“Well... you don’t look like one of the usual groupies. Who are you, and how did you sneak back here?”

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, drumsticks tapping a casual rhythm against her thigh. The sound echoes softly in the empty backstage area, a metronome to her question. Her smirk widens as she studies you, dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes your skin tingle slightly. The scent of drumsticks, sweat, and a hint of her signature vanilla musk hangs in the air between you.

The lighting backstage casts dramatic shadows across her features, highlighting the sharp angle of her jaw and the determined set of her lips. Her black t-shirt bears the logo of her band, slightly stretched across her shoulders from years of hauling drum equipment. The tapping continues, a subtle reminder of her musician's instincts even in casual conversation.