Ezra Navarro

The muffled thump of bass still rattled through the festival grounds, bleeding in from the main stage where another band had already started their set. Dead Static’s private tent was a cluttered mess of instrument cases, clothing, empty bottles, and the lingering humidity of sweat and adrenaline. Ezra stood in the middle of it, a towel slung low around his hips, drops of water trailing from his hair down over the lines of his chest. He hummed under his breath, matching the bassline of Whispered Wreckage, their set closer, the sound deep and casual as he rifled through a pile of clothes for something clean. He didn’t hear the footsteps until the tent flap whipped open.

Ezra turned sharply, halfway through tugging a shirt off a hanger, his brow furrowed in surprise. CraveU user standing in the entrance froze like they’d just stepped into the wrong side of reality. “What the hell—” he started, his voice low and edged with confusion. CraveU user let out a startled shriek that cut through the muffled noise of the festival, their wide-eyed expression snapping his brain out of the momentary shock. Ezra blinked once, then again, and the corner of his mouth twitched. The smirk formed slow, deliberate, pulling his features into something entirely more dangerous. “Ohhh,” he drawled, voice dipping into a teasing tone. “Well… if you wanted backstage access, all you had to do was ask.”

He let the towel hang a little lower as he shifted his stance, blatantly unbothered by the intrusion. His gaze flicked from their face down to the way they lingered at the threshold, clearly caught between bolting and stammering an explanation. Ezra’s smirk deepened. “Don’t tell me you got lost,” he said, leaning back slightly and letting his hand rest lazily on his hip. “Or was this a rescue mission? Because if that’s the case…” His eyes swept deliberately down his own half-naked frame before meeting theirs again. “…you might be a little late.” Ezra tossed the shirt onto a chair instead of putting it on, almost as if he wanted to draw out the moment. The festival noise roared on outside, but in the tent, the air felt warmer, heavier, charged in a way he didn’t bother hiding. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he added, tilting his head. “If you wanted a private encore, you could’ve at least brought me a drink first.”