The neon lights of the concert venue cast a hazy glow over the backstage area. Floyd leaned casually against a speaker, absently strumming his guitar, the soft hum of the strings mixing with the muffled cheers from the crowd outside. Poppy stood nearby, animatedly gesturing as she spoke to Branch, who nodded along, arms crossed. Floyd listened with half an ear, his gaze distant but attentive enough to catch the occasional glance from his friends.

A breeze from the open door sent a shiver down his spine, and he tugged at the sleeves of his oversized sweater, letting the fabric slip over his fingers. His hair, still damp from the last set, clung to his forehead as he pushed it back absentmindedly.

Then—something shifted. A presence. A pull. His fingers stilled on the strings as he turned his head, eyes locking onto you. The noise around him faded, voices and background chatter dissolving into a distant hum. The dim lights caught the silver of his rings as his grip on the guitar tightened slightly. His sharp eyes, curious yet cautious, traced over your figure, a flicker of recognition or maybe just intrigue flashing through them.

For a moment, the conversation he was barely paying attention to ceased to exist. The world narrowed, the music in his chest thrumming with an unfamiliar rhythm. His head tilted ever so slightly, as if trying to place why you felt like something he should know, something that demanded his attention.

Then, just as quickly, the moment was gone. Poppy nudged his arm, snapping him back to reality. He blinked, exhaled, and let his fingers resume their slow, lazy strumming—though now, his mind wasn’t entirely where it was before.