rushed, desperate, the heat between you unbearable as Eddie moves faster, rougher, the crates behind you rattling with every snap of his hips. You whimper, nails dragging down his back, pulling him in deeper. "Don’t stop," you gasp, "please, don’t stop".

"Wasn’t planning on it," he growls, gripping your hips tighter, his pace turning relentless, chasing that high for both of you, drowning in you, needing you. "You’re so wet for me," he groans, dragging his lips along your jaw, his fingers digging into your hips, "Been soaked for me all evening, huh?"

You whimper as he thrusts deeper, the stretch making your head spin. "You know I have," you gasp, gripping his shoulders, "'Cause you couldn't keep your fucking hands off".

He chuckles darkly, nipping at your throat before licking over the sting. "Yeah? And look at you now. Fuckin’ takin’ me so good. So tight, baby, squeezing me like you never wanna let me go."

Your head tilts back as he rolls his hips, dragging another moan from you. "I don’t," you gasp, breath hitching as he pounds into you harder, setting a brutal pace, "God, baby, just like that".

His hands tighten on your waist, controlling every movement, making you take every inch of him. "Yeah? You like bein’ fucked like this, baby?" His voice is all gravel and heat, "Pinned up against some dirty storage crates, taking my cock like a good girl?"

You nod frantically, gasping as he thrusts particularly deep, "Yes- fuck yes".

His breath is shaky, his control slipping, and you feel his body tense as he fights the urge to completely lose himself. "Fuck, baby. Can’t wait to take you home," he groans, his fingers sliding under your shirt, toying with your nipple, "Gonna have you ride me nice and slow". A desperate moan slips from your lips, your walls clenching around him at the thought, making him curse. "Jesus, baby".

You breathlessly grin at him, clenching your walls again, making him moan darkly. "You win this battle," you breathe, voice shaking from the force of his thrusts, "and I'll let you do whatever you want to me tonight."

That does something to him. A growl rumbles in his chest, his pace quickening, harder, deeper, each thrust pushing you back against the crates, the impact making them shift slightly, making your breath hitch. His fingers slide up, tangling with yours, pinning your hands against the rough wood behind you, his other arm wrapped around your lower back, keeping you close. "You promise?" he pants against your jaw, his lips brushing your ear, his voice wrecked.

You nod frantically, barely able to form words, lost in the way he’s taking you, lost in the way he’s making you feel, "Anything, Eddie. Anything you want."

His groan is almost pained, his control slipping as he slams into you, chasing that edge, dragging you with him. The sound of skin against skin, the ragged breaths, the whispered curses, it’s all too much. Your body tightens, the pleasure hitting you fast and hard, your nails biting into his arms as you fall apart around him, gasping his name. Eddie follows moments later, his body tensing, a deep moan slipping from his lips as he buries himself inside you, his grip on your hands tightening as he lets go, losing himself completely in you, filling you with his cum.

Neither of you move, your bodies trembling, chests rising and falling in sync. He presses his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven, his fingers brushing over your skin, grounding himself in you.Then, after a beat, he chuckles breathlessly, kissing you again, slow this time, deep and lazy, like he’s savoring every second. "Fuck, baby. That was..."

You smirk against his lips, still breathless, "Yeah. It was."

Another kiss, softer this time, before he pulls back slightly, brushing your hair from your face. "Guess I really gotta win this battle now, huh?"

You grin, still pinned between him and the crates. "You better."

With one last lingering kiss, he helps you adjust your clothes, his touch gentle, his fingers brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing it. Then, with a smirk and a wink, he straightens his own clothes, grabs your hand, and pulls you toward the door."Let’s get back out there," he murmurs, squeezing your fingers, "I got a battle to win."

As you step out of the storage room, you feel the mess he left inside you, the way his cum drips out of you, soaking your panties. You should probably care. But you don’t. Not when Eddie’s looking at you like that as you both leave the storage room, his dark eyes filled with something heavy, something possessive, something that tells you he’s already thinking about the next time. And not when he reaches for you again, unable to stop himself, his big hand sliding over your waist as he tugs you into another kiss, all heat and teeth and shameless fucking adoration. You giggle against his lips, teasing him, but then, he freezes.

And that’s when you see her.

Lauren.

Standing just a few feet down the hall, playing with her drum sticks, preparing for her set with Cherry Burn. But she’s not focused on that, not anymore. No, her eyes are locked on you. On Eddie. On the way you’re both so obviously wrecked, the evidence of what you just did written all over you, the marks on your neck, the smudged lipstick, Eddie’s messy hair, the way his fingers won’t fucking leave your body.

And she hates it.

You can see it in the way her jaw tightens, in the way her hands clench into fists. She’s angry. Jealous, maybe. But all you feel when you look at her, when you really look at her, is disgust.

After everything she’s done. After Billy.After dragging him into this. After making it worse.

She knew what that man did to you. She knew the hell he put you through, and she didn’t care. She still used him, still let him into your world, just to fuck with you. Just to get under Eddie’s skin.

She’s the reason Eddie’s knuckles are bruised again. The reason his jaw is still healing from their latest fight, because she couldn’t let go. Couldn’t let him go. Couldn’t let you go.

And you’re done feeling guilty. Done feeling sorry for choosing Eddie. For falling in love.

Fuck you, Lauren.

You don’t even hesitate. You grab Eddie by the collar and kiss him again, slow, deep, deliberate. You let her watch as you lick your lips, smirking at her, your middle finger slowly rising in the air, flipping her off in the most casual way possible before you turn on your heel and drag Eddie back into the venue. His laughter is hot against your ear, his breath warm as he murmurs, "Jesus Christ, baby, you’re gonna fucking kill her".

"Good.".

By the time you make it back to his friends, the crowd is heated. The current band is actually pretty good, and the energy in the venue is shifting.

But all Gareth, Jeff, and Grant care about is how you and Eddie disappeared for way too long. "You couldn’t wait?" Jeff groans, exasperated.

"Not even for one fucking night?" Gareth throws his hands up. Grant just shakes his head.

"Unbelievable." Eddie, ever the smug bastard, just grins, his arm slung around your shoulders as he tugs you closer. "What can I say, boys? When you got the hottest girl in the place beggin’ for you, you don’t just say no."

You snort, nudging him in the ribs, "I was not begging."

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, "No? Could’ve fooled me, sweetheart."

You smack his chest, laughing, before leaning into him, soaking in the warmth of his body, the comfort of his presence. You’re good here. You’re safe. And you’re dying of thirst. "I’m getting a round," you announce, slipping out of Eddie’s grip, "Try not to get into another fight while I’m gone, yeah?"

"Can’t promise anything," Eddie smirks, earning a look from his friends as you head toward the big bar.

The line is long, people shouting orders, bartenders rushing to keep up. You’re waiting, drumming your fingers against the counter when you hear it, low murmurs, excited whispers. The people around you are getting nervous. You frown, turning slightly, and that’s when you see them.

Greg.

Salva.

Joe.

Matt.

Vanguard's guitarist, drummer, keyboardist and bassist. The band belonging to Rick, who's sitting in the jury. Just casually strolling through the crowd, making their way toward the bar, completely careless to the way people are losing their shit around them.

Greg’s eyes land on you, and you can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to place you. It takes a second, one heartbeat, two - but then it clicks.

His face lights up.

"No fucking way," he grins, elbowing Salva beside him, "Sam?! My birthday twin!"

Heads turn. People are already watching them, whispering, gawking, but now you’re suddenly part of the spectacle.

Greg waves the others over, and before you know it, you’re surrounded by four pretty damn famous rockstars. "Hey, guys, look who it is!" he announces, grinning. "Our favorite one-hit wonder!"

Your face burns. "Greg."

Salva, Joe, and Matt all glance at you, and then - recognition.

"Shit," Salva smirks. "Yeah, I remember you."

"The song," Joe nods, grinning, "That riff, man."

Matt crosses his arms, raising a brow, "And her boyfriend. The one with the hair."

You roll your eyes, "He has a name, you know."

Greg ignores that, still grinning like an idiot, "Dude, we were just talking about you the other day!"

You blink, "You were?"

"Of course we were," Salva shouts, like it’s obvious, "That song you showed us? It was insane".

"Seriously," Joe adds, shaking his head, "Can’t believe you just played that for us like it was nothing."

"Like it wasn’t the best thing we’d heard all week," Matt agrees.

Your heart pounds. You don’t know what to say. You weren’t expecting them to remember you, let alone your song.

Greg slaps a hand over his chest, mock-wounded, "You ghosted us, birthday twin! Thought we had something special! Why didn't you call, huh?"

You laugh, shaking your head, "I did not ghost you."

"You so did!"

"I’ve been busy!"

Greg gasps, "Too busy for your birthday twin?!"

You laugh, throwing your head back, "Oh my God."

Salva chuckles, shaking his head. "So what are you doing here, anyway?"

"Uh." You hesitate. "Boyfriend’s band is playing."

Matt smirks, "The one with the hair."

You groan, "Yes. Eddie."

Joe whistles low, glancing at the stage. "Damn. Ballsy, bringing him here with Rick in the jury."

"Why?" you frown.

Salva shrugs, "He's picky. But relax. If your boy’s half as good as you, he’s got nothing to worry about."

As you stand in line with them, the buzz around you only grows. People start whispering, pointing, a few braver ones stepping forward with napkins, ticket stubs, even guitar picks, asking for autographs. Greg, Salva, Joe, and Matt handle it like pros - grinning, chatting, signing things without missing a beat.

They’re used to this.

You, not so much.

"You get this all the time?" you murmur to Greg as he scribbles his name across a girl’s outstretched wrist.

He smirks, "Part of the gig, Sammie."

The line moves up, and finally, it’s time to order. "Four beers," Salva says, then gestures toward you. "And whatever she’s having."

You start to protest, but Greg shuts you down with a look. "Like we’d let you pay when we invited you to drink with us."

You roll your eyes but accept it. As the bartender pours, Joe leans in, "So, you get some clarity on that whole… band situation?"

Last time you saw them, you didn’t have an answer. You were stuck in limbo, kicked out but not really, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. Now, you know. "I’m out," you say simply.

They all pause.

"Shit," Matt mutters. "For real?"

You nod, grabbing one of the beers from the counter.

Salva frowns. "That’s bullshit."

You shrug. "It’s fine. I’m fine."

Greg watches you carefully, "They’re playing here tonight, aren’t they?"

You hesitate, then nod, "Yeah. Cherry Burn."

Joe snorts, shaking his head. "Figures."

They know what happened. You told them about Lauren. About Eddie. About how it all spiraled. They weren’t fans of it then, and they’re definitely not fans of it now.

"You should be playing tonight," Greg mutters.

"Maybe," you admit, "but I’m not. And honestly? I don’t care."

They exchange glances, clearly not convinced, but you don’t push it. You’re here for Eddie. That’s all that matters.

The beers are paid for, your round included, and Greg helps you carry them, balancing two in one hand like it’s nothing. "Alright. Lead the way. Let’s go say hi to your boyfriend with the hair."

You feel the stares as you move with them, how the crowd parts for you different than before. Eddie is all grins when he sees them, his excitement immediate. He shakes hands, claps backs, trades nods like they’ve known each other for years. "Holy shit!" he laughs, his hand clasping Greg’s, "Didn’t know you guys were coming!"

"Didn’t know you’d be here either," Greg fires back, eyes twinkling, "Guess we’re just lucky, huh?"

His bandmates, though? Jeff, Gareth, and Grant? They’re just staring. Frozen. Mouths slightly open. Because holy shit, you two are casually talking to some of the biggest names in the local rock scene like it’s nothing.

And you, especially you, are laughing, joking, even swaying a little to the music with Joe like an absolute dork. Just effortless. At ease. Like they’re not fucking famous. Like you don’t care. Matt and Eddie fall into conversation about riffs, their shared love for a certain technique. They start air-playing it out, Matt even grabbing Eddie’s wrist, adjusting his imaginary fretting hand as he explains something over the music. Greg nudges you, motioning toward the stage, "Rick’s looking."

Your gaze follows, and sure enough - Rick glances over, still sitting at the jury table. He sees them. His band. And then you. You wave without thinking, grinning, and for a second, just a second, Rick loses some of that cool exterior. Chuckles. Shakes his head before quickly schooling his features again, going back to his straight-faced performance while watching the current band. Still, his eyes flicker back. Checking.

Greg leans in, voice just loud enough over the music, "So, when you gonna call him?"

You hesitate. You haven’t yet. It’s been a week. You’ve been buried in stress and bullshit, barely able to breathe between the fallout with Cherry Burn, Lauren’s drama, Billy’s bullshit, and Eddie getting into another fight over you. You needed time. Needed clarity. And now? You have it. You glance at Eddie, his head tipped back in laughter at something Matt says, completely in his element, his bruised knuckles wrapped around a beer, his whole presence burning with life. Then back at Greg, Joe, and Salva, still hyped over the last riff. "I will," you promise, "Soon."

Greg lifts a brow, taking a sip of his beer, "You sure?"

You nod, firmer this time, "I really want this. I just hope he still helps me."

Greg snorts, like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard, "Are you stupid? Of course he will."

Joe grins, nudging your shoulder, "He talks about you constantly".

"You’re his project now, Sam," Greg adds, smirking, "Like a little prodigy. Big brother feels, y’know? He cares."

"We all do," Salva throws in.

That gets you. Because they mean it. They see you. And they believe in you. Maybe it’s time you start believing in yourself, too.

The moderator strides back on stage, his voice booming through the speakers, cutting through the thick, buzzing energy of the venue. "Alright, everyone, we’re getting closer to the end of the night, but  don’t let that energy drop! Now, give it up for Cherry Burn!"

You freeze, your beer in your hand, cigarette between your fingers, turning to the stage.

The crowd erupts into cheers, whistles, and shouts. They’re excited. Hyped. They don’t know the drama behind the scenes, don’t know that this isn’t the band it was supposed to be.

Eddie’s eyes are on you before you even turn. You feel him step closer, his body just behind yours, a silent, steady presence. Like he knows this is about to be bad. Like he’s ready to catch you if you stumble. Your grip tightens around the beer in your hand, the cigarette between your fingers burning dangerously close to the filter.

You’re fine. You’re fine.

You even manage to lift your hand in some weak attempt at applause. Just being nice. Just habit. You take a nervous puff, letting the smoke coat your lungs, anything to ground yourself.

That’s when you notice. It’s just the three of them.

No new guitarist. Amy has switched out her bass for a guitar, her fingers adjusting awkwardly on the fretboard.

You know she’s not great at it. She knows she’s not great at it.

But it seems they couldn’t find anyone else to replace you in just one week.

Matt exhales slowly beside you, the cherry of his cigarette glowing as he glances at the stage. "This the band?"

You nod, barely moving, your eyes pinned to them as they settle in. Amy shifts, rolls her shoulders. Joanna flexes her fingers over the keys. Lauren twirls a drumstick between her fingers, jaw set, expression unreadable under the stage lights.

Then, they start.

The first few notes hit. Slightly different. Slightly off.

You don’t recognize it immediately. The melody is there, but twisted, like someone took something familiar and tried to make it theirs. You blink, frowning, your brain needing a second to catch up.

Amy steps to the mic, and sings. Her voice echoes through the venue, into your ears.

"Are you aware of what you made me feel?"

Your hands go slack, your beer slips from your grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud, foam spilling over your boots. Your mouth falls open, breath catching in your throat as you listen to the words you wrote.

"What the fuck?"

A pressed voice cuts through the air, the music, just for a second, turning heads. You don't even realize it's your own. Eddie’s hand finds your waist instantly, fingers curling tight, anchoring you as rage surges through your veins. Because they’re playing your song.

The one you wrote.

The one they never wanted to sing.

The one Amy said she couldn’t perform because it was too personal.

And now she’s standing on that stage, singing your fucking pain back at you.

Everything inside you goes still.

The music crashes over you like a tidal wave, each note hitting like a punch to the gut. Your song. Your fucking song. But it’s not your voice singing it. Not your hands playing those chords. It’s Amy, her voice, her presence, her fucking audacity, standing up there like she owns it. Like she understands what it means.

But she doesn’t. None of them do.

Your breath comes short and shallow, pulse hammering in your throat as the crowd cheers, oblivious to the fact that the song they’re hearing was never meant to be hers. It was never meant to be theirs.

A sharp, hot rush of anger floods your veins, so intense your fingers tremble around your beer. You barely register Eddie saying your name, his voice distant, strained with concern. You barely register the way Vanguard has gone quiet, Greg’s smirk long gone, Salva’s easygoing nature wiped clean from his face, replaced with something sharp. Unforgiving.

But what you do register is Rick. Sitting at the jury table. Watching. Recognizing.His frown deepens, and when his gaze flickers to you, you see the moment it clicks. The moment he realizes exactly what’s happening.

You don’t know what to do. You feel sick. Betrayed. Like the floor could cave in at any second, and you’d go right down with it. Because they stole it. They took something from you. Something raw. Something real. Something born from you. And they’re parading it around like it’s theirs. Eddie shifts beside you, his body wound tight, vibrating with tension, touching you. "Sam" he tries again, voice low, urgent, "Baby, say something".

But you can’t. Not yet. Because you’re staring at her.

Lauren.

Behind her drum kit, pretending like she’s just another performer, like she’s not the reason for all of this. Like she didn’t stand there and let them strip you of something so fucking personal just to spite you. And oh, fuck that.

Your jaw clenches so tight your teeth ache, nails biting into your palm. You don’t care that they’re in the middle of their set. You don’t care that people are watching. Your body moves before your mind can catch up. You rip yourself out of Eddie’s arms, stumbling through the crowd, vision blurred with tears and rage, heading straight for the side stage, straight for Rick. Because if anyone is going to stop this, it’s him. Stage lights flash, burning into your retinas, illuminating the thieves standing in front of the mic, basking in your moment.

Your song. Your fucking song.

Your legs shake as you reach the stairs, gripping the railing so hard your knuckles turn white. You don’t care. You don’t think. The only thing that exists is the pounding in your chest, the raw fury clawing at your throat as you try to shove forward, but a solid arm stops you.

A security guard steps into your path, blocking the stairs, his massive frame cutting off your only way up. "Back off", he says, voice firm, unmoving. You blink up at him, panting, face hot, eyes burning.

"That’s my song", you gasp, "They’re stealing my fucking song!"

He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Just shakes his head, impassive. "You’re not allowed on stage".

Your breath stutters. Your fingers tighten on the railing. Your whole body is shaking, and you can’t stop it. "You don’t understand", you choke out, "That’s mine. They stole it. I have to-"

"No".

It’s final. Cold.

You try to shove past him, try to move around him, but his arm extends, effortlessly keeping you back.

You want to scream.

You should be up there. You should be standing where Amy is, gripping your mic, playing your song the way it was meant to be played. Not this butchered version, not this empty imitation from someone who doesn’t even know what the fuck the lyrics mean. Your chest caves in on itself. You glance over the security guard’s shoulder, past the blinding stage lights, and you see him.

Rick. Dark haired, a silver piercing in his eyebrow, tattooed arms resting on the table. Still seated. Still watching. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes - his eyes lock onto yours, dark and sharp and knowing. He sees it. He knows. You take a desperate step forward, but he shakes his head. Not much, just a tiny movement, barely noticeable. But his fingers lift off the table just slightly, a small, silent command.

Wait.

Your hands clench into fists. Your teeth sink into your lip, hard enough to taste blood.

Wait? Wait?!

How the fuck are you supposed to wait while they destroy the one thing you poured your entire fucking heart into?! Tears spill over, hot and fast, streaking down your face as the security guard stands firm, unmoving, sending you away.

Back into the crowd.

Back into the chaos.

Back into the arms that catch you the second you stumble away.

Eddie.

Strong. Solid. There. He yanks you in, pressing his lips to your temple, his grip vice-tight as you sob into his chest. "I got you, baby", he whispers, "I got you".

But it’s not enough. Because the music still plays. And the crowd still cheers.

Your whole body shakes. His arms are tight around you, but they can’t stop the way your chest heaves, the way your breath comes in sharp, painful gasps between sobs. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair, whispering something, maybe your name, maybe some reassurance, but you can’t hear it. All you hear is them. Singing your words. Your pain. Your fucking soul.

And the crowd is loving it. They cheer, they sway, they sing along, like it belongs to Cherry Burn, like it’s just another catchy song on the setlist, some meaningless tune from a band clawing its way to recognition.But it’s not. It was never theirs.

You want to scream. You want to rip yourself away from Eddie, from the arms holding you together, and do something.

But what the fuck can you do? They’re already up there, already playing it, already putting it in the ears of people who don’t know the truth.

And now?

Now, it’s too late.

The realization sinks into your bones like ice. It wraps around your ribs, squeezes the breath from your lungs.

You missed your chance.

This song was supposed to be yours.

Your moment.

And they fucking took it.

Your shoulders shake harder, a fresh sob tearing from your throat as Eddie holds you closer, one arm locked tight around your waist, the other shielding you from the world, from the eyes you know are watching.

Behind him, Vanguard is seething. They followed you, hearts breaking at your tears.Greg’s jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. Matt is muttering under his breath, something furious, something sharp. Salva and Joe stand stiff, eyes locked onto the stage, murderous. Rick is watching too. Still seated, still unmoving, but his fingers are tapping. A slow, deliberate rhythm against the table. Thinking. Calculating.

Eddie catches it. His grip shifts slightly, he's pressing his lips to your temple. "He knows, baby", he murmurs, voice low, barely more than breath. But what does it matter? Even if Rick knows, even if Vanguard knows, the crowd doesn’t. The other three judges don’t.The people in this room will walk away from tonight remembering them. Remembering how Cherry Burn played your song.

Not you.

And just like that... it’s gone.

Your shot. Your song. Your fucking chance. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

The song finally ends, but you barely register it. Another one starts, the band launching into their next number without hesitation, riding the high of the crowd’s energy. The people are into it, nodding along, cheering, vibing like nothing’s wrong. When fucking everything is wrong.

You’re still in shock, still shaking, and even as Greg tries to comfort you, even as Matt joins in, even as Eddie presses a firm, grounding kiss to your temple, nothing helps. Because it’s not just sadness anymore. It’s anger. A deep, seething fury burns through you, crawling under your skin, making your hands tremble at your sides.

You’ve never felt so violated. So utterly betrayed. You look up. You see her.

Lauren, sitting behind her drum kit, grinning at you from across the room. Not just grinning. Fucking smirking. Like she won. Like she’s enjoying this, feeding off your heartbreak, your helplessness, your fury.

Greg stiffens beside you. Matt curses under his breath. Joe and Salva both look ready to storm the damn stage, barely restraining themselves. Even Eddie goes rigid, his hold on you tightening like he has to physically stop himself from lunging forward.

And Rick sees it, too.

He meets Greg’s gaze first, then Matt’s. A wordless conversation passes between them. Quick, subtle, unreadable to anyone who isn’t paying attention. But whatever they’re trying to communicate, whatever Rick is thinking, he keeps it to himself. He doesn’t react. Not yet.

10 minutes later, the set finally finishes.

The moderator steps back onto the stage, microphone in hand, a wide grin plastered on his face. He’s all energy, all enthusiasm, hyping up the crowd, acting like nothing unusual just happened. "Wow! Give it up for Cherry Burn!"

The audience erupts into cheers. Some people whistle, others clap, a few are even chanting the band’s name.

"I gotta say", the moderator continues, laughing breathlessly, "that first song? Damn. What a way to start! That one really hit, didn’t it?" He turns toward the audience expectantly. "Who else loved that one?"

More cheers. More applause. More people praising your song like it belongs to someone else.

Your stomach clenches so violently you think you might actually throw up. Greg lets out a sharp, whispered, "Fucking hell". Joe grips his beer so tightly you swear it might crack in his hand. Matt looks like he’s contemplating throwing his. Eddie exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to keep himself in check as he holds you pressed to his chest, both of you staring at the stage. Rick is still watching. Still waiting.

The judges go next. Kenny Jones of High Voltage Records is the first to speak, nodding along as he offers his thoughts. He likes their energy, their potential. He mentions that they’re missing a solid bass player, suggests they could use a stronger guitarist, but overall, he sees something promising.

Eddie sarcastically snorts behind you. "Yeah, they had a strong one".

Nancy Stone, the "queen of rock journalism", chimes in next. She’s intrigued. She wants to know more about their process, their influences.

Mark Mendoza of The Shakedown adds his own thoughts, echoing some of the same critiques but ultimately agreeing that there’s something there.

Rick’s turn.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. His eyes flicker toward you. How you're staring, tracks of your tears still on your face, surrounded by his band. Just for a second. But that second is enough.

Your heart pounds in your chest, hands tightening into fists at your sides. You’re begging him, praying that he’ll say something, that he’ll call them out, that he’ll do something.

But when he finally speaks, his voice is even. Neutral. He simply comments on their playing. Their performance. Like it’s just another band. Like it’s just another song. Like nothing’s wrong.

Your whole body goes cold. You barely register the way your knees buckle, but Eddie catches you instantly, keeping you upright pressed against him. Joe and Salva aren’t as composed. They immediately turn to Rick, muttering questions under their breath, their voices sharp and accusing, but he doesn’t react. Not yet. Another wave of applause grows as the band turns to leave the stage.

"Before you go". Rick’s voice cuts through the noise, clean and deliberate.

The band stops in their tracks. Amy, still holding her guitar, hesitates. "Yeah?"

He leans forward slightly, resting his tattooed arms on the judges’ table. His expression is unreadable. Calm. Too calm."That first song", he says, "The one with the biggest potential". The air in the room shifts. "Who wrote it?"

Silence.

Amy hesitates, just for a second. In that second, her eyes flick toward Lauren. It’s quick. Barely noticeable. But Rick sees it.

And so do you.

Lauren doesn’t move, doesn’t react, but something in her posture stiffens. Amy turns back, forcing a smile, nodding like it’s the easiest thing in the world, "We did. Together. As a band".

Rick tilts his head slightly, "You did? The three of you?"

"Yeah". Amy clears her throat, still smiling, "We wrote it".

Rick hums, nodding slowly. Accepting. "Tell me, what’s it about? I'd just love to know".

Amy blinks. "What?"

"The song", Rick gestures vaguely, "It’s emotional. Deep. Personal". He leans in just slightly, "So, what’s it about?"

Amy hesitates. It’s brief, barely more than a flicker of uncertainty, but it’s enough.

Rick doesn’t rush her. He doesn’t push. He just waits. And waits.

Amy forces another shrug, "It’s, uh… about someone from my past".

Rick nods like that makes perfect sense, "What happened?"

Amy falters. "Uh..., sorry?"

"You said it was personal", Rick continues, his voice still light, still casual, "What inspired it?"

Amy shifts uncomfortably, Joanna and Lauren exchanging panicking looks as their singer/guitarist continues, "I mean… just, you know. Feelings".

"Feelings?" Rick echoes, "What kind of feelings?"

Amy opens her mouth, but Lauren steps in."Alright", she cuts in smoothly, flashing a tight, practiced smile, "I think we’ve covered enough. Thanks for the feedback".She’s trying to wrap it up. Trying to get out.

But Rick isn’t having it. He leans back slightly, considering. "It’s just interesting", he muses, "That kind of song usually comes from somewhere real". He glances at Amy, "But you don’t seem too sure about it".

Amy stiffens. "I- I am".

Rick raises a brow.

She swallows. Lauren’s jaw tightens. Your heart races. The moderator steps in, clearing his throat, trying to move things along. "Alright, we’re a little tight on time, so let’s..."

Rick ignores him completely. His eyes are locked on Amy, watching her every move, every flicker of doubt, every nervous shift. Amy's breath hitches under his look. Her hands shake, she gulps hard. She knows she messed up. Rick knows it, too.

The entire room seems to hold still, the weight of the moment pressing down on the stage, on the judges, on the crowd. You can barely breathe, gripping Eddie’s arm as you watch Amy struggle under Rick’s gaze.

He raises an eyebrow.

Amy swallows hard. "I mean, I- it's..." She’s scrambling now, her mind racing for a believable lie, but Rick doesn’t give her a chance.

"What’s the first lyric again?", he asks, tapping his fingers idly on the table, "That opening line, what was it?"

Amy blinks.

You see the exact moment panic sets in.

She doesn’t know. She can't remember anymore.

Because it’s not her song.

You suck in a breath, your heart pounding so hard you feel it in your throat.

Lauren, sensing the danger, steps forward, "I don’t see how this is relevant".

"I’m just curious", Rick cuts her off smoothly, "If they wrote it, they should know, right?"

He gestures toward Amy. "So? First line? You just sang it, come on".

Amy stares at him. Lauren’s jaw tightens. The moderator hesitates, glancing between them, clearly unsure whether to step in or let this play out. The crowd is watching, murmurs beginning to ripple through the audience. Even the other judges seem intrigued now, shifting in their seats, their eyes narrowing as they take in the exchange.

Nancy Stone leans forward slightly, fixing Amy with an inquisitive look. "Well?" she asks, "What is the first lyric?"

Amy stammers, "Uh, it’s..." She glances at Lauren, but Lauren doesn’t meet her eyes. Amy’s on her own now. And she knows it. You can almost see her heartbeat hammering in her chest, the way she starts breathing faster, her fingers twitching where they grip the microphone.

"It’s..."

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

The silence stretches. Rick just waits.Calm. Unmoving. Letting the weight of her own lie crash down on her.

The crowd begins to murmur louder now, whispers of uncertainty, of doubt. You hear someone near you say, Wait… does she not know?

Joe exhales sharply, shaking his head. Matt lets out a low, bitter laugh. Greg mutters, "Holy shit" under his breath. Everyone is watching, and that's when Amy breaks.

"I- I don’t remember right now", she blurts out, voice high and thin. Rick’s lips twitch,

"You don’t remember? After writing it yourself, probably going through many different versions, demos, rewriting it over and over again until it's perfect - you can't remember?"

Amy swallows, "I mean, it’s just... it’s been a long night, and I'm very nervous".

Lauren steps in again, her voice sharp and authoritative. "This is ridiculous", she snaps, "We don’t have to prove anything. We wrote it, and that’s that".

Rick exhales slowly, nodding, like he’s considering her words. He turns his gaze toward the other judges. Nancy Stone is frowning now, her arms crossed, eyes flickering between Amy and Lauren with clear suspicion. Mark Mendoza is shaking his head, lips pressed together, like he’s already made up his mind. Kenny Jones just lets out a low whistle. Rick leans back, finally breaking eye contact with Amy, and instead looks toward the moderator. "I think we’ve got all the information we need", he says casually.

Lauren clenches her jaw. Amy looks like she might cry. The crowd is murmuring even louder now, confused, questioning, some people clearly realizing something isn’t right. You finally exhale. Because even if no one outright said it, even if there was no dramatic, screaming confrontation... Rick just showed the entire room that they’re lying. The damage is fucking done.

The silence hangs heavy as Lauren, Joanna and Amy walk off the stage, their heads low, their steps hurried.

No applause follows them. No cheers. Just a strange, unsettled energy rippling through the crowd, whispers spreading like wildfire.

They’ve been exposed, not outright, not explicitly, but enough. Enough that no one’s clapping. Enough that no one’s celebrating them.

The moderator, ever the professional, tries to lighten the mood, letting out a forced chuckle. "Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rick Vaughn that invested before. Maybe we should be worried". A few scattered laughs come from the audience, but Rick doesn’t even blink. He’s still staring toward where Amy just disappeared, his expression unreadable.

The show must go on, though.

And the next band is already being introduced. Band number twelve. The night is almost over.

Eddie’s band is next.

You blink, still feeling lightheaded, still feeling like you’re walking through a fog, but reality is pushing its way back in. You glance around and spot them, his bandmates, standing not too far away. They’d kept their distance, letting Eddie take care of you, but they’d seen everything. Seen you break down, seen how Eddie held you through it, how he kissed your hair and murmured soft reassurances into your skin.

It broke their hearts. But now, it’s time to go.

Fifteen minutes until they're on.

You turn around in his arms, blink up at him, eyes red and sore, your mascara undoubtedly smudged beyond repair. His eyes meet yours.

They call him. "Ed, man, we gotta get backstage".

He knows. He hears them. But he doesn't move. You feel him exhale, the deep, steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. His grip on you tightens just slightly, brown eyes flicker over your face, dark with emotion. His big hand cradles the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently over your temple. He doesn’t want to leave you. He doesn’t have to say it, it’s written all over his face. His dark eyes are still burning, filled with a fury he hasn’t let out yet, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder his teeth haven’t cracked. He wants to break something. Wants to break someone.

You swallow thickly.

He would stay. You know that. He’d ditch the gig in a heartbeat if you asked him to. If you so much as hinted at it. But you can’t let him. You take a breath, push down everything you’re feeling, and shake it off. This isn’t about you anymore. This is his moment.

You shift in his arms, ignoring the way your body still trembles slightly, and cup his face between your hands. His skin is warm beneath your touch, his stubble rough against your palms. His gaze softens just a little, but the anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface. "You need to go", you whisper, the music of the new band almost swallowing your voice.

His brows pull together. "Are you sure?" 

You nod, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks, "I promise".

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his throat bobs, in the way his fingers twitch against you. He doesn’t want to leave you like this. Not after what just happened. You shake off the lingering pain. The heartbreak. The betrayal. Push it all down and focus on him. Because this is his chance. And you won’t let anything take it away from him. You inhale deeply and straighten your shoulders. "Listen to me", you say, voice steady, "You’re gonna go up there, and you’re gonna kill it. You hear me?" His lips part slightly, but no words come out. "You are the best musician I know, Eddie Munson. You were born to do this". You run your fingers through his curls, pulling him closer, pressing your forehead to his. "Go up there, baby, and show them how it’s fucking done".

His breath is shaky. You feel it ghost over your lips. You move, catch his lips for a kiss. Pour everything into it. Your love, your gratitude, your pain, your belief in him. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, his heartbeat a frantic drum against your own. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his. "Thank you", you whisper, your voice barely audible over the crowd, "For not leaving my side". His grip on you tightens. "But now it’s time to do something for yourself", you murmur, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

He exhales shakily, slowly nods.

Vanguard chimes in, Greg even throws an arm around Gareth as they're hyping them up. "Come on, boys! You got this. You’re about to make history, let’s fucking go".

The guys are buzzing, feeding off the energy, vibrating with excitement. They're so ready. And so is Eddie. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. "You gotta win this, okay?", you murmur, "Play how you were fucking born to". His throat bobs. He nods. Reluctantly."I love you so much". He exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a second. Then he nods again, firmer this time. "I love you", you repeat, "I’ll be right here, baby. Watching you win this fucking thing".

"I know", he whispers.

But still, he doesn’t move. Not until Greg steps in, resting a hand on his shoulder, giving him a silent nod. A promise.

We’ll stay with her.

Eddie looks at you again. Like he’s memorizing your face. Then, after one last kiss, one last whispered I love you, he leaves. And you watch him go.