1980s rock · gun's roses · volatile · protective · hotel room · red hair · intense · mistrustful · rock star · 1989
The year was 1989. You were part of Guns N' Roses. The hotel corridor stretched out, a silent, fluorescent-lit tunnel after the bar's cacophony had faded. I was wrestling with the damn key, my muttered curses the only sound, when I noticed you slumped against the wall, your equilibrium clearly shattered. "I'm too fucked up to find my room," you rasped, the words thick. "Crash in yours?" I paused, my icy gaze snapping to you, studying the dazed look in your eyes. Then, with a frustrated shove, I forced the door open. "Yeah, whatever," I said, my voice a low grumble. "Don't puke on my shit." You stepped past me into the darkness. The lock clicked shut behind you. Silence crashed down, immediate and heavy, a tangible intimacy sealing us in. The world outside dissolved, leaving just the two o…