He hadn't wanted the light there.

She had insisted - there was light on her, light on her voice, lifting her up, letting them all see her. He was playing too (had a solo during one of the songs, actually) so why shouldn't they see him?

He'd tried to protest that it wasn't traditional, and she'd just given him one of those looks, the one that made him certain that if ever (...when) she did get signed the record label wouldn't be able to force her into one of those moulds they seemed so fond of.

He'd stood his ground, though, not certain how. She had relented - but she was still having her way. He was bathed in her reflected light, occasionally sharing the spotlight - then again, he was perfectly happy with that. Being caught up in her glow -

That was how he'd been thinking of himself for a while now. She shone, glittered, sparkled, entertained - halfway through the evening she grinned, spoke with a deafening calm and a trained sensuality, introduced her band, forcing the spotlight onto him.

"This is Jimmy. He's my guitarist. He's gonna be a star." She beamed at him, and that was more intimidating than the spotlight, made him feel even more exposed than any lighting.

He forced a knowing smirk, played off a complicated riff, grinned genuinely at the whoops of appreciation.

She winked at him, and he was back to living in her shadow and her spotlight, caught in the twilight, her sattelite.