✧.*

The air in the hotel suite was thick and hazy, a permanent fog of cigarette smoke, cheap weed, and the lingering ghost of spilled Jack Daniels. It was 2 a.m., and the roar of the crowd from the night’s sold-out show had finally faded, replaced by the low hum of the city below and the distant, muffled snores of Steve from the master bedroom. The party had wound down, the groupies had been shooed out by a stern-looking Darry, and now the place was a landscape of empty bottles, discarded clothing, and the quiet exhaustion that follows a storm of noise and adrenaline.

You found him, as you often did, in the en suite bathroom of the room you shared. The sharp, chemical scent of bleach cut through the fog of smoke, a familiar and almost comforting smell by now. Dallas Winston was perched on the closed lid of the toilet, his broad shoulders slumped slightly, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes, usually so sharp and challenging, were heavy-lidded and soft with a pleasant, tipsy buzz.

"Took you long enough, baby," he mumbled around the cigarette, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that was even deeper after a night of screaming into a microphone. It was the voice that sent thousands of girls into a frenzy, a sound that was pure, unadulterated rebellion. For you, it was just Dallas. Your Dallas.

"You're the one who decided now was the perfect time for a root touch-up," you chided softly, setting down the box of bleach and the little mixing bowl. You gently plucked the cigarette from his lips and took a drag yourself before stubbing it out in the overflowing ashtray on the sink. "You're gonna fry what's left of this straw you call hair."

He grinned, that infamous, crooked, heart-stopping grin that sold a million records and broke a million hearts. "Nah. Not with my girl doin' it. You got the magic touch."

He reached for you, his hands—adorned with a few cheap, chunky rings—settling on your hips. They were strong, calloused hands that could handle a guitar with brutal force or trace the line of your spine with a shocking tenderness. You let him guide you, settling yourself sideways on his lap, your legs draped over his. The position was intimate, domestic in a way that was entirely at odds with the chaos of his public life. His head rested against your chest, and you could feel the steady, solid thump of his heart through your thin shirt.

"Alright, you filthy mutt," you whispered, your fingers carding through the top of his hair, where the dark, almost black roots were stark against the badly-done, fried blonde. "Hold still."

He let out a low, contented hum, his eyes drifting shut as you began to section his hair, applying the cold, thick bleach mixture with the tinting brush. His arms wrapped more securely around your waist, holding you close. The bathroom was silent save for the soft scratch of the brush and his slow, even breathing.

"You were wild tonight," you commented, working the bleach into the stubborn line of his parting. "I thought you were gonna break the mic stand during the last song."

"Felt like it," he rumbled, his voice vibrating against you. "Crowd was electric. Saw you, though. Standin' right where Darry put you, off-stage left. Even when it's a sea of screamin' faces, I always see you."

It was true. Through the sweat and the noise and the adulation, his eyes would always find you. It was his anchor. He’d wink, or give a slight, almost imperceptible nod, a secret message just for you in the middle of the public spectacle.

He nuzzled his face into the soft fabric of your shirt, his nose brushing against the skin of your collarbone. "Smell good. Like you. Not like all that… perfume and desperation out there."

You smiled, continuing your methodical work. "You flirt with them enough."

"It's part of the show, baby," he said, tilting his head back to look up at you. His eyes, even hazy with drink, were intensely focused on yours. "You know that. It don't mean a damn thing. They can look. They can even talk. But this?" One of his hands slid from your waist, down over your hip, his thumb pressing a hot, possessive circle into the bone. "This is all you. Always you."

You believed him. You’d seen it firsthand. A girl would get too handsy backstage, her fingers trying to trail down his chest, and his own hand would snap up, gently but firmly moving hers away, putting a clear, cold inch of space between them. "Hands off the merchandise, sweetheart. The manager's got a strict policy," he'd say, his tone light but his eyes leaving no room for argument. Darry was never the manager in those moments; it was always you.

You finished applying the bleach, covering the dark roots with the white paste. You set the bowl aside and wiped your hands on a towel, then wrapped a piece of foil over the section. Your fingers, now clean, traced the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble.

"All done. Now we wait."

"Good," he murmured, his gaze darkening, the playful glint shifting into something hotter, more primal. The tipsiness seemed to amplify his intensity, stripping away any remaining inhibitions. His hands on your hips tightened, urging you to shift, to straddle him properly on the toilet seat. The new position pressed you flush against him, and you could feel the hard, eager line of him through his jeans.

"My own personal groupie," he teased, but his voice was rough, lacking its usual mocking edge. It was pure want.

"I'm not a groupie," you corrected, leaning in until your lips were a breath from his. "Groupies don't get to do your roots at two in the morning."

"No," he agreed, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. "They don't. They don't get any of this."

He closed the small distance, capturing your mouth with his. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was all Dallas—demanding, tasting of whiskey, and the faint acid bitterness of cigarettes. It was messy and deep and possessive. One of his hands came up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you in place as he plundered your mouth, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

You melted into him, your own hands sliding over his shoulders, feeling the corded muscle there, the familiar leather of his vest cool under your palms. He broke the kiss, his breath hot against your skin as he trailed his lips down your jaw to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there, sure to leave a mark. A mark that said Property of Dallas Winston. You hoped it would.

"You're gonna mess up the bleach," you breathed, though you were arching into him, offering more of your neck.

"Let it get messed up," he growled against your throat, his hands sliding up under your shirt, his rough palms scorching a path up your back. "Ain't nobody gonna see me tomorrow anyway. Gonna keep you in this room, in that bed, all damn day."

His words sent a thrill through you. This was the real Dallas, the one the screaming fans never saw.

He pulled back slightly, his chest heaving, his eyes searching yours. The foil in his hair crinkled comically, a stark contrast to the raw hunger on his face. "I love you, you know," he said, the words quiet but fierce, like a secret sworn in the dark.

You cupped his face, your thumb stroking over his cheekbone. "I know, Dal. I love you, too. Even with your fried hair and your terrible timing."

He gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh, the sound echoing in the small, steamy room. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, a deep, soul-searing kiss that promised the night was far from over. The bleach could process, the world could wait. Here, in this messy bathroom that smelled of sin and chemicals, sitting on his lap with his arms locked around you like you were the only solid thing in his spinning world, was exactly where you were both meant to be.