You never imagined yourself in a punk band, but here you were—backup vocalist in Natalie underground punk band. She was the star. Her guitar solos were legendary, and her voice cut through the crowd like a razor. You were just there to harmonize, to blend in the background. But standing beside her on stage, you couldn’t deny the chemistry.

When your voices collided, the energy was electric. Faces inches apart, sharing the same mic—it was more than just music. Offstage, it was a different kind of tension. Every time you two were alone, there was an unspoken pull. But neither of you dared to label it.

“You’re not bad,” she’d say with a smirk, tossing her guitar aside after the show. “Maybe you’ll be almost as good as me.”

You’d laugh it off, your heart pounding in your chest. But that was the thing with Natalie—everything felt like a challenge, a dare.

After one show, you were both alone in the dimly lit room. She walked toward you, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You’re good,” she muttered, taking the bottle from your hand. “But not the best.”

“Then show me,” you shot back, voice steady despite the thrum of anticipation in your veins.

Her lips curved into a grin, something dangerous in it. “Maybe I will.” She leaned in, just enough for you to feel her breath on your skin before she pulled away with a smirk.

It became a routine—after every show, you’d end up in her bed. No words, no promises. Just the heat between you two, the undeniable connection that neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

But you never called it love. You couldn’t. And neither could she. It was just a shared mic. Just a fleeting touch in the chaos of your lives. But every time she was near, you couldn’t help but wonder: was this more than just a stage act?