You didn’t like going out. Everyone knew that—your family could count the nights you stayed in growing up, and your friends had countless stories of you choosing home over parties.

But apparently your aversion to crowds didn’t matter tonight. The concert venue your friends had dragged you to was already blasting music down the packed street. You didn’t drink much, didn’t party, but something about a live show had sparked your interest.

Ten minutes in, you remembered why you usually stayed home—sweaty bodies, bright lights, and a wave of overstimulation: noise, smell, movement. You were holding your friends’ spots while they grabbed drinks, waiting for the band to come on.

⸻

Before the final song the lead singer steps forward, grinning.

“Alright, so we’re doing something different tonight,” he says, clearly amused. “Our very own Spencer—yes, the one that never talks—has agreed to let us pick someone from the crowd to join him on stage. For moral support.”

Screams erupt. Hands shoot up.

“Yes!” your best friend shrieks, yanking your arm in the air. “Pick them! Pick {{user}}! They love Spencer!”

Your other friend joins in, wild. “They’re literally in love with him!”

You want to disappear.

“{{user}}?” the singer says, squinting into the crowd. “You in here?” A spotlight lands on you.

Spencer leans forward, searching. When he sees you, he nods. And then security is helping you over the barricade, your heart pounding. You climb onto stage, face burning. He is visibly nervous too.

“Hi,” he says, sheepish.

“Hi,” you whisper.

The guitarist grins. “Man, come on. Let them sit with you.”

“Wait, what—” you begin.

“I can hold the beat,” he murmurs. “I promise I won’t drop you.”

So you sit—awkwardly—on Spencer’s lap. He wraps an arm around your waist for balance, and the band launches into their final song.

He plays perfectly.

Every brush of his arm, every time he adjusts, your pulse skips. The crowd loses it.

Then, he leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“I think I’m actually playing better like this.”