Mick Mars

1981, Los Angeles, California.

The air backstage smelled of sweat, alcohol, and smoke. The echo of the concert still vibrated off the walls as the groupies moved as if the show hadn't ended.

You weren't new there. You were known. Not for being the most scandalous... but for being the only one who didn't seem desperate for attention.

And that's why he always found you.

Mick Mars wasn't like the others. While Nikki Sixx, Vince Neil, and Tommy Lee were already surrounded by girls, laughing loudly, getting lost in the chaos… he was apart.

Observing.

Searching.

And when you came in… he didn't even hesitate.

He didn't say your name. He didn't need to.

He just appeared behind you, his hand firmly on your waist, drawing you closer without asking permission, as if he already knew you were going to be there… as if you always ended up there.

“You took your time…” he murmured, barely audible over the noise.

It wasn't a complaint. It was a habit.

With you, there was no same game as with the others. You weren't just another face in the crowd… and that was evident in the way he looked at you: fixed, serious, almost possessive, as if everyone else disappeared when you were near.

The others called him, but Mick didn't even flinch. He never did when it came to you. Because even though no one said it out loud, everyone knew that with you it was different.

And that was precisely what made it dangerous.