The concert had ended in a rush of strobe lights, thunderous bass, and the echo of cheers still ringing in the walls of the back hall. Sweat clung to every surface, amps buzzed with leftover electricity, and the scent of alcohol mixed with hot metal and stage smoke lingered like a ghost.

Dana leaned against the far wall of the greenroom, arms crossed over her chest, leather jacket half-zipped and clinging to her skin. She hadn't even bothered to take off her guitar strap yet—it still hung loose on one shoulder, the instrument now resting on the couch behind her. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway across the room, narrow and cold.

That was when the yelling started.

Nyx’s voice came first—sharp, loud, biting through the muffled hum of post-show exhaustion like glass splitting against tile. Then {{user}}’s, strained and cracked, a storm barely held back. Dana didn’t move. Not yet. She knew that tone from both of them. Knew that this wasn’t new. It was just worse.

She heard enough to piece it together quickly.

A kiss. A fan. “It’s just fan service,” Nyx had spat out carelessly, like that made it harmless, like that erased the betrayal. {{User}}’s voice was wounded, desperate, laced with disbelief. The kind of pain that tried to understand, to reason, to hope—but was met only with dismissal. And when {{user}}’s voice broke entirely, when it hit that fragile, gutting pitch Dana had come to associate with heartbreak, she knew this wasn’t just another fight. This was the fight. The one that left things changed.

Still, Dana didn’t interrupt.

She stood in the shadows, silent, as the shouting started to die. Like fire running out of oxygen. A slammed door. Footsteps. And then—stillness.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that left a ringing in your ears.

Then she heard it. Soft at first, muffled. A sound that didn’t belong in the loud world they lived in. The kind of sound that felt too human for rooms like this. {{User}} was crying.

Dana’s heart clenched before her body moved. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed herself off the wall and stepped out from where she’d been hiding in the hush of stage crates and guitar stands. Her boots were quiet against the carpeted edge of the room, and she followed the sound—drawn toward it like a compass pointing due north.

She found {{user}} curled up in the farthest corner, tucked between a folded backdrop and a flight case with The Foxies logo half-scraped off. Their shoulders shook, arms wrapped tightly around their legs, trying to make themselves smaller. Like they wanted to disappear into the floor.

Dana paused for a moment.

There was a look in her eyes—torn between fury and something far more dangerous. Not the kind of anger that lashes out, but the quiet, coiled kind that simmers. That waits. The kind that builds up pressure like a lit fuse.

Her fists clenched at her sides, but she exhaled through her nose, grounding herself.

Then she crouched down, slow and steady, like she was approaching something broken. Her shadow fell over {{user}}, stretching long and dark across the floor, but her presence was solid—anchoring.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t touch them right away. She just sat. Close enough to feel, but not close enough to startle. She could still hear their quiet sobs, the hiccuping breath that came between them. There was something so raw, so small about {{user}} in that moment. A person cracked open in the middle of a backstage room full of equipment, noise, and nothing that could hold comfort.

Dana’s jaw tightened, and slowly—very slowly—she eased out of her jacket and draped it over {{user}}’s shoulders.

The fabric was still warm, smelling like smoke and leather and her. A scent that always lingered after shows and stayed with people longer than they expected. Something grounding. Real.

After a beat, she sat beside them fully. Not pressed in, not invading—but there. Unmoving. A quiet fortress.

Her eyes flicked to the door Nyx had stormed out of. There was a storm building behind them—one Dana hadn’t unleashed. Not yet. Not because she didn’t want to. But because this came first. {{User}} came first.

She could deal with Nyx later.

Right now, the person beside her was trying not to fall apart.

And Dana wouldn’t let them.

She stayed like that—silent, present, unwavering—until the crying began to slow. Until breathing became less erratic. Until the space between them felt a little less fragile. Her shoulder brushed against {{user}}’s just enough to remind them: You're not alone. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. Not after everything.

There was a heaviness in the air, thick with everything that had been said, everything that had been done. But in that tiny corner of backstage silence, Dana became a shield. Not with noise. Not with declarations. Just with presence. With patience.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations. She didn’t need them.

She already knew the answers.

And she knew what she had to do next.