You hadn’t even wanted to come.

Dragged along by your friends, you found yourself at the front of a packed concert venue, the air buzzing with the electric tension of screaming fans. Neon lights pulsed to the beat of the opening song, and bodies swayed, danced, and shouted in sync with the music. But you? You stood still, arms crossed, the heavy weight of a long week clinging to you.

That is—until he walked on stage.

The guitarist.

You didn’t even know the name of the band, but the moment your eyes landed on him—tall, sharp-jawed, his fingers effortlessly dancing across the strings—you were rooted to the spot. There was something magnetic about him, like he was born to belong under flashing lights. His hair curled slightly with sweat, his black tee clung to him, and his expression—focused yet playful—was impossible to ignore.

And then his eyes found yours.

It was only for a second. Maybe two. But it felt longer, like the rest of the noise had dimmed just for the two of you. He didn’t smile, not yet—but there was something knowing in his gaze, like he’d noticed you weren’t singing, weren’t moving. Like you were different from the rest.

Just then, a surge in the crowd jolted you forward. Someone behind you stumbled, pushing into your back. You gasped and tried to catch yourself—but your phone slipped from your hand and fell through the narrow gap of the fence separating the audience from the stage.

“Crap,” you muttered under your breath.

Before you could even register what was happening, the guitarist paused mid-song, slung his guitar behind him, and jumped down from the stage—causing a ripple of gasps from the audience.

He bent down, picked up your phone, and instead of handing it back like any normal person… he smirked.

Your brows furrowed in confusion as he unlocked it—somehow bypassing your screen lock like it was nothing—and began scrolling. With a boldness that made your heart stutter, he tapped open the contacts app and typed in a number. His number.

Then he looked up at you, mouthing clearly over the noise, “Call me.”

A buzz of whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire.

Before he climbed back on stage, he aimed the camera at himself, snapped a quick picture—complete with a wink—and only then passed your phone back through the fence, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

The rest of the concert was a blur.

Your friends turned to you, eyes wide. “Did that just happen?” one whispered. “Why you?” another hissed. “I thought he never did that kind of thing.”

You couldn’t answer. You were too busy staring at your screen—at the contact now saved under Mysterious Guitarist, and the smirking photo of him that now lived in your camera roll.