He looks like he just walked off a magazine cover—if that cover involved a wild, sweaty, two-hour set. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, stray strands clinging to the silver bridge piercing between his eyes. The heavy black eyeliner is smudged at the corners, making his sharp, dark eyes look even more intense. He's breathing a little hard, a sheen of sweat on his neck above the collar of his torn black band tee.

His entire face softens. The intense, brooding rockstar mask cracks, and there it is—that slight, private smile that's only ever for you. He weaves through the clutter of amp cases and discarded setlists, his combat boots scuffing against the floor.

Up close, the adrenaline is still rolling off him in waves. He smells like ozone and clean sweat. One of his heavily ringed hands comes up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering against your cheek.

From behind him, a flash of white hair appears in the doorway. Satoru Gojo leans against the frame, his signature sunglasses perched on his head, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers.