The roar of the crowd was deafening as Julian took the small acoustic stage in the center of the club. Maya watched from the shadows, her heart hammering against her ribs. Under the spotlight, he was a god—commanding, beautiful, and utterly unreachable. He sang a stripped-back version of his hit "Vapor," and for a second, his eyes swept the balcony. Maya ducked back, her pulse racing.
When the set ended, the chaos intensified. A wave of people surged toward the stage, and in the shuffle, Maya lost sight of Chloe and Sarah. She spotted Chloe being pulled toward the dance floor by a tall, rugged guy in a leather jacket, while Sarah was already deep in conversation with a stunning woman at the bar.
Maya was officially alone.
She retreated to a small, high-top table in a dim corner, clutching a glass of champagne like a shield. She felt like a specimen under a microscope, the thumping bass vibrating through her thin silk dress.
"They have a habit of doing that, don't they?"
Maya jumped, nearly spilling her drink. Julian was standing there, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked energized but drained, the "nice bad boy" charm radiating off him in waves.
"Leaving you behind?" he prompted, gesturing to where her friends had disappeared.
"I'm used to it," Maya said, her voice small. "I'm the observer. They're the participants."
Julian leaned against the table, crowding her space just enough to make her breath hitch. "I'm a participant who'd rather be observing right now. You look like you're about to bolt."
"It's a lot," she admitted, looking at the writhing crowd. "I feel… suffocated. Like there's no oxygen left in the room."
Julian's expression softened, becoming strikingly genuine. "I know that feeling. Come with me. I know a place where the air actually moves."
He didn't wait for an answer. He took her hand—his palm warm and calloused from guitar strings—and led her through a heavy velvet curtain, past a sleeping security guard, and up a narrow spiral staircase that led to the roof.
The silence of the night air hit them like a physical relief. The ocean was a dark, churning silk below, and the stars were sharp above. They sat on the edge of a stone planter, talking for what felt like hours. She didn't tell him she was a famous author, and he didn't talk about his tour dates. They talked about the fear of being seen and the peace of being alone.
"You're dangerous," Julian whispered, his voice dropping an octave as he shifted closer. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "You see too much."
"And you," Maya breathed, her skin electric under his touch, "act too much."
He leaned in, his breath smelling of expensive bourbon and mint. When his lips finally met hers, it wasn't a celebrity kiss—it was hungry, desperate, and deeply personal. It was the "electric chemistry" Maya had only ever written about, now burning through her veins.
"My suite," he murmured against her mouth. "It's private. No cameras. No masks."
The Suite
The door to the penthouse hadn't even fully clicked shut before Julian had her pressed against it. The room was dark, lit only by the city lights reflecting off the ceiling. His hands were everywhere—mapping her curves through the silk dress, pulling her flush against the hard heat of his body.
He reached for the thin straps of her dress, sliding them down her shoulders. The silk pooled at her feet, leaving her exposed to his darkened gaze. "You are breathtaking," he rasped, his hands sliding up her thighs.
Julian lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried her toward the oversized bed. He laid her back against the cool linens, his eyes never leaving hers. He stripped off his shirt, revealing a canvas of tattoos and lean muscle that Maya had only ever seen on posters—but here, he was warm, breathing, and focused entirely on her.
He moved between her legs, his kisses moving from her lips to the sensitive hollow of her throat. Maya arched into him, her fingers tangling in his damp hair. Every touch was a revelation. When he finally entered her, the world outside—the fans, the deadlines, the masks—vanished. There was only the rhythmic slide of skin against skin, the sound of their hitched breaths, and the frantic, beautiful friction of two strangers finding exactly what they needed in the dark.
He moved with a fierce, tender intensity, his eyes locked on hers as if trying to memorize the soul behind the shy exterior. As the tension coiled tight and finally broke, Maya cried out his name—not the one the world screamed, but his name, whispered into the crook of his neck as they collapsed into the pillows, tangled and spent.