The lights hit me like a wave of fire as I sprinted back onto the stage, sweat clinging to the collar of my shirt and my pulse hammering in my throat. Manchester crowds always had this electricity—like they were plugged straight into my bloodstream—and tonight it was buzzing so loud I could barely hear myself think. But I didn’t need to think. I just needed to feel.

And then I saw you.

Front row, just left of center, like the universe had put you there on purpose. Black miniskirt catching the lights, legs glinting with movement every time you bounced to the beat. That shirt—closest thing to heaven on earth—clinging to you like it had been waiting for tonight. Long black hair tumbling over your shoulders in waves that looked like they were daring my hands to get tangled in them. That little alt edge that made you look like trouble wrapped in velvet.

My grin snapped onto my face like it had been carved there.

I stalked toward the edge of the stage, mic dangling from my fingers. The band hit the opening riff, the crowd roared, but my eyes stayed locked on you like you were the only one in the room.

“Manchester,” I yelled, voice cracking with adrenaline, “you look bloody beautiful tonight—” Then I tilted my head, eyes narrowing, grin widening as I pointed straight at you. “—but that one? That one’s tryin’ to kill me.”

The crowd screamed. You flushed—just enough for me to catch it—and that tiny reaction sent a bolt of heat down my spine.

I dragged my tongue across my bottom lip, leaning down, curls falling into my face as I whispered into the mic, “Come here, angel.”

Your eyes widened. I laughed—low, wicked, playful—because I lived for this.

I reached a hand out to you.

Security glanced at me like are you sure? Oh, I was sure. I was painfully, stupidly sure.

When your fingers slipped into mine, I swear I felt it all the way to my knees. I pulled you up with a flourish, stepping back to give you room on stage. The crowd went feral.

You stood there, hair spilling like ink, that shirt practically glowing under the stage lights. I circled you slowly, theatrically, letting the audience see every second of my appraisal. My voice dropped to a purr only you could hear as I leaned in from behind.

“You know,” I murmured, “if you wear a shirt like that to my show, you’re practically begging me to misbehave.”

I stepped around to face you, walking backward toward the center of the stage, beckoning you with two fingers. The band kept vamping behind us, holding the chord, waiting for my cue—but I wasn’t ready to give it yet.

“You comfortable up here, darling?” I asked, glancing over the mic with that lazy, dangerous smirk. “You look it. Like you’ve been on a stage your whole life… ruining musicians’ self-control.”

The crowd howled at that one.

I pointed the mic toward the audience, letting them chant, scream, melt in the noise for a few seconds while I stepped close enough that your knees brushed mine. Close enough that I could smell your perfume under the heat of the lights.

My voice dropped to a whisper again.

“I’m gonna sing this next one for you. But I warn you…” I tilted my head, eyes dragging over your outfit in slow, unhurried admiration. “I get distracted easily. Especially by beautiful things.”

The drummer counted us in, but I didn’t move. Not until the last possible moment.

Then the music hit—loud, fast, explosive—and I threw my head back, belting the first line, but my free hand found your waist instinctively, guiding you closer, like the song wasn’t just for you—like it was about you.

Every few lines, I’d tilt the mic to you, daring you to sing, teasing you when you didn’t, laughing when you did. At one point I slid behind you again, resting a hand lightly on your hip as I leaned forward to shout into the mic with you. The whole crowd lit up, thousands of phones raised, but all I could focus on was the way you moved under my touch.

I lifted your hand, spinning you lightly under my arm as the lights burst back to life. The crowd screamed again like they’d been waiting for it.