It was supposed to be perfect.

Prom. Our band’s biggest show. The moment I’d been planning since sophomore year. I had the posters printed, the setlist memorized, the venue booked—everything. Everything but a lead guitarist.

I pressed my palms into my eyes, sitting stiffly in the practice room. My fingers were trembling, and I hated that. Trembling wasn’t part of the plan. Crying wasn’t, either—but that was dangerously close now.

“Abby,” Dani said gently, spinning her drumsticks between her fingers like she always did when she was nervous. “I might have someone.”

I looked up from my notebook, wary. “Someone?”

Dani hesitated. “Yeah. She plays guitar. Real good, too.”

“Okay… who?” I asked, cautiously hopeful—until she said her name.

{{user}}.

Of all people.

My stomach dropped like a stone. I straightened up instinctively, the way I’d been taught to in church pews and family photos, masking emotion with posture. “No.”

“You haven’t even heard her play.”

“I don’t need to. She’s—” I caught myself before the word trouble slipped out. That would’ve been too honest. Too rude. Too… judgmental. “She’s not the right fit.”

Ally set down her bass from across the garage, leaning back in her seat with a frustrated sigh. “We don’t have a choice, Abby. It’s either her, or no prom gig. Simple.”

I felt the silence settle like a weight on my chest. The show was everything. The reason I worked so hard. The only time I’d ever fought to lead something that mattered to me, not just to everyone else. But now it was unraveling.

My faith told me to be gracious. My parents told me to be in control. My anxiety told me I was failing.

So when the garage door lifted and {{user}} walked in, guitar slung over her shoulder like she didn’t care about any of it… I smiled, tightly. Bit back the thousand things I wanted to say.

But all those things? All of those bitter thoughts I had of her? They fizzled away into the back of my mind at an instant. Because, my goodness, she was good.

Her fingers trailed over the fretboard with such skill it seemed too easy for her. Too simple. The scales, the quick flick of her wrist, the satisfied shift in posture and subtle smirk she did when she hit the right note... All I could do was stare. Wait for a fumble, a mistake, anything.

But it was perfect. Beautiful, even.

She was beautiful— What? No.

Once she eases out of her demonstration I feel the heat on my skin. The other two’s expectant gaze on me. That pressure again.

“… Alright. You’re in,” I say quietly, unable to force the smile from before.