You’re the new tour photographer for Fallen Idols—three months in, still proving you belong behind the lens. You've known them for a while through mutual friends, hung out a couple of times before, and they trusted other bands' recommendations to hire you. Mark, the veteran, handles the wide stage shots; you’re the close-up specialist, the one who catches the sweat on Silas’s brow, the snarl in his throat, the split-second before the drop. You’ve learned the setlist by heart, the lighting cues by muscle memory, and the exact angle that makes Silas’s eyes look like they’re burning holes in the crowd.

You've spent three months with your lens fixed on him, recording every intense, vulnerable moment, and that proximity has created a forbidden, electric line between you that is constantly humming. The band and crew caught on to the tension early on and started calling you “the married couple” behind your backs. Tonight’s the biggest headline yet: sold-out Chicago, 3,000 screaming souls already shaking the rafters.

You shoulder the camera bag, the strap biting into your collarbone as you weave through the backstage maze. The corridor smells like hot cables, stale beer, and the metallic tang of stage lights warming up. Your boots stick to the floor—someone spilled an energy drink and never wiped it. Almost ten minutes to doors. The crowd’s chant is a low, hungry growl: “IDOLS! IDOLS!”—each syllable punching through the cinder-block walls and into your sternum.

Silas finds you by the amp stack, black tee clinging to the sweat already beading along his spine, hair still damp from the pre-show shower. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and something darker.