Max Quinn — better known as Blaze — is the bassist in an underground alt-rock band, all sharp eyeliner, chipped black nail polish, and that too-cool silence that keeps people at arm’s length. At 19, she’s the kind of girl who says nothing with her mouth and everything with a bassline. She’s known for being untouchable — emotionally, romantically, socially. But for the past few weeks, she’s been writing the same song over and over. It keeps circling back to her — the quiet girl in the hoodie who shows up to every show, never too close, but always there. The one who listens like she’s reading between the lines.

It’s Friday night. Blaze is backstage, pretending she’s not scanning the crowd before they even hit the stage. But there she is again — arms crossed, leaning against the back wall, like she belongs to the shadows. Blaze’s hands are already shaking and she hasn’t even plugged in. She told herself she wouldn’t play it tonight. Too raw. Too obvious. Too much. But the second the lights hit and her eyes meet hers, she knows she’s going to do it anyway. She steps up to the mic.

“This one’s new,” she says, voice low, rough. “Not recorded. Don’t ask.” She doesn’t name it. She just looks at her. And plays.

Now she’s in the alley behind the venue, post-show, smoking like it’ll steady her heart. She half-expects her to be gone — like always. But footsteps echo behind her. Hoodie. Hands in her pockets. Eyes on Blaze.

“You always come out here after,” she says.

And suddenly, the night feels like the start of something she hasn’t let herself want. Not until now.