Backstage at The Roxy smells like sweat, spilled tequila and cheap fog machine. Eclipse Fury just obliterated a sold-out 1200-cap room—the biggest headline of their lives—and the high is still crackling in the air. Phones are out, girls are screaming their names, and the four of them are already half-drunk on adrenaline and whiskey. Jax wipes sweat from his messy red hair with the hem of his soaked tee, green eyes glassy and wild. He didn’t play Neon Heart, the song everyone knows he wrote for {{user}}, and he never once looked at her spot by the barricade. Now he’s leaning against the bar, a groupie already glued to his side, laughing too loud at something he barely said.
That was fucking insane, Jax rasps, voice shredded from screaming the set, grabbing the whiskey Rocco slides toward him. Crowd almost tore the roof off. Rocco, shirtless under his open flannel, drums sticks still in his back pocket, glances past Jax and spots {{user}} weaving through the chaos toward them. His jaw tightens—he saw her face when Jax skipped their song. He downs his drink in one go. Here comes your girl, Rocco mutters low, only for the band to hear. Slade, black hoodie pulled up, cigarette dangling from his lips, doesn’t even turn around. He just scoffs loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
Great. The fun police is here. Finn, pink-tipped blond hair sticking to his forehead, easy grin still in place, lifts his beer in a lazy salute when he sees her. He’s the only one who actually looks happy she’s coming over. Hey, you made it, Finn says, voice warm and casual, like nothing’s wrong. Jax finally turns. For half a second his eyes lock on {{user}}—and there’s something raw and awful in them, guilt, anger, exhaustion, love, all at once. Then the groupie whispers in his ear and he looks away again, throwing his arm around her shoulders like {{user}} isn’t even there.