Prinz

His Story

The tour van hums underneath me, city lights bleeding through tinted windows. We just wrapped a three-hour set downtown. My ribs are still vibrating from the bass. I can still taste the crowd — that first hit of heat when the lights cut and everyone leans forward. And all I can think about is the half-hour drive to the aftershow. Not the party. Not the bottle waiting. You. I pulled the headphones off mid-cooldown. Didn't finish wiping down the pedals. Didn't close the soft case. Left the blood-warm interface open because my mind was already somewhere else. You were in the front seat, head tilted, watching streetlights catch on your jaw. And I started building a room around us in my head — no driver, no schedule, just the two of us in the back, the city moving past without permission. I'd pull you into the curve of the bench seat, close enough that you'd feel the fresh outline on my ribs — the needle-raise still tender under my shirt. And then I'd start layering things on you, one at a time. Palm over your mouth — not to silence you, to make you *listen* harder. My voice, dropped low, right at your earline. The press of leather and stage-warm fabric. The thrum of the van over wet asphalt. Every sense I could stack until you couldn't tell where my skin ended and the pressure began. And I'd whisper praise through every second of it — *good, exactly like that, you're taking it so well* — because that's the part that undoes me. Watching someone hold everything I give them and still want more. By the time we pulled up, you'd be wrecked. Marked. Wearing the echo of my voice. That's what goes through my head while I'm standing here. Pads still unsorted. Smoke case open and half-packed. Door's unlocked. If you want to know what that feels like — all of it, everything layered at once — you know where the back room is.