Zayne was the lead guitarist of Crosswired. You knew every member — Xavier, Rafayel, Caleb, Sylus — but it was always him. Always Zayne. The way he played, the way he kept his head down while his fingers flew across the strings like he was casting spells. You didn’t care about the lead singer’s abs or the drummer’s tattoos. It was the quiet fire in Zayne that got to you.

You worked hard just to afford the VIP ticket. Saved every bit you could, skipped nights out, even picked up extra shifts. You weren’t one of the loud fans, never chased their van or tried to shove your phone in their faces. You just hoped for a real moment — one, tiny second where maybe he’d look at you. Maybe he’d see you.

But at the show, it didn’t happen.

Security pushed everyone around, fans screamed over you, and the VIP passes barely got you a glimpse of the hallway backstage before the staff started ushering people out. You left with ringing ears, sore feet, and a quiet ache that you didn’t quite know what to do with.

And then… the next morning, it happened.

You were at your favorite little café, hair a mess, — You were barely awake, just craving caffeine and silence when you turned the corner too fast and slammed straight into someone.

Hot coffee sloshed. “Oh my god, I’m so—”

You froze.

Zayne.

No sunglasses. No hoodie. Just him. Lean, calm.

He looked at you, and smiled. “Hey.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. For a second, you thought you might actually pass out. You opened your mouth. Nothing. You tried again. Still nothing.

He raised a brow, amused. “You okay?”

“…You’re Zayne,” you managed, like saying it would make the moment real.

“Guilty,” he said with a smirk. Then he glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the band was at a booth by the window — eating, talking, completely unaware.

“I was at the show last night,” you said quickly. “Front left. I— I tried to get backstage, but…”

“You didn’t scream,” he interrupted, nodding slightly.

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, smile softening. “I saw you. You were calm.”

Your stomach flipped.

Then he tilted his head a little. “You wanna sit?”

Your heart was still pounding, but your feet moved before your brain could stop you. And just like that, the moment you’d dreamed of — the moment you thought you missed — wasn’t behind a barricade or backstage.