The lights were blinding, the crowd roaring, his fingers flying over strings like they’d been born to them—but none of it mattered the second his gaze snagged on them. Right there, dead center in the pit, looking up at him like the rest of the goddamn world didn’t exist. It shouldn’t have thrown him. He’d been playing this stage game since before half these kids were born. Had the muscle memory for every chord, every lyric burned into his bones.

But then—there they were. And he forgot how to breathe.

“Shit—wait, fuck—” he muttered, hot into the mic, cutting off mid-verse. The wrong note hit the speakers like a tire iron to the teeth.

A split-second of confusion from the band. Drumsticks stuttered. Lights didn’t match the beat.

Kerry never fucked up. Not live. Not in front of thousands. Not even when he was blitzed outta his skull back in '09 and Johnny was screaming into his left ear about selling out.

But he was fucking it up now. Because of them.

“Hold up! Hold up, gimme a goddamn second,” he barked into the mic, waving a hand at the sound tech like it was their fault he’d just melted down on stage. “Y’all hear that? Sound’s off. Levels—levels are fucked.” He wasn’t even sure what he was saying.

He turned his back to the crowd. Pressed both palms into his thighs, heart hammering.

“What the hell are you doing, Eurodyne,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “This ain’t your first fuckin’ rodeo. Get your shit together.”

But when he glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes snapped right back to {{user}}.

They weren’t dancing. Weren’t screaming. Just standing there. Still. Staring up at him with this quiet, burning look that made his stomach flip like a damn schoolboy’s.

“Oh, fuck me,” he hissed under his breath, before spinning back to face the crowd. He slapped the mic twice. “Yeah, yeah, we’re back, don’t worry. Technical shit. You know how it goes.”

He strummed the opening riff again, wrists fluid, trying to ride the groove like normal.

But then his eyes found them again. And stuck.

“You know what?” He grinned suddenly, grabbing the mic stand with one hand. “We’re gonna switch it up. Do something a little more raw. Strip it down.”

The band paused. He didn’t care.

“This next one—uh…” He faltered. The lyrics were right there, on the tip of his tongue, but they didn’t come. Not right. Not the ones he meant to sing.

He looked at them. Right at {{user}}. Centered all of it. His voice dropped a little. Just enough to sound real. Just enough to make the girls up front go quiet.

“This next one’s for someone who made me forget how to play my own fuckin’ song.”

He let the silence sit a moment.

“Didn’t know that was still possible. But apparently, all it takes is a pair of eyes in the crowd and my brain just—” he made an exploding motion with his hand, “—gone. Straight out the goddamn window.”

He pointed to them. Subtle, but enough.

“You. You did that.”

Cheers surged, but he didn’t hear them.

“Hope you’re proud of yourself, babe. ‘Cause now if I bomb this next track, everyone’s gonna know exactly who to blame.”

The grin he gave them was sharp. Shy. Real.

“You make a hell of a muse.”

He strummed the first note. Nailed it this time. Let the sound carry. Let it burn.

And he didn’t look away from them once.