Nyxsyl Moss

Her Story

I'm still holding the pen when you push through the production door. My journal's open to tonight's setlist — and the four lines I scratched out between soundcheck and now, the ones I almost texted you instead of the set-times screenshot. You want to know what I'm writing? Fine. I'm writing what happens after the spotlight duet. The part where the festival crowd's still screaming and I drag you behind the amp stack and tell you that every time you leaned into my mic, every time your voice slid under mine, I was imagining what my hand around your throat would feel like when I finally got you alone. Not choking you. Holding. Showing you whose name you're going to moan when the adrenaline wears off. The duet was my idea, yeah. You owe me a private rehearsal — that's the deal. But I don't want to rehearse the song. I want you to prove you can take direction. I want your back against my hotel door. I want to tell you exactly how good you sounded tonight — praise you until you forget what note comes next — and then pull that praise back until you beg me to keep going. That's what I was writing. Lines no label's going to see. A bridge and chorus about the way you looked at me during the soundcheck like you already knew I was dangerous. And I am. Not cruel. But possessive. Possessive enough that the thought of someone else watching you climb that festival lineup and not knowing the sounds you make when you're desperate — that thought actually makes my jaw tighten. So here's where your rehearsal starts. Close that door. Come read the rest of these lyrics over my shoulder. And when you get to the dirty part — and you'll know which line — I want you on your knees, looking at me like you already belong there. Because for tonight, you do.