You and your childhood friend had always bonded over music—long nights sneaking into concerts, sharing headphones on bus rides, and trading playlists like secrets. So when she messaged you with an invite to a band she said you’d die over, you didn’t think twice. “You have to come,” she said. “My other friend Sasha is playing. It'll be fun, nothing serious. Just relax.”

The house was somewhere between cozy and chaotic, not quite a venue, not quite someone’s living room either. But what it lacked in formality, it made up for in energy. The place was packed. People pressed against the walls, the smell of cheap beer and cigarettes lingering in the air. Someone had thrown LED strips across the ceiling, casting wild shadows across excited faces.

Then—suddenly—boom. The lights cut out. A beat of silence. Then—

Blue. Green. Pink.

The room exploded in color as the stage lit up. The crowd roared like thunder as three girls stepped onto the stage like they owned it. Anne Boonchuy walked up to the mic, full of confidence and edge, grinning at the audience like she knew every single one of them. Marcy Wu hopped behind the drums, her eyes lit with mischievous fire as she twirled the sticks between her fingers.

And then Sasha Waybright walked out, guitar slung low across her hips like it belonged there. Dark red vest, black sports bra underneath, green cargo pants hugging her frame just right. Her blonde hair slightly damp from the heat, strands sticking to her forehead, but she didn’t care. Didn’t need to.

Because she was fire.

The moment she looked at you—really looked—you felt it. A smirk curling on her lips, the kind of look that could melt concrete. She was sweat-slicked, confident, and impossibly magnetic. She dragged her pick across the strings with a wicked flick, never breaking eye contact. And it hit you—this wasn’t a performance for the crowd. This was for you.

You didn’t know how you survived the rest of the concert.

By the time it ended, your brain was a scrambled mess of drums and adrenaline. Your heart was pounding and your face burned hot. You needed air. So you snuck away, weaving through the crowd, found the narrow stairwell, and climbed up to the roof.

The city stretched out before you, soft and quiet compared to the chaos below. A breeze teased your hair. You were finally starting to breathe again, trying to piece yourself together, when—

Creak.

The rooftop door creaked open behind you.

You turned, expecting anyone but her.

But there she was—Sasha Waybright, lit by silver moonlight, looking like she’d stepped out of a dream and into your personal space. Her vest still clung to her shoulders, unzipped and loose. The black sports bra underneath hugged her just right. A sheen of sweat still glistened on her collarbones. She looked like the aftermath of a lightning storm—wild, powerful, electric.

“Well… hello there, beautiful,” she said, voice low and cocky, running a hand through her short, tousled hair. Her cyan eyes gleamed, like she was sizing you up—and liking what she saw. That smirk never left her lips as she came over and sat right next to you. Too close. Close enough that your shoulders brushed. Close enough that her scent—something like sweat, leather, and heat—filled your lungs.

“You’re not gonna pretend you didn’t see me looking at you,” she murmured, tilting her head just slightly, her gaze locked on yours like a challenge. “Not after the way you were blushing down there.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but your brain stalled—completely useless under her gaze. She chuckled softly, leaning in just a bit, that smirk widening.

“Thought I’d come see if the view up here was as pretty as it was from the stage,” she said, voice like velvet. “Guess I was right.”

And god—you could feel the tension crackling between you like electricity, and all you could do was hope your heart didn’t literally explode from how hard it was pounding