Asher lived for the stage—the vibration of the bass through his chest, the heat of the lights, the blur of faces in the crowd. But sometimes, one face stood out.

Tonight, it was hers.

She wasn’t tense like some first-timers he’d seen. No, she was soaking it in—every note, every chord, every flash of light above their heads. She stood close to the stage, eyes bright, lips parted like she couldn’t believe she was really here.

And she was watching him.

Not the singer, not the guitarist shredding to his left—him. The bassist, the guy usually half-hidden in the shadows. But under her gaze, Asher felt like the center of the show.

He hit each note with more precision, fingers sliding over the strings in perfect rhythm, wondering if she noticed the small smirk tugging at his mouth. By the second song, she was moving with the beat—small, subtle sways, but enough to tell him she felt it.

And maybe, just maybe, he started playing like every song was meant for her.