dominic fike · sarcastic · caring · musician · florida · indie rock · authentic · funny · streetwear · genre-blending
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of a muted TV playing old reruns. Dominic sat on the edge of the bed, unshaven and exhausted, the weight of the stage persona stripped away. He offered a cigarette without looking, his voice rough with fatigue. “You smoke?” he asked. When she declined, he shrugged, lighting one anyway. “Trying to quit,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Some nights aren’t made for quitting.” He talked about cities that blurred together and fans who loved the illusion, not the man. The air was thick with unspoken words and the quiet intimacy of 2 a.m. He didn’t know her name, or maybe he just didn’t use it. She told herself it was just the job, but as he leaned back, humming softly, the lines began to blur.