#izzy fic

The summer after graduation was supposed to feel endless, but for you it only felt empty. Friends scattered off to college or jobs, your hometown growing quieter by the week, and you left restless with too much time and too many dreams that didn’t quite fit inside its narrow streets. You wanted music. Not just listening, not just playing a few clumsy chords in your bedroom, but the pulse of it, the heartbeat of an industry you’d only ever glimpsed in magazine pages and shaky VHS concert recordings.

And you had the rarest of inroads: your brother.

Michael Andrew “Duff” McKagan wasn’t just your big brother anymore. He was Duff McKagan—the bassist of Guns N’ Roses, a man your friends had pinned to their bedroom walls, a man whose name rolled off the tongue of every rock journalist in the country. To you, though, he was still the lanky Seattle kid who used to sneak you into basement punk shows. Which made it all the harder to convince him to let you into his world now.

For a long time you had spent your free time indulging in the world of rock n‘roll. It fascinated you and you imagined it was a dream come true to work for the big bands out there like Metallica, AC/DC, Mötley Crüe or Guns N‘ Rose. Going on tour with them, travelling all these countries and doing what you enjoyed working on was all you wanted for your future.

With Duff being your older brother, you recognized the rare opportunity that was given to you, to access first hand backstage experiences from a real world famous rock band.

You wanted to tag along, learn from the people who already worked there and maybe just get a glimpse into the world your brother had been already a big part of.

“I’m serious, Duff,” you’d said one evening at his kitchen table, arms folded tight. “I don’t want to just sit around all summer. I want to learn—amps, guitars, setup, all of it. I want to see how it works for real.”

Across from you, Duff leaned back in his chair, beer bottle dangling between two fingers. He gave you that look—the one halfway between protective brother and exhausted rock star. He knew this was bad. Not you having a dream you were trying to follow but why did it have to be this? Why did you have to want to work in the music industry when this was not a place for a young, pretty girl like you. This wasn‘t the glam and shimmer everyone thought it was “Kid, you don’t know what you’re asking for. It’s not all soundchecks and cool lights. It’s drugs. It’s fights. It’s… ugly, a lot of the time.”

“I don’t care about the parties.” Your voice cracked, betraying how badly you wanted this. “I care about music and I want to work in that field. Don‘t you understand that this could change my life?”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. You could see the fight in him—the instinct to keep you safe from everything he’d already drowned in, clashing with the part of him that knew you’d never forgive him if he said no.

Finally, he set the bottle down with a dull clink. “Fine. You can come. But there are gonna be rules. And you cannot break them otherwise you‘re out!”

Your heart leapt, but you kept quiet, waiting.

“First, no drinking, no drugs! Second, no disappearing! You stick with me or one of the tech guys. And…” His eyes sharpened, voice low and firm. “Do not, under any circumstances, get involved with anyone in the band. Got it?”

You nodded fast, maybe too fast. You’d agree to anything just to get your foot in the door.

He gave you a distrusting look.

“I mean it. You stay away from the guys or you‘ll be going home faster than you can even say guitar, you understand?“ He pointed his finger in your direction, a silent warning.

“Yes I understand. I won‘t even talk to any of them if I can avoid it.“ You brushed him off. It wasn‘t your plan to get close to any of them anyway, you genuinely only cared about the experience and the chance to learn something in the filed you so desperately wanted to work in.

That was how, two months later, you found yourself standing backstage at an arena pulsing with fluorescent light and cigarette haze, trying not to stare at the chaos around you. Roadies barked over the whine of tuning guitars, cases slammed shut, cables coiled like snakes at your feet. It was everything you’d imagined and nothing you could’ve prepared for.

Everyone was roaming around the stage, working on their respective fields to make everything work perfectly for the gig this evening. It was chaos and one of the tech guys had briefly instructed you to work on the amps on the left side of the stage but in all the chaos and people barking orders around you could barely pay attention. You were overwhelmed that was clear and now that guy, Josh was his name, had been wandering off to the other side of the stage after another guy had called for his help, leaving you to finish setting up the amp and syncing the guitars with it.

YOu stared at the sea of cables, buttons and sliders unsure what to do. You knew some basic actually but standing before all of this stuff, much bigger in number and size was numbing. No one paid you any attention either so you just awkwardly tried to fumble with the equippment until a horrible howl rang through the arena. You quickly turned the slider back to it‘s original position and your head shot up, checking if anyone was giving you a harsh look. Fortunately no one around seemed to really care, everyone was too much in their own little world, running around stressed and determined.

That was until you felt a pair of fingers on yours, gently guiding yours over the slider once more but this time without the electrics giving horrible feedback.

Your head shot to the side, eyes falling onto the guy who stood half behind you, leaning slightly over you.

His face was sharp, not overly angular but his narrow jawline and high cheekbones with his slim and straight nose stood out immediately. His eyes were cast downward to their hands, eyelids half lidded, giving him a detached look. He didn‘t seem to care about you at all, just at setting this amp up correctly. His lips were in a straight line, no smile or smirk in sight. Only a cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth loosely. His hair was dark, almost black, shaggy and messy curls hanging just past his shoulders. He wore a white dress shirt with the top buttons open and a bandana loosely hanging around his neck. Everything about him screamed mysterious but with a touch of danger lingering, his calm demeanor and the way he carried himself was confident and your mouth fell slightly agape. This guy, whoever he was, was the embodiment of being cool without even trying to be. You felt like you gravitated toward him and you stared for a couple of moments until his eyes lifted from your hands to your face, studying you silently. Again he didn‘t immediately speak. He took in your expression, giving you a smirk.

“You new here?“ He rasped, taking his cigarette from his lips, knocking off the ashe from the tip.

You swallowed and nodded, your eyes involuntarily dropping to his lips and back up to his eyes. They were a curious color, one you could not define.They were dark and enigmatic, pulling you in even more.

“Uhm y-yeah it‘s kind of my first day here.“ You rambled, trying to not sound too nervous. It was embarrassing really. It was your first day and even though you had some knowledge about technical stuff, in the overwhelming rush of everything around, you seemed to black out completely, and even if no one else noticed your lack of knowledge, this guy apparently had noticed. Why did you have to embarrass yourself in front of him?

“Hm you sure you‘re not a groupie, trying to sneak in?“ He smirked, not buying your excuse. His eyes wandered up and down your body, shamelessly checking you out.

“I‘m not. I‘m here to learn about sound engineering and all.“ You countered with a shake of your head.

“Stop shitting me darling. A sweet, pretty girl like you doesn‘t work in a field like that. And besides, a band like guns n roses doesn‘t bring apprentices on tour.“ His eyes bored into yours deeply, carrying confidence and cheekyness like he already knew he had you wrapped around his finger. His charisma was nearly making you speechless. He didn‘t need to speak much for you to feel attracted to him. And it wasn‘t just his looks either but rather his whole vibe. You couldn‘t understand what it was but the longer you gazed at him, the more you felt drawn to him.

He on the other side seemed unbothered. He just looked at you like you were nothing but a smart girl who somehow managed to sneak into the crew. ANd that bothered you. He was a bit too cocky for his own good you thought. He thought you were a groupie, trying to land with one of the band. If he only knew.

„I’m not shitting you!“ Your words came out sharper than you intended, your tone clipped and cold. You straightened your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his eyes seemed to linger on you like he already had you figured out.

You turned your body back to the amp, giving him the cold shoulder. But for some reason he did not react how you imagined. You imagined some snarky retort, something about him being in a higher position than you. He clearly was part of the band but you didn‘t know who exactly. You weren‘t too familiar with your brothers band yet, at least not the members. Sure you knew axl and slash but the rest was fairly unknown to you.

For a second, he just looked at you, head tilted slightly, cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. You half-expected him to roll his eyes and walk off, but instead, the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Ouch,” he drawled, mock offense softening into a smirk. “Guess I deserved that one. What’d they do, train you to bite back at cocky bastards like me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. He didn’t look angry, didn’t look smug in the way you expected. If anything, he seemed… amused?

“I don’t need training for that,” you shot back, folding your arms, determined not to let him see the way his easy humor chipped away at your irritation.

He chuckled, a low rasp that vibrated through the noise of clattering cases and shouted orders. “Good. You’ll need it around here.” His gaze flicked toward the tangle of crew rushing around, then back to you. He didn’t press further, just let the silence stretch as if he’d already said more than enough.

He then began to turn a few knobs and press a few buttons, setting up the amp with ease.

“So you‘re really a newbie, huh? Didn‘t know we actually served as a test band for rookies now.“ His tone was teasing, no real arrogance behind it. He just wanted to see your reaction. He enjoyed your feisty side a lot he realized. It was different from what women around them usually were like. Not to say he didn‘t enjoy the female attention but it did get boring after a while if they were just following them around, saying and doing anything to please them. You seemed to be more than a mindless groupie just trying to get a piece of one of the guys. Maybe you really were working here.

“Well I‘d assume you‘d get privileges when your brother plays in the band.“ You shrugged, matching his cool, giving him a glance over your shoulder.

“You‘re McKagans little sister? Shit.“ His tone changed and he adjusted his stance next to you, taking a step back.

“Apologies Mrs. McKagan.“ He bowed down in front of you exaggeratedly, making you giggle a little at his antics. He was trying to be polite all of a sudden, no more cheeky jabs at you but his crooked smirk stayed.

“The hell is that for?” you asked with a chuckle.

Izzy exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the smirk curling deeper at your laugh. He straightened but kept that lazy, half-lidded gaze locked on you.

“Yeah, yeah, mock me all you want,” he drawled, flicking ash from his cigarette with a careless thumb. “But we both know if Duff found out I was talkin’ shit to his baby sister—” He made a slicing motion across his throat before grinning. “—I was gonna wake up in a ditch somewhere.”

He took another drag, then nodded toward the amp.

“You actually wanna learn this crap, or just stand there lookin’ cute?” The challenge was obvious, he didn’t believe you could handle it. But there was something else under his tone too… like he wanted to see if you’d prove him wrong.

He shifted closer, not quite touching, but enough that you caught the faint mix of nicotine, leather, and cheap cologne clinging to his shirt collar. His voice dipped, low and rough, just for you:

“C’mon then. Show me what McKagan blood can do.”

Your breath hitched before you turned back to the amp. Determined, you pushed down the nerves bubbling in your chest. Foolish or not, you wanted to prove yourself to him. Sure, he was one of the “big guys” in the band, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? Still, it was your very first day—hell, your very first hour—of this makeshift internship, and already the guy who was supposed to keep you under his wing had abandoned you to help someone else. The chaos made it easy to get left behind, and no one knew what to do with an intern anyway.

So there you were, fending for yourself.

Your fingers reached for the setup, but you could feel Izzy’s breath brushing your neck, which only made your hands tremble harder.

Izzy noticed the slight shake and leaned back just enough to give you space—but not too much. His smirk lingered as he watched you wrestle with knobs and sliders like they might bite.

“Easy, killer,” he murmured around his cigarette, voice gravel and smoke. “Amp ain’t gonna explode if you breathe on it wrong.”

He pointed lazily at a dial.

“That one’s your high-end. Twist it right—yeah, like that—unless you wanted Axl sounding like a pissed-off seagull.” His words dripped with amusement, but there was no real bite. He was actually guiding you now.

A roadie shoved past, nearly knocking you into the stack. Izzy’s hand snapped out, gripping your elbow before you crashed into the gear. His reflexes were sharp, unexpected, and he didn’t let go until he was sure you were steady.

“See? This shit’s why Duff loses hair worrying about ya,” he muttered. “Backstage ain’t ballet.”

You tensed but nodded, focusing on his quiet instructions. It was a lot to take in, but he explained things so clearly that his voice became the only sound you heard, even over the shouting techs and slamming cases.

He glanced at you after a pause, a glimmer of approval in his eyes.

“Gotta give it to ya, sweetheart—most girls I know would’ve already been bitching about their manicured fingers.”

“Like I told my brother already,” you answered firmly, “I wasn’t here for the parties. I was here to work and learn.”

Izzy scoffed, dragging smoke into his lungs.

“Work and learn, huh? In this circus?” His gaze drifted across the chaos, then settled back on you, that smirk tugging wider. “You are either braver or dumber than I thought, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? The way it rolled off his tongue made your stomach twist, though you brushed it off as just his careless charm. Years of getting his way must’ve made nicknames second nature.

“Why is it so hard for you all to believe I genuinely want to work in this field? Is it because I’m a woman?” Your voice sharpened with frustration.

Izzy exhaled another plume of smoke, clearly entertained by your fire. His gaze lingered on you, steady and amused.

“It ain’t the fact you’re a woman, sweetheart,” he said, voice edged with dry humor. “It’s more that most girls around here ain’t exactly interested in the hardware.”

He gave the amp a brief glance, then dragged his eyes back to your face—slowly.

“Well, not that hardware at least.”

You scoffed, shaking your head.

“Yeah, well, I’m not a groupie. I’m not here for YOUR hardware.”

He leaned on the amp, the smirk stretching wider, like he enjoyed how easy it was to rile you up.

“No? You sure about that, sweetheart?” His eyes traced over you again, deliberate and lingering. “You’re pretty to look at, you know. Once the guys noticed you, they’d probably be placing bets on how fast you’d climb into one of their beds.”

“Excuse me?” you snapped, your frown deepening. The bluntness of his words made your skin crawl. The thought of being reduced to some wager between men only repelled you further. You knew better—knew most of them didn’t see women as anything more than disposable. Only your brother was different. He was the one man here you could actually trust. And so, you reminded yourself, it was best to stay away from the rest.

“I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t talk about me like that.”

He raised an eyebrow at your indignant expression, clearly enjoying the way he could stir you up. The smirk never left his lips as he took another drag from his cigarette.

“Why? Can’t handle a little honesty, sweetheart?” he drawled, blowing out a stream of smoke. “It’s just the truth. You’re a pretty girl, all alone backstage with a bunch of rock stars. The math ain’t exactly hard.”

“Just leave me alone and we’ll be alright,” you said firmly. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem here as long as we all keep it respectful.”

Izzy’s smirk widened as if he were about to fire back—until Duff appeared.

Your brother’s tall frame loomed at the edge of the stage, his eyes instantly locking onto you and Izzy. His steps carried him forward with purpose, and Izzy shifted back almost instinctively. It wasn’t that Duff was intimidating—it was the principle of it.

Izzy straightened, snuffing out whatever comeback he’d had in mind. He flicked his cigarette to the floor and nodded casually. “Sup, Duff.”

Duff gave Izzy a look that said more than words ever could before turning to you. His hand lingered on your shoulder protectively. “I see you met my sister already. If he’s bothering you, you tell me, yeah?” His voice was calm, but his tone carried a warning meant for both of you.

Izzy lifted his hands in mock surrender, smirk softening under Duff’s glare. “Wouldn’t dream of it, man. Just showin’ her the ropes.”

But the moment Duff’s attention was fully on you, Izzy flicked one last glance your way—mischief glinting in his eyes—before slinking off toward the side of the stage like a cat with too many lives.

Hours later, when the gear was set and the first show began, you stuck close to Duff’s side. It was safer that way. One of his rules had been no wandering, and honestly, you weren’t ready to test the waters alone yet. Still, you couldn’t ignore the pull of curiosity. These were Guns N’ Roses—your brother’s legendary band. And for some reason, one particular rhythm guitarist had already lodged himself into your thoughts. That dark-haired smirk haunted you more than you cared to admit.

When the lights cut out and the crowd erupted, you found yourself staring. They looked unreal. Whether it was the outfits, the sheer electricity of the stage lights, or just that elusive rockstar aura, they seemed larger than life. One by one they walked on stage, and when Izzy appeared last, he gave you a quick wink before striding into position. Your breath hitched, cheeks burning. Thankfully, he didn’t see—you prayed Duff hadn’t either.

From the stage, Izzy’s eyes swept the crowd out of habit, lingering on women who’d be waiting later. But then his gaze caught you beside Duff, still flushed from that wink. His smirk deepened as his hand tightened around the neck of his guitar.

You tried to focus on the music, but nothing had prepared you for this. Videos and albums didn’t compare to the raw force of them live—their energy was relentless, every note reverberating through your bones. Your eyes shifted between them, but no matter how hard you tried, they kept returning to Izzy. Hair falling into his face, fingers gliding across strings with that unbothered cool. He wasn’t putting on a show like Axl, but he stole your attention all the same.

Izzy noticed. Every time your eyes lingered, every stolen glance. It wasn’t like the others—he could tell. And that made it worse. Or better. He wasn’t sure.

Backstage after the show, you stood with a towel and bottle of water in hand. The first one off stage was Axl, who snagged the drink before you could even react. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he muttered, mistaking you for a groupie. Duff quickly set him straight, snatching the bottle back and snapping at him. Only then did he officially introduce you.

The guys greeted you warmly enough, but Izzy’s gaze lingered longer than anyone else’s. A nod, a smirk—subtle, but it lit your skin all over again. As Duff warned the room, making it crystal clear you were off limits, Izzy leaned against the wall, cigarette dangling between his fingers, watching you in silence. No one else noticed. You did.

And when Duff finally ushered you away, you caught Izzy’s eyes one last time—dark, amused, unreadable.

That was the moment you realized this was going to be dangerous.

Later that night, you crouched on the floor of the stage, carefully winding long coils of cable into neat circles. The venue smelled of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat—the aftermath of a Guns N’ Roses show. Roadies shouted to one another as they hauled amps into cases, the clatter of metal against wood echoing through the hall. You kept your head down, focused on the task, grateful for something to do with your hands.

“Not bad,” came a voice from above you, smooth and amused. “Didn’t think princesses knew how to roll cable.”

You didn’t have to look up to know who it was. His tone was unmistakable. Still, your eyes flicked upward, finding Izzy leaning against a stack of flight cases, cigarette between his fingers, smirk firmly in place.

“I’m not a princess,” you muttered, forcing your attention back to the cord in your lap.

“Sure you’re not,” he said lazily, taking a drag. The ember glowed in the dim light as he exhaled smoke toward the rafters. “Bet Duff’s got a whole list of rules for you, doesn’t he? Stay close, don’t talk to strangers, don’t let Izzy Stradlin corrupt you…” His lips curved wickedly around your name. “Something like that?”

You tightened the cable in your hands a little too hard. “Something like that,” you shot back. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Izzy chuckled, low and throaty, and dropped into a crouch beside you. Suddenly he was much too close, the smell of smoke and leather filling your nose. He reached for the coil in your lap, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “You’re winding it wrong.”

You froze, glaring at him. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are,” he countered easily, looping the cable over his arm with practiced movements. “See? Gotta give it slack, otherwise it kinks. Then the roadies’ll curse your name every night.”

You refused to let him see how flustered you were. “Then maybe you should finish it, since you’re clearly such an expert.”

He tilted his head, hair falling into his face, eyes glinting in the low light. “Maybe I like watching you struggle.”

Heat pricked at your cheeks, but you snapped back anyway. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Izzy said, smirk widening, “but you’re still talking to me.”

For a moment, the noise of the load-out seemed to fade. It was just the two of you crouched over the cable, your brother somewhere across the stage, and Izzy’s hand still brushing too close to yours. His gaze lingered, not mocking now, but intent. Curious.

He kept his eyes on yours, unblinking, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The noise of the party behind the door felt miles away.

“It’s a lot of work, all right,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. “The hours suck. The people suck. The stress sucks. Sometimes the crowds suck. You think those pretty little hands of yours can handle all that?”

You scoffed under your breath, your fingers roaming through the tangled mess of cables, separating them with brisk precision.

“Don’t worry, my hands can handle a lot.” Your tone sharpened with irritation; his constant questioning was starting to grate on you.

Izzy’s eyebrow arched, amusement sparking instantly in his dark eyes. He dragged on his cigarette, letting the smoke drift out slow, curling from his nostrils like some half-lazy, half-dangerous dragon.

“Yeah, I bet they can.”

His gaze flicked down, openly taking in the shape of your hands as you worked, and that damn smirk deepened.

You huffed, heat rushing to your face as you instinctively slapped his arm—not hard, more out of sheer frustration than anything else.

“Not like that, you pervert!”

He laughed outright at that, rough and low, rubbing the spot where you’d hit him as though you’d actually hurt him.

“I’m just messin’ with ya, sweetheart.” He leaned back against the crate, lounging like the world belonged to him. “But seriously—late nights, long drives, shitty hotels, and drunk rockstars who don’t even know what the word no means. You sure you can handle that?”

You shot him a sharp look, rolling another length of cable between your palms.

“As long as you all actually leave me be, I’m good. You’ve got enough female attention on you already, from what I noticed.”

Izzy smirked, lips curling around his cigarette before he blew the smoke off to the side.

“Yeah, guess we’ve got enough groupies to fill a whole arena on their own.” His eyes cut back to you, glinting with something harder to read. “But I got a question for ya.”

You didn’t look up, focusing on the loop of cable as you rolled it tighter.

“Yeah? What’s so interesting about me in your drunk, high state of mind?” you asked, nodding toward the muffled roar of the green room where he’d clearly been celebrating not long ago.

His smirk widened, and he gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

“Hey, I’m not that drunk.” He waved a dismissive hand, though you caught the faint lilt in his voice, the looseness in his words that betrayed at least some truth.

“I was actually gonna ask why you’re still out here sorting cables when everyone else is partying.”

You tied off the coil and dropped it neatly onto the stack at your feet.

“Because the team is still in the middle of packing up for the next show. That’s why.”

Izzy chuckled softly, shaking his head as though the answer was both exactly what he expected and somehow surprising. His gaze lingered, heavy, while you bent down for the next cable, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking.

“Yeah, but why you?” Izzy asked, his tone laced with disbelief. “You could be out there with the rest of them if you wanted. Duff wouldn’t even know—he’s already passed out on a couch somewhere.”

He sounded almost frustrated, like his drunken mind couldn’t wrap itself around the fact that you weren’t like the groupie girls he was used to.

“I told Duff I’m not here for the parties,” you said firmly. “I told him I’d stay away from the drugs, alcohol, sex, and from the band. And I meant it, too. I’m really not here for any of that—even if it’s… interesting. I’d rather stay away from that side of the business.”

Izzy’s eyebrow lifted, his cigarette glowing as he took a long, slow drag. He studied you carefully, as if weighing your conviction.

“You’re serious, huh? Most girls would be fighting each other for a chance to meet a rockstar.”

“Hey, man, I’m just doing my job.” You shrugged, trying to brush him off, your hands busy with another stubborn knot of cable.

“Yeah, your job of hanging cables and working backstage—for the best band in the country?” His voice curled with sarcasm, his smirk cutting sharper. “You just expect me to believe you don’t wanna get in on the fun too?”

“I don’t think I do.” You glanced at him briefly before focusing back on your task. “You’re all very… I dunno. I don’t think it’s a good idea to get too close to any of that.”

Izzy’s smirk returned, slower this time, amused by your hesitation.

“Yeah? Why not? Afraid you might like it?”

He flicked his cigarette into an empty bottle he‘d brought out with him, never breaking eye contact.

“Afraid of what might happen to me, more like,” you muttered under your breath. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but in the quiet of the corridor, he caught every word.

His smirk softened slightly, replaced by something more calculating. He exhaled through his nose, slower now, less amused.

“Smart girl,” he murmured. He couldn‘t help but admire your conviction a little. He knew all too well what he was doing and you knew it too. That was rare.

There was a pause—heavy, almost fragile. Then, quieter:

“Guess I’ll have to keep my distance too.”

“Yeah, you better,” you shot back, even as your hands fumbled with the cable. “You’re slowing me down.” You retorted flatly.

He chuckled, shaking his head at the defiant tilt of your chin.

“Such a hard worker…” His voice was lazy again, teasing, though his eyes followed your every movement. “You’re gonna burn yourself out.” He joked.

“I’m actually enjoying this,” you replied, looping another cable. “It’s tedious, sure, but it’s part of the job I want to learn. I don’t mind it. So unless you wanna help me, you should head back and keep celebrating the successful show.”

Izzy’s chuckle was rough, genuine. He tilted his head, clearly entertained by your stubbornness.

“You really think I’m gonna leave you here by yourself, working, while everyone else is getting drunk as hell up there?” He raised a brow, waiting for your answer. “I don’t think so, princess.”

“Why not? You can’t tell me this is more entertaining than being up there.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the nearest crate, looking perfectly at home in the shadows.

“Nah, princess. You’re way more interesting than watching Axl try to fight Slash again.” His smirk deepened a fraction. “Besides… I get bored easy. You’re at least keeping me entertained.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“I’m sorting cables. What’s so exciting about that?”

He shrugged, taking a step closer.

“It’s not really the cables that have got my attention.”

His eyes flicked over you, slow and deliberate—taking in your features, the stubborn set of your shoulders, the way your nimble fingers moved over the wires with focused determination. There was something almost mesmerizing in how you kept at it, refusing to be shaken. He let himself stare a beat too long.

“Well, thanks for the flattery,” you said flatly, “but I’m not interested. You can focus on other things.”

Izzy’s laugh was low, almost disbelieving.

“You know, you’re the first girl in a long time to actually say no to me. Most girls would’ve thrown themselves at me by now.”

He shook his head, grinning at the thought.

“You’re interesting, princess. I kinda like it. But you should also know…” His tone dropped, softer, more deliberate. “…I’m only more determined now.”

“I’m not a princess,” you snapped, rolling your eyes, frustration bleeding into your voice. Who did he think he was? Sure, he was a rockstar, but that didn’t mean he could just pursue anyone like it was a game.

Izzy only grinned wider, clearly entertained by your irritation.

“Yeah? What should I call ya then?” He tilted his head, dark eyes glinting with amusement.

“I don’t know why you’d need to call me anything at all. I’m part of the crew. Don‘t think you know the names of all the crew members?” you said, knowing full well he didn’t. With nearly a hundred people working for the band, it was impossible.

“Come on—don’t you think I should at least know Duff’s baby sister’s name?” he pressed, his smirk crooked. “Out of respect, at least?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you bent back to the cables, willing the conversation to die. You were already breaking Duff’s rules just by talking to him, but you didn’t want to be flat-out rude either. He hadn’t crossed any serious lines—yet.

Izzy watched in silence for a long moment, then finally pushed himself off the crate. He lit another cigarette, inhaling deep before exhaling smoke through his nose. He knew when to step back, but that didn’t mean he was done. If anything, you’d only piqued his interest further. He’d never been this intrigued by someone backstage before, and he liked it. He could be patient if he wanted something—and he wanted this.

“All right then,” he said at last, his voice soft but laced with promise. He gave you one final look—half amusement, half something heavier—before turning toward the noise of the party. “Don’t work too hard, princess.”

Before he walked off, you spoke up suddenly.

“Thank you, by the way. For earlier. With the amp. I-I learned something from you,” you said softly, your head turning toward him almost against your will.

He paused mid-step, glancing back at you with that same slow, unreadable smirk. The dim light caught on the sharp line of his jaw, cigarette smoke curling lazily around his face.

“Yeah?” His voice was quieter now, stripped of its earlier teasing edge. “Anytime.”

For a moment, he seemed almost thoughtful—like he was holding back something heavier, something he didn’t often show. But then, true to form, he couldn’t resist twisting it back into a tease.

“Maybe I’ll teach ya more sometime… if you ask nice enough.”

With that, he finally turned away, the smoke trailing behind him like a ghost of his presence. The roar of the party upstairs pressed faintly through the walls, but it felt far away, muted. What lingered instead was the imprint of his attention, still burning hot on your skin long after he’d gone.

next part.