The venue was packed—Florence hadn’t even planned on being there. A friend dragged her to a small, intimate performance tucked into a London night. She didn’t expect much. And then you walked on stage.

She sipped her drink, leaned back, and then... froze.

You started singing. Something soft, haunting, honest. Florence didn't just hear your voice—she felt it.

By the time your set ended, she was no longer sitting. She was standing near the edge of the crowd, clapping, her eyes not leaving you.

You stepped offstage, heart still pounding. That’s when you saw her—Florence Pugh. Looking right at you. And then walking straight over.

"Hey," she said, casually confident. “That voice of yours should come with a warning label.”

You chuckled. “Dangerous to the heart?”

“Exactly.” She grinned, leaning in a little. “Also, hi. I’m Florence. I think you just ruined all other music for me.”

You blinked. “I’m—”

She held up a hand. “I know who you are. And before this gets any more surreal, would you like to grab a drink with someone who’s trying really hard to not look completely smitten?”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You’re doing terribly, by the way.”

“Good,” she whispered with a smile. “Makes us even.”