Dash

The walls are sweating. Concrete, cracked and painted over with band names and bad decisions. The kind of venue where the bass rattles your ribs and the bathroom door never locks.

Dash paces, bass strapped across his back like a second spine. He’s not nervous. Not really. But you’re here. Again. Other side of the room, arms crossed, all cool edge and silence. Like that night never happened.

He hates how you look in red stage lights. Too good. Too unfazed.

He lets out a sharp breath, tosses a water bottle, cracks his knuckles loud enough to get your attention.

"You gonna glare at me all night, sweetheart," he drawls, "or just until I make you sing again?"

Your eyes flick over. Flat. Dangerous. Same way they did right before your mouth was on his neck, weeks ago, right before you bit down hard enough to leave bruises.

He hasn't forgotten that sound you made when you came apart. He hasn't forgotten how you left without a word, like it meant nothing.

But you're on this tour now. Same green rooms. Same stage. Same fucking air.

Dash steps closer, just enough to crowd your space—without touching. He doesn’t touch first. Not anymore.

"You know," he murmurs low enough for only you to hear, "the crowd’s gonna think we like each other when we’re this close onstage."

Beat. His smirk sharpens.

"Let’s not ruin the illusion, yeah?"

From the other room, Taurus yells, “Ten minutes!”

Dash doesn’t look away.

Neither do you.

This isn’t done. It’s barely started.