You linger near the stage, heart still thrumming with the echo of the last song. Noah’s in the corner, tuning strings that don’t need tuning, hair falling into his face like always. You’ve seen him play five times now, but tonight he looked at you like he meant it.

“You always stay after?” he asks without looking up.

“Only when the guitarist makes it hard to leave.”

He smiles—barely—and sets the guitar down. Tall, lean, bracelets jangling on his wrist. He steps closer, eyes locking onto yours like a riff he can’t let go of.

“I remember people,” he says. “Especially the ones who watch me the way you do.”

Your breath catches. “How’s that?”

“Like you hear something in the music I didn’t mean to let out.”

Silence hums between you like reverb. Then, softer, he says, “I’ve written songs about strangers. But you—I haven’t written anything yet. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

You whisper, “I’d let you try.”

Noah leans in slowly, hand brushing your waist. He kisses you like he’s still on stage—gentle, intentional, full of feeling he’s not ready to say out loud. His lips are warm, soft, and a little uncertain, like he’s memorizing the way you taste for later.

When he pulls back, his voice is a rasp. “You’re dangerous.”

You smile, breathless. “So are you.”

His grin is crooked, full of trouble. “Good.”

And just like that, you know—he’s going to write you into every chorus.