The dressing room door swings open and Lena stops mid-step, the setlist crumpling in her grip. The air is thick with sweat and sandalwood, the single bulb buzzing over the vanity casting everything in harsh yellow. Damien is on the floor, his back to her, guitar cable coiled around his wrists—tight, deliberate, the ends trailing across the worn carpet. His shoulders shake with each breath, and in the mirror’s reflection she sees his eyes: wet, wild, fixed on her image as she enters.
He doesn’t move to hide. Doesn’t try to stand or untangle himself. The cable holds him, and he holds still, like a man who’s finally stopped running. His jaw is tight, the silver ring in his nose catching the light, and his hands—callused, tattooed, made for destruction—rest limp in the loops of wire.
Her pulse hammers against her ribs, but she’s learned to let that beat stay private. She lets the door swing shut behind her, the lock clicking into place with a soft metal sound that cuts through the buzz of the bulb. He flinches at that, just barely—a tremor that travels from his wrists up through his shoulders.
‘Lena.’ The word comes out rough, scraped from a throat that’s been dry too long. It sounds like surrender. Like he’s been waiting for her to find him like this.
She steps closer, boots silent on the carpet, and stops three feet behind him. The mirror gives her everything: the tear tracks on his cheeks, the way his chest rises and falls too fast, the raw need in his expression that he’s not even trying to hide now. He was caught. He’s not running. He’s waiting for her to decide what this means.
‘Finish what you started.’ Her voice comes out flat, controlled, missing the tremor that wants to rise. ‘I’ll wait.’
His breath catches—a sharp, wet sound. In the mirror, his eyes widen, then soften, something breaking open behind them. He doesn’t move to obey. He doesn’t move at all. He just stares at her reflection, hands still bound, breath still ragged, every wall he’s ever built lying in ruins at his feet.
The bulb hums. The air thickens. She doesn’t look away.
She lowers herself to his level, the leather of her jacket creaking as she settles onto her knees on the worn carpet. The bulb buzzes overhead, and the scent of his sweat—sharp, metallic—fills the space between them. Her fingers find the trailing end of the cable, the wire cool and rough against her skin, and she wraps it once around her palm, a slow deliberate motion that pulls the slack taut.
In the mirror, his eyes track her every move. His breath hitches—a sound that cracks the silence—and his bound hands twitch, the loops of wire shifting against his wrists. The tattooed lines of his arms strain as he holds himself still, a man fighting the urge to move, to reach for her, to say something that might shatter the moment.
She doesn't look away from his reflection. The cable is a bridge now, connecting them across the three feet of carpet. She gives it the slightest tug, just enough to make the wire whisper against his skin, and his jaw clenches, his throat working as he swallows.
'You've done this before,' she says. Not a question. The words come out low, flat, a statement of fact that hangs in the air like smoke.
His eyes drop, then flick back up to hers in the glass. 'No.' The word is hoarse, almost lost. 'Not like this. Not—' He stops, his chest rising and falling too fast.
She waits. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, the only sound the hum of the bulb and the ragged rhythm of his breathing. She doesn't fill the space. She lets it press against him, lets him feel the weight of what he's done, what he's shown her.
His hands curl into fists inside the loops of wire, the muscles in his forearms bunching. 'I didn't know you'd come in.' A confession, whispered. 'I didn't think—' His voice breaks, and he looks away from the mirror, staring at the floor between his knees.
She loosens her grip on the cable, the tension easing, but she doesn't let go. The wire rests slack across her palm now, a leash gone quiet. She watches the back of his head, the dark hair curling at his nape, the way his shoulders tremble with each exhale.
'Look at me,' she says. Not loud. Not demanding. Just a quiet command, the same flat tone she used when she told him to finish what he started.
He lifts his head. His eyes meet hers in the mirror, moss-green and wet, and she sees it—the relief, the terror, the desperate need to be held here, in this moment, by someone who won't run.
She holds his gaze. The cable stays wound around her hand. The bulb hums. And they wait, together, on the edge of something neither of them can name.
She tightens the cable. A slow, deliberate pull that draws the wire taut against his wrists, the loops pressing deeper into the callused ridges of his hands. The leather of her jacket creaks with the movement, and her dark eyes don't leave his reflection in the mirror — watching, waiting, reading the flinch that travels from his bound hands up through his shoulders.
His breath catches, the sound wet and ragged. The cable doesn't bite — not yet — but the pressure is there, a constant reminder that she holds the other end. That he gave her this. That he's still giving it.
She holds the tension for a long, humming moment, the bulb buzzing overhead filling the silence. His fingers curl, nails scraping against the carpet, and he doesn't pull away. Doesn't test the wire. He stays still, a man pinned by something stronger than rope, and waits for whatever comes next.
Her lips part, but she doesn't speak. She loosens her grip by a fraction, letting the cable slacken, and the relief that floods through him is almost worse than the pressure. He sags forward, his forehead nearly touching the carpet, his breath coming in hot, shuddering gasps against the dusty fibers.
The cable goes slack in her hand, pooling on the carpet between them, and she watches him. The back of his neck, the curl of dark hair damp at his temples, the way his shoulder blades rise and fall with each breath. He's close enough to touch. He's not running. He's not.
She sets the cable down, letting it fall from her palm, and the sound of it hitting the carpet is soft, final. Her hand moves to his shoulder — a light touch, barely there, just the weight of her fingers through the thin cotton of his shirt. He shudders, a full-body tremor that travels from the point of contact outward, and he exhales like he's been holding it since she walked in.
'Damien.' His name in her mouth, low and even. His shoulders tighten, waiting. 'Look at me.'
He lifts his head, turning to face her directly rather than through the mirror. The movement brings him closer, his knees brushing against hers, and he settles back on his heels, his bound hands resting in his lap. His face is streaked with tears, his moss-green eyes red-rimmed and raw, and there's nothing left of the man who walks onstage with a sneer and a drumstick twirling in his grip.
Her hand moves from his shoulder to his jaw, her thumb brushing across his cheek, catching the wet track of a tear. He doesn't pull away. He leans into it, a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second as if the touch is the only thing holding him together.
'You're okay,' she says, and the words are steady, certain, like she's already seen the shape of what comes next. 'You're exactly where you're supposed to be.'
He opens his eyes, and the relief in them is a bare, broken thing — a man who's been found, and for once, he doesn't want to be lost again.
The pads of her fingers rest against his jaw, warm and still, and he doesn't pull away. His bound hands lie slack in his lap, the cable loops loose around his wrists, and the bulb buzzes overhead, a constant insect hum that fills the space between their breaths. His moss-green eyes are wet, the red around them deepening as he holds her gaze, and his lips part like he's about to speak—then close, the words dying before they reach air.
She doesn't rush him. Her thumb traces a slow arc along his cheekbone, catching the salt of a tear that's already dried, and the leather of her jacket creaks as she shifts her weight on the carpet. The scent of his sweat—metallic, sharp—mingles with the sandalwood clinging to the couch, and the whiskey glass on the vanity catches the bulb's light, the amber residue glowing like trapped honey.
He swallows, his throat moving against nothing, and his voice comes out scraped raw. 'I don't know what happens now.' The words hang in the air, fragile, and he doesn't look away from her. 'I never—no one's ever just... stayed.'
She holds his gaze for a beat longer, then lets her hand drop from his jaw to his bound wrists, her fingers brushing the cable where it crosses his skin. The wire is warm from his body, rough against her fingertips, and she traces the loop once—a slow, deliberate circuit—before meeting his eyes again. 'You're still here,' she says, her voice low, even. 'That's what happens now.'
His breath hitches, a sharp sound that cracks the silence, and his chest rises and falls too fast. The cable shifts as his hands clench, the loops pressing deeper into his callused palms, and he doesn't pull away. He leans into the pressure, a small surrender, his eyes never leaving hers.
'I wanted you to find me.' The confession comes out in a rush, a whisper that barely reaches her, and his jaw tightens as if he's already bracing for her to flinch. 'I didn't plan it. But when I heard your voice in the hall—' He stops, his throat working, and the words fall apart in his mouth.
Her fingers still on the cable. The bulb buzzes. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and she lets it press against him—lets him feel the weight of what he's admitted. Then she tightens her grip on the wire, a single short pull that draws his hands an inch closer to her, and his eyes widen, his breath catching again.
'Good,' she says, and the word is soft, certain, a quiet seal on the space he opened. She loosens the cable, letting it go slack, and her hand moves to his, her fingers threading between the loops to find his skin. 'You're where you're supposed to be, Damien. Right here.'
Her grip loosens, the cable sliding from her palm to pool on the carpet between them, a slack serpent of wire. She holds his gaze, her dark eyes steady, and her voice comes out low and even — a command wrapped in quiet certainty. 'Stand up. Let me see you on your feet.'
He blinks, the words taking a moment to land, his bound hands twitching in his lap. The cable loops are loose now, barely holding, and he could slip free if he wanted — but he doesn't. He presses his palms against his thighs, pushing himself upright, the motion slow and deliberate, his knees creaking against the worn carpet. The leather of her jacket whispers as she shifts back, giving him room, her hands resting on her thighs as she watches him rise.
He stands, and the room seems smaller with him upright — the breadth of his shoulders filling the space between the vanity and the couch, the tattooed lines of his arms catching the bulb's harsh light. His bound hands hang in front of him, wrists together, the cable a dark bracelet against his skin. He doesn't reach for the loops. He doesn't try to hide. His moss-green eyes find hers, and he waits, his chest rising and falling too fast, his jaw tight.
She stays on her knees for a long moment, looking up at him, her head tilted as she reads the lines of his body — the tremor in his hands, the way his fingers curl inward, the set of his shoulders, braced for something. Then she rises, slow and fluid, the leather creaking as she finds her feet, and she's close now, close enough that he could reach out and touch her if he wanted. He doesn't. He stays still, a man pinned by something stronger than wire.
Her hand lifts, and he flinches — a small, barely visible jerk of his shoulders — but she doesn't reach for his wrists. Her fingers find the collar of his black band t-shirt, the fabric damp with sweat, and she smooths it flat against his collarbone, a casual, almost tender gesture that makes his breath catch. 'You've got five minutes before the next interview,' she says, her voice flat, conversational, like they're discussing the weather. 'And you need to look like you're not falling apart.'
He lets out a shuddering breath, half a laugh, half something rawer. 'I don't know if I can—' He stops, his throat working, and his eyes drop to the floor between them. 'I don't know if I can walk out there pretending this didn't happen.'
Her hand moves from his collar to his chin, tilting his face up, forcing his gaze to meet hers. The touch is firm, unyielding, and his breath stalls in his chest. 'You don't pretend,' she says, her voice low, measured. 'You walk out there knowing I'm back here. Knowing I saw you. Knowing I stayed.' She holds his gaze for a beat longer, then lets her hand fall. 'That's stronger than pretending.'
He swallows, his eyes searching hers, and something in his posture shifts — a loosening, a small surrender of the tension that's been holding him rigid. His bound hands twitch, and he looks down at them, then back at her. 'Can you—' He pauses, his voice cracking. 'Can you undo them?'
She doesn't move. She holds his gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting him feel the weight of asking. Then she steps closer, her body inches from his, and her fingers find the cable at his wrists. She works the loops loose, slow and deliberate, the wire sliding against his skin, and when the last loop falls away, she catches it in her palm, coiling it once before slipping it into her jacket pocket. His hands are free, and he stares at them, flexing his fingers, the callused ridges of his palms catching the light.
'Thank you,' he says, the words barely a whisper.
She steps back, her hand brushing his arm as she moves toward the door. 'You've got four minutes, Wolfe. Don't waste them.' Her hand finds the door handle, and she pauses, looking back over her shoulder. Her dark eyes meet his, and there's something in them — a quiet promise, a sealed door, a line drawn in the sand. 'I'll be in the wings. Right where you left me.'
The door clicks open, and she steps through, leaving him standing alone in the buzzing light, his wrists bare, the ghost of the cable still warm against his skin.