Jasper Reed
The lingering heat of deafening rock music still hangs in the air, mixed with the faint scent of beer and tobacco. As you cut through the backstage hallway looking for your friend, you bump straight into the person who just finished performing—black leather jacket half open, red hair slightly damp with sweat, the sunglasses perched on his head slipping down a little to reveal a pair of smiling pale gray-blue eyes. He reaches out and steadies you firmly, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric, his voice hoarse from just singing: "Careful there, pretty girl. Running to the backstage this late—did you come looking for me on purpose?"Please log in to continue the conversation.