#izzystradlin

I found this on YouTube:

Authors Note:

Part II of the requested by the lovely @criminalyetminimal. So here goes the next par and I am almost ashamed to tell you guys that it will also get a third part because I can never keep anything short.. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Pairing : Izzy Stradlin x Duffs Sister Reader

Summary : You just finished school. But what now? You decide to try and take the chance to to talk to your brother to help you out find your future career. You eventually find yourself between a bunch of guys that without a doubt would all like to get you to their bed probably. You are not interested in that though, you focus on work. But that damn rhythm guitarist won´t leave your head and on top of it all he just never stops approaching you.

Rating : Mature, Adult Content

Warnings : none

Words : 5.3k-ish

The days bled together quickly. Tour life had its own strange rhythm, a constant loop of long bus rides, soundchecks, hurried meals, and nights that ended with stadiums vibrating under the weight of screaming crowds. At first it was overwhelming, too loud, too fast, too much, but slowly, you began to adjust. The chaos became background noise, a blur that you learned to move through as you worked.

Your world narrowed to the crew. They were the ones you shadowed, the ones who taught you how to coil cables the “right way,” how to handle delicate gear without offending the sound guys, how to dodge the endless mess of empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and groupies that trailed behind the band like shadows. You saw Duff the most, of course—he checked in constantly, his watchful eye never straying far.

But the others were harder to avoid, even though you tried.

One night, you were hauling mic stands offstage after soundcheck when Slash appeared, sunglasses still on even though the sun had long since dropped. He leaned lazily against an amp, watching you struggle with the awkward weight.

“That’s heavy work for a pretty girl,” he drawled, his words slurred ever so slightly, though you couldn’t tell if it was from drink or his natural, unhurried cadence. He bent down, steadying the stand in your hands with surprising gentleness before brushing his curls out of his face. “You sure you wouldn’t rather be up front, in the crowd? That’s where most girls are.”

You forced a smile, brushing him off with a muttered thanks, but he lingered, grinning, clearly amused by your refusal to play along.

A few days later, after a show in Dallas, you found yourself crouched beside the drum kit, winding cables while the crowd’s screams still echoed faintly from the emptying arena. That was when Steven plopped down next to you, sweat dripping from his blonde hair.

“You’re too serious,” he laughed, nudging your arm playfully. “Come on, lighten up. You gotta dance, not just work.”

He snatched one of the cables from your hands and swung it around like a lasso, nearly knocking over a cymbal stand in the process. You couldn’t help but laugh at his ridiculousness, though you quickly grabbed the cable back before it turned into a disaster. He grinned at the sound of your laugh, looking smug, like he’d won something.

The longer the tour stretched, the more you noticed it—how the band seemed to orbit around you when Duff wasn’t nearby. They didn’t do it in groups; never all at once. Always one at a time. Always casual. Always careful.

Even Axl, who you’d assumed barely noticed your existence, cornered you once outside the catering tent. He lit a cigarette with a snap of his lighter, exhaling smoke in your direction before glancing down at you with that sharp, assessing look of his.

“Funny,” he said, almost to himself. “I’ve seen girls chase us for miles, but you? You don’t even look.” His voice was low, carrying a note of intrigue that made you shift on your feet.

You shrugged, muttering something about being busy, and walked away before his stare burned a hole through you.

It wasn’t that you wanted their attention. You didn’t. But it was impossible to ignore the way it felt—the weight of it. These men had a pull on women everywhere they went, and yet, for some reason, they kept drifting toward you. It was flattering, unnerving, and confusing all at once.

And then, there was Izzy.

He didn’t appear as often, and when he did, it wasn’t with loud jokes or clumsy flirting. He seemed to slip into your orbit quietly, like smoke curling under a door. He’d watch, linger, help without being asked. Sometimes he didn’t even speak. Just his presence alone was enough to rattle you in a way the others couldn’t.

You told yourself you didn’t want the attention. You reminded yourself of Duff’s rules, of why you were here in the first place. But every night, when the party raged upstairs and you worked in the quiet backstage corners, you couldn’t shake the feeling that a pair of dark eyes were always searching for you.

By now, you had settled into the rhythm of tour life. Long days of hauling, checking, and organizing backstage equipment had become almost meditative, and the chaos of roadies rushing, amps humming, and the distant roar of the crowd was part of the background soundtrack you could navigate with ease. Duff stayed close, of course, always hovering just enough to make sure you weren’t left vulnerable among the band and their usual entourage of groupies.

He knew the other guys well—knew how they operated, how they chased and teased behind his back when they thought no one was watching. He didn’t need to keep constant tabs on them; the warning in his tone alone often did the trick. But he always watched you. Every time someone lingered too long near you, a smirk too suggestive, a joke too intimate, Duff was there, subtle but sharp, intercepting with a comment, a gesture, or a guiding hand.

Except Izzy.

You noticed it long before you fully understood it—Duff let his guard down whenever Izzy was around you. Not completely, of course, but enough that Izzy could move freely in your presence without a single raised eyebrow or cautionary word. And it wasn’t just because Izzy was quieter, or calmer, or more about the music than the circus. It wasn‘t like Duff trusted him but he knew Izzy didn’t chase after every girl who crossed his path. He knew, in his quiet, effortless way, Izzy wasn’t like the others. And so he worried less about Izzy around you.

And that was exactly why you were drawn to him.

He didn’t glare at you with lust or force conversation. He didn’t swagger through backstage, tossing a flirtatious comment here or there like the others. He worked, he played, and sometimes, when no one else was looking, he lingered near you. Just close enough for you to feel his presence, to notice the small, easy details—the way he adjusted an amp with expert hands, the faint curl of smoke drifting from his cigarette, the calm assessment in his dark eyes.

And it pulled at you.

But the tour had its lessons. You had already seen how the girls clung to the other band members, trailing behind, laughing, leaning in—overly eager and oblivious to the world outside the tour bubble. You didn’t get it. You were here to learn. You were here to work. And yet… you couldn’t stop the tiny twist in your chest each time a girl draped herself over Izzy’s arm, even for a fleeting second.

It wasn’t just jealousy—it was something more complicated. A combination of frustration and fascination, of admiration and a spark you refused to name. You told yourself it was just your imagination, that you were reading too much into nothing. But each night, the feeling pressed a little harder, a quiet ache in your chest that you carefully tucked away under your work gloves and the routine of coiling cables and checking amps.

Sometimes, when the rest of the band raged backstage in their private rooms, you’d catch Izzy slipping past, quiet and purposeful, moving among the shadows with an ease the other boys couldn’t manage. He wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and yet, when he did, it was measured, deliberate, and always carried the faintest pull of something unspoken. You liked that. More than you wanted to admit.

And Duff, busy making sure no one crossed any lines, never noticed. He didn’t see the stolen glances, the quick tension in the air when Izzy appeared at the same time you needed him for something technical. He didn’t know the way you lingered a little longer on Izzy’s presence than you did on anyone else. And somehow, part of you wanted to keep it that way.

Because no one could touch him—not even Duff’s watchful eyes.

Halfway through the tour—weeks later—everything had more or less settled into a rhythm. You worked each day, keeping your head down and staying out of trouble, turning down every one of the band members’ attempts to charm you. It was almost like you were immune to them.

Almost.

Except when it came to Izzy.

Something about him intrigued you in a way you couldn’t quite explain. He was different—quieter, more elusive. There was a calm around him that set him apart from the chaos of the others. You told yourself it was curiosity, nothing more.

You still avoided the after-show parties, though. Most nights, you’d help the crew finish packing up and then disappear before Duff could herd you off to bed like a kid. But tonight, you’d slipped outside—seeking a few minutes alone and a little bit of air that didn’t smell like beer or sweat.

Perched on one of the amps behind the venue, you lit a cigarette, shielding the flame with your hand. You inhaled, the smoke curling in your chest, warm and grounding. You didn’t smoke often—it was a secret habit, something you’d never admit to Duff. He’d lose his mind if he knew.

Of course, that’s exactly when Izzy showed up.

He stepped out from the shadows near the back door, a faint orange glow from the stage lights catching in his hair. For a moment, he just watched you—quietly amused—as you exhaled a slow stream of smoke.

“You know,” he said at last, voice low and lazy, “I’d never have pegged you as a smoker.”

You almost squeaked, jumping off the amp and shoving the cigarette behind your back like a guilty teenager. He was already smirking, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes full of that knowing, teasing light.

Izzy chuckled under his breath.

“No use hiding it, princess. I already saw you.”

You sighed, realizing how pointless it was to pretend. The cigarette hung loosely in your hand now.

“Yeah… don’t tell Duff. Please.”

His smirk softened a little.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he murmured, fishing a pack from his pocket. “Long as you share.”

You gave him a look. He had packs stuffed in every pocket, yet somehow he wanted yours. Still, it was better than him snitching.

“Fine,” you muttered, taking one last drag before handing it over.

His fingers brushed against yours—deliberate, slow.

“Smart girl.” he said, taking a drag of his own. Smoke curled from his lips as he looked at you through it, something almost curious in his gaze.

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

You exhaled softly, humming. “Yeah?”

He tilted his head, watching the cigarette burn down between his fingers.

“Why the secret?” he asked. “Why hide it?”

You scoffed quietly, glancing down at your shoes.

“Because if Duff finds out, I’m on the next flight home. And besides…” You sank back down onto the amp. “I don’t smoke often. Just… sometimes, when I wanna wind down.”

He took a slow step closer before sitting beside you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of smoke and leather.

“Fair enough,” he said with a shrug, eyes still fixed on you. “Didn’t take you for the type to break rules. Never knew pretty girls could have such dirty little secrets.”

You laughed under your breath, taking the cigarette back.

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly a rebel. Not really.”

He chuckled, low and warm.

“Yeah, you’re a good girl, huh?”

You shot him a look but didn’t answer. He leaned back on his hands, the glow of the cigarette painting his face in amber light.

“No wild parties, no drugs, no drinking?” He paused, smirking. “No boyfriends?”

“No. None of that,” you said quietly. The night air was warm, the stars sharp against the black sky. “I’m not really interested. And even if I was, Duff would kill me.”

Izzy laughed softly.

“Sounds a little… boring.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe to you it does. But I like it. I see what you guys do every day. You don’t even try to hide it.”

He leaned back again, elbows resting behind him, watching you thoughtfully through the drifting smoke.

“So you’re just gonna pass on all those wild nights forever?” he asked, half-curious, half-teasing. “No boyfriends, no partying, no fun, no nothing? Sounds kinda depressing, princess.”

“Yeah… if it means I can keep working here and get my foot halfway in, yes. Plus, I get to see the world like this. It’s worth it.”

He was quiet for a moment, just studying you with those piercing black eyes. Then, suddenly:

“Alright, princess. I’ll make you a deal.”

“A deal? What deal?”

He smirked, sitting up a little straighter and leaning in closer—just enough to make you feel his presence more keenly.

“You let me show you what all the fuss is about—just once—and if you still wanna be Duff’s perfect little sister after that, I’ll leave you alone for good.”

His voice dropped lower. “Deal?”

“I can’t. I’m not gonna risk it. Thanks for the offer, though,” you replied quickly, though your tone stayed soft. After a moment, you turned your gaze back to him and handed the cigarette over. “Can I ask what it is about the partying and all? Has it always been like that for you?”

He took the cigarette from you and exhaled slowly.

“Yeah, more or less.” He shrugged. “This scene ain’t for the faint of heart, princess. We like our booze and our drugs. It’s how we’ve always lived—and it’s how it’s gonna stay.”

He turned to look at you again, his gaze lazy, unguarded under the stars.

“Can’t get what we need from a life of purity and hard work, you know?”

“That’s awful,” you whispered softly, the innocence in your tone slipping through before you could stop it.

That made him pause. His eyes softened a little as he looked at you, taking in how genuine you were. It was almost foreign to him—your honesty, your sweetness. He found it… endearing.

“It ain’t that bad,” he murmured, half-teasing. “Sure as hell better than being bored.”

“Don’t you ever get… fed up?” you asked quietly, curious.

He scoffed, like the thought was absurd.

“No.” He smirked. “Why would we? We get money, booze, girls—pretty much whatever we want. What’s not to like?”

You turned your gaze forward again, watching the horizon fade into the dark. You couldn’t imagine that kind of life ever feeling fulfilling. Maybe for a while, sure—but forever? It just sounded empty. Still, who were you to tell him that?

You didn’t realize how long you’d gone silent until his voice broke through your thoughts.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked gruffly.

Your head snapped toward him. “I was just… trying to understand how you guys do it. I mean, hearing you say you love it—it’s hard to imagine. Doesn’t it ever get too much sometimes? Don’t you ever want to just… get away?”

Izzy was quiet for a long moment, staring at the glowing end of his cigarette like it might hold the answer. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose—half amused, half thoughtful.

“Yeah… sometimes.” His voice had softened. “But what else is there to do?”

A beat passed. His eyes flicked to yours before looking away again, like he didn’t really expect you to understand.

“You do?” you pressed gently. “You feel like sometimes it’s too much to take? Too loud?”

Izzy exhaled slowly, flicking the ash off with a lazy motion.

“Everyone’s got their limits.” His tone was low, rough around the edges—like he wasn’t used to admitting this kind of thing. “Just… ain’t many places left that don’t feel like that.”

His dark eyes found yours again—sharp, searching. Like he wanted to see if you really got it. Maybe you were one of the few who might understand without him having to spell it out.

You hummed softly, watching him as the cigarette burned down to the filter. He’d smoked nearly all of it himself, and you almost sighed—you would’ve liked one more drag.

He caught the look and raised an eyebrow.

“You want another one?” he guessed, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Oh, uh… I don’t have one with me right now. Snuck this one out,” you admitted with a nervous laugh.

He chuckled, reaching into his pocket. “Lucky for you, princess. I carry plenty.”

He pulled out a pack, tapped one free, and held it out toward you.

“Come here.”

The command was quiet, but it was definitely an order.

You hesitated, glancing between him and the pack, before taking one and holding it loosely between your fingers. You studied him for a moment before placing it between your lips. As you fumbled for a lighter, you heard the click and felt the warmth of a flame near your skin.

Your eyes lifted, meeting his.

You leaned in, lit your cigarette from his flame, and exhaled slowly into the cool night air.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He watched you the whole time, his gaze lingering on your face—your mouth, your lips. There was a quiet satisfaction in his expression as he watched you take that first long drag, eyes fluttering closed, the faint sound of your exhale dissolving into the night.

“You’re welcome, princess.”

He lit his own cigarette before shoving the pack back into his pocket, leaning against the wall in a lazy slouch.

The two of you sat in quiet silence for a while, smoking in the warm night air. It wasn’t awkward or forced—just easy. Neither of you felt the need to fill the space with words, and you were oddly grateful he didn’t try to flirt or pry. It made you feel more comfortable around him than you’d expected to feel around any of the guys. Then again, you’d known from the very first time you met him that Izzy was different—from the rest of them, from most men in general.

Despite the silence, your thoughts wouldn’t stop circling him. There was more to him than met the eye. He was layered, more than his laid-back, detached demeanor suggested. He was quiet and thoughtful, but not shy or uncertain. The more time you spent around him, the more you admired him for it.

Izzy, on the other hand, was hyper-aware of you. Every small shift, every quiet inhale, every flick of your fingers as you tapped the cigarette—it all drew his attention. He wanted to reach out, just once, to see how your skin might feel beneath his touch.

He’d been around women all his life, and plenty had pulled at his attention—but this was something else. Something slower. Stranger. Everything about you intrigued him, even the way you smoked.

You sighed softly, lips curling around the filter as you drew in another breath, eyes flicking upward to admire the stars. You had no idea how intently his gaze lingered—on your mouth, the curve of your jaw, the faint trail of smoke escaping your lips.

He swallowed, trying to wet the sudden dryness in his throat. It was ridiculous. He was a rock star, for god’s sake. He had women throwing themselves at him nightly. And yet here he was—completely entranced by some quiet, stubborn little thing who barely even looked at him most of the time.

“You know…” you murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. “You’re not that bad, actually.”

His head lifted, dark eyes snapping toward you. For a second, he just looked at you before a slow smirk crept across his lips.

“Oh yeah? You finally starting to like me now, princess?”

You scoffed. “I never said I disliked you. I’m just wise enough to keep my distance.”

He chuckled under his breath, taking another drag. “Right. Too smart to fall for the ol’ rock star routine, huh?”

Leaning a little closer, his voice dropped teasingly. “You know, most girls fall for that pretty fast. Surprised it hasn’t worked on you yet.”

“You forget that my stupid brother is one of you,” you shot back lightly. “And I’d like to think I’m smart and determined enough not to make any dumb mistakes.”

He smirked again, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. You really weren’t going to make this easy on him.

“So you’re gonna avoid rock stars altogether because of your brother?” he asked, tilting his head. “Or maybe you just haven’t met anyone good enough to tempt you yet.”

“Maybe both.” You shrugged, smoke curling lazily from between your fingers.

He took another drag, blowing out a slow stream of smoke into the dark. “Or perhaps you just… have very particular preferences.”

“Perhaps so,” you murmured, watching the faint glow of your cigarette fade as you exhaled. Truth was, you’d never been easily drawn to men. Maybe no one had really met your standards.

Izzy leaned back, eyes flicking over you with quiet curiosity. You were so unlike the women who usually caught his attention. He’d always gone for the reckless, the loud, the wild ones—but somehow, here he was, drawn to someone who felt like calm water.

“So you got a type, then?” he asked casually, though his gaze was sharp.

You thought for a moment. “Yeah… kinda,” you admitted softly. “But it’s ridiculous.”

He noticed the faint color rising in your cheeks, and his smirk deepened.

“Oh, let me guess,” he drawled, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You like the sweet, sensitive, artsy kind of guy, huh? Some pretty boy that writes you poetry and all that crap?”

You shook your head, laughing quietly. “No. Quite the opposite, actually.” You hummed softly. “I don’t know why, but I kind of like dark and mysterious types. But those never really approach me—and I’m not exactly in a position to go after anyone, either. I’m trying to focus on my life and work right now.”

He raised a brow, clearly caught off guard by your honesty.

“Dark and mysterious, huh?” he murmured, eyes tracing your face. You were full of surprises, it seemed. There was so much more to you than what you let the world see.

“Never would’ve pegged you for the ‘bad boys’ type, princess.”

You chuckled quietly, swinging your legs where you sat. “Well, I’m always good for a surprise.”

He found himself watching the movement, the streetlight catching against the smoothness of your skin, casting a faint golden glow on your legs. It was effortless. Natural. And for a moment, he forgot about everything else.

“I’ll say…” he teased, running a hand through his hair. He was definitely more intrigued by you now. “So, all this ‘sweet, innocent good girl’ act you’ve got going on… that’s not the real you, huh?”

“What? No! I’m not acting or anything. I don’t pretend to be nice. I just… try to be! I always want to do the right thing, you know? I don’t want to live a life full of regrets.”

He chuckled, his gaze still locked on your face. “Hey, hey, don’t go getting defensive on me,” he drawled, still teasing. He clearly enjoyed riling you up a little too much.

“Relax. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I just figured you’d be one of those sweet little good girls — innocent, naive, pure, all that crap.”

“Uh… thanks, I guess?” you said, rolling your eyes slightly. “Imm not really for labeling it, but I do try to live a good life. Genuinely.” You inhaled the last of your cigarette before flicking the bud onto the ground.

He smirked, watching you toss it away before bringing his own back to his lips for another drag.

“I like that about you, princess,” he murmured, his voice quieter now — sincere in a way you hadn’t heard from him before. “Not many people actually try anymore. You’re one of the good ones.”

“Hey, if we were all a little nicer to each other, the world would be a kinder place,” you said softly, offering him a small, genuine smile — one you’d never given him before.

He just stared at you for a moment, caught off guard by how real that smile was — how it reached your eyes and softened your whole face. Something twisted in his chest, something warm and unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome.

“Yeah…” he said roughly, running a hand through his hair again. It was an attempt to keep his cool, to hold on to that easy, detached air of his — but he was finding it harder than usual.

“Yeah, I guess it would be.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a little out of his depth. You were getting under his skin, and that unsettled him. More than that, he realized he didn’t hate the feeling.

“Hey, uh… can I ask you something?” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now, stripped of its usual teasing edge.

“Yeah, sure,” you replied, curious.

He hesitated — just long enough for you to notice. He wasn’t the type to second-guess himself, but something about you made him actually think before he spoke.

“If I hadn’t been in this band… if you’d met me somewhere else, with none of this bullshit attached…” His dark eyes searched yours, uncharacteristically serious. “…would you have let me take you out?”

The question caught you completely off guard. Your eyes darted away, looking for anything to focus on but him. You stayed silent for a moment — long enough for the shock to fade and the weight of what he’d asked to really sink in.

“I—I, uh…” you stammered, feeling his gaze burning into you from the corner of your eye.

He watched you fluster, watched the way your cheeks flushed as you stumbled over your words. And damn, he liked it. He was used to women throwing themselves at him without hesitation — but this? This was different. This was new.

“C’mon, princess,” he coaxed lowly, nudging your knee with his own. “A simple yes or no’ll do.”

You swallowed, the touch of his knee making you finally look at him again.

“I—I dunno… I mean… maybe… if—if you did it right?”

He smirked, eyes glinting as he studied your expression. He liked you like this — flustered, shy, off-balance. It suited you.

“If I did it right, huh?” he echoed, leaning a little closer. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Yeah, I mean… it often comes down to how you ask a woman out — that’s what decides it,” you said softly.

He chuckled, shifting closer still. From this distance, he could see the smallest details of your face — the faint freckles on your nose, the flutter of your lashes, the pink still warming your cheeks. Every little detail of you was driving him a little insane.

“So you’re saying… if I asked the right way, you’d consider it?” he murmured, his knee bumping yours again.

“I mean… y-yeah?” you admitted, shrugging weakly.

He grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned in just a little more — close enough that if you turned your head, your noses would nearly touch.

“Well then… what’s the right way, princess?” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me what I gotta do.”

“Well, I dunno… it depends on the situation, I guess.”

He laughed quietly, his voice now low and rough, the sound curling in the small space between you.

“Humor me,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Let’s say it’s just a normal night. No band, no parties. Just you and me.”

“Wouldn’t it be your job to figure that out? Can’t have a girl tell you everything — that’s cheating!”

His grin widened, clearly amused. You were trying to keep your composure, but he could hear your breathing hitch, could feel the way the air shifted between you. He was so close now he could count your eyelashes.

“Alright, fair point,” he murmured. “But you can’t blame a guy for trying, can ya, princess?”

“It’s all useless. You’re trouble. I’m not getting involved with any of you guys!” you stated firmly, turning your head away as if that would strengthen your resolve.

He chuckled again, eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction. He could see straight through you — through that cool, defiant exterior — right down to the flustered girl beneath.

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit,” he muttered, his knee brushing yours again. “We both know you’re not entirely unaffected by me.” He tried a new attempt to break down your walls, watching closely for any reaction.

You kept your gaze fixed ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. He was too close — close enough that you could smell the mix of his cologne and leather under the haze of smoke. It made your pulse skip.

“I’m not affected by you!” you shot back, tone sharp but unconvincing.

His smirk deepened, eyes drinking you in. He noticed the way your nose twitched when you got flustered, how you kept shifting, trying to mask the tremor in your breath. And he was loving every second of it.

“Liar,” he murmured, voice soft but cutting. “You can’t even look at me.”

Of course, she had to let him challenge her.

In the blink of an eye, her head snapped toward him — unprepared for just how close he really was. Their noses were almost brushing, and she could feel his breath ghost against her lips. But what truly stole her breath were his eyes — dark, intense, fixed on hers.

There was something unreadable in them. Something that made her pulse trip over itself.

She met his gaze, caught in that pull neither of them seemed able to break. After a moment, his eyes flicked down to her lips — and, without even realizing, she mirrored the motion.

He leaned in closer, the air between them thinning until every second felt stretched and fragile. Her eyes fluttered shut, anticipation sparking low in her chest, her heart beating in her throat as she waited for the inevitable —

— and then the door slammed open.

“Izzy!” A high-pitched giggle shattered the silence like glass.

He froze, the tension snapping instantly. A sharp exhale left his nose as his jaw tightened.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath before glancing toward the doorway, irritation flaring in his dark eyes.

A groupie stood there — tipsy, oblivious, giggling as she swayed toward them — completely unaware or unconcerned, that she’d just walked in on something she wasn’t supposed to.

You pulled back at the same time, your throat tightening as you quickly turned your head away. You cleared your throat, trying to steady your breathing, to act as if nothing had almost happened. The girl kept talking to Izzy, vying for his attention.

He raised a hand toward her in silent dismissal, eyes flicking back to you — and that was when he saw it. The way you were turned slightly away, eyes averted, expression guarded again. Gone was the openness from moments before.

Something inside him twisted, that familiar pang of frustration settling in. He was already regretting that interruption more than he’d ever admit.

Before he could speak, you stood up.

“Have a good night, Izzy,” you said softly — your voice even, polite, detached. No hint of embarrassment. No trace of whatever had been there seconds ago.

And with that, you turned and walked back inside, brushing past the girl who had stumbled out to find him.

He watched you go, frozen in place, jaw tight. He could have stopped you — said something, anything — but not without making a scene. And he wasn’t about to give the groupie the satisfaction of witnessing whatever the hell that just was.

Still, as the door swung shut behind you, he didn’t move. Didn’t follow.

He knew he should go back in with the groupie, drown out this confusing ache with something easy, familiar. But his eyes stayed locked on that door, mind racing.

What the hell had just happened?

Had he imagined that spark between you — or had it really been there, simmering under the surface all along?

He sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair, the faint ghost of your almost-kiss still hanging in the air like smoke.

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