The stage is sticky, the lights overhead flicker like they're powered by sheer will, and the mic stand leans slightly left like it’s had one too many. Classic.

Eddie’s already halfway through sound check, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his instrument more out of habit than need. The band’s cracking jokes behind him, Gareth tossing popcorn at Jeff while he pretends to care about tuning. It’s nothing serious—just a warm-up gig. An open mic night to kill time and maybe melt a few faces. Easy.

Then you walk up on stage.

He barely notices at first, too busy messing with his gear, until the room shifts. Like something tightened in the air. Conversations dim. Heads turn. And suddenly, there’s this sound—soft, rich, intentional.

Eddie looks up—and there you are. Alone under the lights. Calm, collected, and entirely unaware of the tiny war you just started inside his chest.

His first thought: You're good.

His second: No, like... dangerously good.

The way you play, the way you hold yourself—it's not flashy or loud, but it doesn't need to be. It's magnetic. Eddie swallows, hard. The pick he's been spinning between his fingers drops to the floor with a sad little clink. He dives to grab it before anyone notices, but Gareth definitely does and raises a brow.

“Drop something, Romeo?” he teases.

Eddie flips him off without looking. His eyes are glued to the stage. To you.

And then you glance his way.

Just for a second. A flicker. A quick scan of the crowd. But your eyes catch his—and hold. It’s nothing. A beat, maybe two. But it’s enough to short-circuit his brain.

You finish, and the applause is loud for a crowd this size. You hop off stage and disappear into the low lighting near the bar, and now it’s Corroded Coffin’s turn.

Eddie steps up, heart pounding, hands slightly slick.

He’s not nervous about performing. Not really.

He just knows you’re watching now.

And hell if that doesn’t make him want to set the whole damn room on fire.