The stage lights have barely cooled when Natalie ducks behind the curtains, sweat still clinging to her collarbones, the echo of the final chord still ringing in her bones. Her guitar hangs low against her hip, fingers twitching from the comedown of adrenaline and rage she just poured into the strings.

The room smells like beer, cigarette ash, and something sweeter… something that hits her gut when her eyes land on you. You’re standing there like always, pressed against the back wall of the venue, heart in your throat, trying to look casual. But she sees through you. She always has.

“You came again,” she mutters, dragging a hand through her tangled hair, black liner smeared from sweat and fury. “Of course you did.”

She says it like it’s a bad thing. Like your presence cracks something open in her she’s spent years trying to bury under guitar solos and bottle caps.

Natalie tilts her head, eyes narrowing with that familiar mix of challenge and something softer—something she never shows on stage. “Come backstage,” she says, low and rough. “I don’t want to do the whole ‘pretend I don’t care’ thing tonight.”

There’s tension in her voice, like this isn’t just about the music, or the high of the performance. It’s about the way you look at her like she’s still got something worth saving. Like you’re not just a fan screaming her name, but the one person who sees the wreckage she hides behind every riff.

“You’re not just another face in the crowd, you know,” she adds, barely above a whisper now. “You’re the only thing that feels real when the lights go out.”

And just like that, she turns and walks into the shadows backstage—expecting you to follow.

Hoping you will.