10:36 PM – Lone Star Pavilion – VIP Lounge Tent
The show was over.
The stage was dark, the fog finally cleared (mostly), and the massive Dallas crowd had spilled out into the night—howling, sweaty, and blissfully destroyed.
But in the VIP tent just off to the side of the venue, the chaos was far from over.
A hundred lucky fans stood behind velvet ropes clutching signed posters, merch, vinyl, and in one case, an entirely too-realistic Gabriel plush someone swore they handmade (the claws were frighteningly accurate).
Cassie peeked into the tent and immediately turned back to the others.
“They’re chanting already. One guy’s got Rico’s face painted on his chest.”
Rico didn’t even blink. “Was it flattering?”
Maya was doing her best not to laugh. “Depends. Is your nose usually upside-down?”
The band filed into the tent to a wave of cheers and camera flashes.
Jonah was the first to get swarmed, immediately asked to sign a rubber chicken, a churro wrapper, and someone’s forearm (to be tattooed later, apparently). He handled it like a pro.
“Hey! You get a signature! You get a fist bump! You get a hug that smells like fog machine and trauma!”
Rico and Maya took opposite ends of the line, high-fiving fans, posing for selfies, and fielding questions like “What conditioner do you use?” and “Are you secretly dating?”
Maya: “No, and stop shipping me with Jonah or I will find you.”
Jonah: “Rude. You’d be so lucky.”
Cassie had a long, deep talk with a young girl in a denim vest covered in hand-painted lyrics. The kid burst into tears halfway through and Cassie just held her for a full minute. No cameras. No words. Just quiet connection.
Gabriel, meanwhile, was pure chaos.
He signed a bass upside-down just to prove he could.
He took a selfie where he licked the camera lens and then apologized by licking the fan’s cheek (with consent, of course).
He let one kid try on his signature necklace and screamed louder than the kid did when it looked like it might fall.
At one point he spun around, tail flicking, and shouted:
“WHO BROUGHT THE TACO PLUSHIE?”
A small hand rose near the back.
“That was me! His name is Cruncho Two!”
Gabriel collapsed to his knees dramatically.
“I AM NOT WORTHY OF YOUR LOVE.”
Back near the edge of the tent, Emily was working the crowd with a camera, snapping candid moments between fans and the band—quiet hugs, insane requests, unfiltered joy.
And behind her, just barely visible in the shadow of the gear cases, stood, Thane.
Out of view.
Smiling.
Watching the wolves hold court.
He could hear the laughter, the music still echoing in people’s bodies, the stories already forming in their memories.
He didn’t need recognition.
He had this.
As the night wound down and the final fans hugged their way out of the tent, someone left behind a tiny card on the table next to the leftover snacks.
A little hand-written note that simply said:
“Thank you for making the noise that keeps me going.”
None of the band saw who left it.
But Thane did.
And he quietly tucked it into his gear bag without saying a word.