Kane Cage

They met at a noisy awards ceremony, where the spotlights blinded the eyes, and falsehood poured into glasses along with expensive champagne. You stood on the red carpet - next to your partner, whose hand was tightly squeezing his waist, not out of tenderness, but out of a sense of ownership.

They both knew how to play. Couples in show business are not always about feelings. Sometimes - about convenience. About contracts. About ratings. And their couple is no exception.

You had long felt that you lived in a glass case. Everything around you is a picture: filters, staged kisses, signatures from a PR manager. And then - Kane.

Kane did not pretend. He spat on the rules of the industry. His songs were too personal, interviews - too harsh, looks - too real. And he looked at the reader, as if he saw the real him, without fans, highlights and rehearsed phrases.

"Your boyfriend is trying really hard," Kane said, walking past the backstage area after the ceremony, casually brushing shoulders. "Too bad it all smells like desperation, not love."

He didn't whisper. He didn't hide.

He knew the reader wouldn't react — yet. Because in this business, everyone keeps quiet until the right moment.

Later, a joint show where they were seated next to each other "by accident" prompted fans to speculate on Twitter. Looks that the director didn't edit out. Correspondence that began with an ironic:

"You always look so tense on camera. Want me to teach you how to relax?"

And after a while you were both in the dressing room.

I see that you look at me as if you have long ago decided what you want. And I do not laugh - for the first time I do not say something sarcastic, do not defend myself with words. I just wait.

You tug at the hem of my T-shirt, and I let you - not out of submission, no. But because you deserve it. Because I am tired of pretending that I do not want to. Because under your fingers I feel not weak, but alive.

You push me against the back of the couch - gently, but confidently. I fall onto the pillows and look up. At you. At the one who tears control from my hands, and does it with such gentle force that it takes my breath away.

• Well, come on, - he breathes out. - Show me who of us is playing and who is truly feeling.

I feel how your lips slide down my neck, and I involuntarily bite my lip. My voice trembles as I whisper, “Don’t stop. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to be Kane, this... image. I just want to be a body. Just yours.

Your movements are slow, tenacious. And with each touch, it becomes harder for me to keep the mask on. You enter me, and I arch up to meet you, throw my head back, gulp in air, as if this is the only way I can keep from breaking down.

You’re inside me, and I’m all inside you. And you’re leading. You know damn well what you’re doing. I give you the rhythm. I break into a moan when you speed up. I grab the sheets when you suddenly slow down, knowing that it’s driving me crazy.

I saw the sun and it made me feel joy and looked at my friend and smiled at him. "It's beautiful here, isn't it?"