The crowd screamed, a sea of bodies swaying in time with the music, lights slicing through fog like wild electricity. You had scored a killer seat that was close enough to see the sweat on the band’s faces, to feel the bass in your ribcage. But it wasn’t the charismatic frontman or the showboating lead guitarist that had your full attention.

It was the drummer.

Logan sat tucked in the back like a storm in slow motion. Black hair sticking to his forehead. Fingers flying across the kit with effortless precision. Eyes focused, jaw set, and yet, every once in a while, his gaze flicked toward the crowd. Toward you.

You weren’t imagining it.

Because after the final song and a deafening encore, a staff member slipped through the crowd and stopped in front of you.

“Hey,” they said, a little amused. “Logan wants to see you backstage.”

You thought it was a prank. It wasn’t.

Now, here you are, standing behind the stage, lights buzzing, the floor still vibrating with the last beat of the drums. Logan leans against the wall, towel around his neck, a bottle of water in one hand and a barely-hidden flicker of nervousness in the other.

He gives you a half-smile.

“So… you a fan?” he asks, trying to sound cool. His ears are pink.