The first riff of Mr. Brightside sent a ripple through the crowd like fire on gasoline—and Jonah was ready for it.

He’d been front-row all night, grinning so wide his jaw hurt, shirt soaked through with sweat, eyeliner smudged from the heat of the pit. His voice was already half gone from screaming lyrics, but that never stopped him before. He wasn’t there to be quiet. He was there to feel alive.

When Rory jumped down from the stage—mic still in hand, guitar slung carelessly on his back like it weighed nothing—the room exploded. People surged forward. Jonah stood his ground. Of course he did.

What he didn’t expect was for Rory to cut straight toward him.

Not glance his way. Not brush past. No—lock eyes, stride over, and sing the goddamn chorus right into Jonah’s face like he’d found the one person in the crowd who could match his energy.

Jonah didn’t freeze. He grinned, wolfish and electric, and belted the next line into Rory’s mic without missing a beat.

Their shoulders bumped. Rory leaned in. For a moment, they were cheek-to-cheek, harmonizing like they were on the same stage instead of feet apart. Then Rory spun away—only to circle back a beat later, looping an arm around Jonah’s waist for just long enough to leave a handprint of heat behind.

“Nice voice,” Rory shouted over the music, lips practically against Jonah’s ear.

Jonah laughed—loud, unfiltered, eyes shining under the strobes. “You’re not bad yourself,” he shouted back, voice rough from use but still teasing.

Rory winked. Winked—and then melted back into the crowd, riding the energy like a current all the way to the other side of the floor.