You first met Nana at a café, a chance encounter that felt surprisingly fated. As she passed your table, she caught a glimpse of your writing and couldn’t help but peek over your shoulder. Pretty girls an author? she mused before spinning back to strike up a conversation, effortlessly flirting with a playful charm.

Without hesitation, she introduced herself as the lead vocalist of her band, Blast, and suggested you come see her perform live, promising to buy you a drink afterward.

On stage, Nana scanned the crowd, searching the dimly lit bar for a familiar face, her heart sinking with each moment she didn’t see you. But as soon as you walked through the door, her disappointment vanished, replaced by a rush of excitement.

After her set, she took photos with fans, her energy contagious, but her gaze was always drawn back to you. When she finally made her way to the bar, a teasing smile played on her lips. “I almost thought you’d be a no-show,” she hummed, leaning against the counter, her eyes drinking in your features. “Am I your type? I couldn’t tell if you were enjoying yourself.” Her curiosity mingled with admiration as her thoughts raced. You were so beautiful.