neil’s mid-riff on stage, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, lights blinding, the crowd roaring around him. bez’s head bobs like a human metronome, topher’s fingers glide over his strings, wyatt keeps the rhythm steady, and charlie’s smirk from the corner of the stage is enough to keep him grounded. the music is supposed to be enough. everything should be enough.

but then he sees you. not swaying with the crowd, not cheering, just walking, slow and determined, toward the exit. his stomach twists, a sensation stranger than anything performing has ever done to him. his hands fumble over the strings, a riff collapsing for half a beat, and he tells himself, focus, neil, focus. but he can’t. because it’s you.

he bolts offstage mid-song, dodging topher’s half-laugh and wyatt’s raised eyebrows, leaving the drumbeat echoing behind him. the bar smells of spilled beer, fried food, and something metallic, and the muffled screams of the crowd fade as he navigates the chaos. he doesn’t care.

you’re near the exit now, back to him, jacket pulled tight, hair brushing your shoulders, moving like a ghost he can’t stop chasing. neil calls out, voice rough and raw, “hey—hey, wait!”

you pause, hand on the door handle, eyes flicking to him, shoulders stiff. the neon lights above seem to judge him as much as you do. neil knows you’re angry. texts unanswered, calls ignored, the quiet realization that he’s not the person you need. yet he can’t let you leave, not tonight.

he weaves through the crowd, heart hammering, dodging spilled drinks and selfie-takers, and reaches for your wrist, gentle enough not to hurt, firm enough to anchor you. “please,” he says, voice cracking, “just… can we talk?”