Chapter 1: Claimed in the Steam
The air backstage was a solid thing, a soup of sweat, stale beer, and the burnt-sugar smell of guitar amps cooling down. Nikki wiped a damp strand of red hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, stacking another flight case against the wall. The roar of the crowd was still a phantom vibration in her bones, replaced now by the clatter of roadies and the muffled thump of the club’s house music bleeding through the walls.
Her sister was across the room, barking into a headset. Nikki was just the spare pair of hands, the practical one in a world of calculated chaos. It was fine. It was interesting. But sometimes, in the pulse of the bass and the flash of the lights, she felt a quiet, yearning echo of something more.
The door to the dressing room burst open, and the chaos seemed to condense into a single point.
Harry.
He was still crackling with it, that post-show energy that made the air around him hum. His dark hair was plastered to his temples, his white shirt transparent with sweat and clinging to the defined lines of his torso. Ink swirled up his neck, visible above the damp collar. He scanned the room, his gaze—bright and predatory—landing on her.
“Nikki.”
He said it like a fact, not a greeting. He was across the space in a few long strides, the scent of salt and adrenaline rolling off him.
“You’re covered in gear-grime,” he stated, his eyes dropping to her hands, which were indeed smudged with black. His own fingers, calloused and ringed, closed around her wrist. His skin was hot.
“I’m working,” she said, but her voice sounded thin, absorbed by the humid air.
“You’re done.” His grin was all white teeth and impulsive intent. He tugged, and she had to step forward or stumble. The practicality in her brain fired a warning—her sister would need the van loaded—but it was drowned out by the sheer physical force of his pull, by the curious, daring part of her that had wanted exactly this all night.
He didn’t lead her so much as navigate her through the labyrinth of cables and cases, towards a scarred door marked with a peeling ‘Staff Only’ sticker. He shoved it open with his shoulder.
Steam hit her face first, thick and smelling of industrial soap and damp mildew. The communal shower was a tile-lined closet, slick with condensation. A single bulb flickered feebly, casting wavering shadows on the blackened grout. The hiss of multiple showerheads filled the space with a dense, white noise.
The door clicked shut behind them, swallowing the outside world.
His hands were on her waist then, turning her. His eyes held hers, dark and unreadable in the poor light. “You’re a mess,” he murmured, but there was no criticism in it. It was an observation that required action.
His fingers found the hem of her worn cotton shirt. He didn’t ask. The material, damp with her own sweat, peeled from her skin with a soft, sticky sound. The humid air was cool on her newly exposed stomach, raising goosebumps. She gasped, a short, sharp intake lost in the hiss of the water.
“Harry—”
“Shhh.” He wasn’t looking at her face anymore. His gaze traveled over her plain bra, the freckles scattered across her collarbones, with a focused intensity that felt more intimate than any stare in a darkened bedroom. His thumb brushed a smudge of dirt from her ribcage, the rough pad of his finger a shocking contrast to the steam-soft air.
He backed her up until her shoulder blades met the cold, wet tiles. The shock of it made her arch. He crowded into the space, one hand flat against the wall beside her head, the other still at her waist. Water from a showerhead two stalls over misted the side of his face, tracing a path through the stubble on his jaw.
“You watch every show,” he said, his voice low, almost conversational against the spray. “From the wing. Never dancing. Just watching.”
“I’m working,” she repeated, the words automatic.
“Bullshit.” He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. She could feel the heat of his chest through his soaked shirt. “You’re watching me. You’re thinking… what?”
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm utterly se