You're sitting in the corner of the room, legs crossed, holding a guitar that isn't yours. You stroke the strings with the clumsy touch of someone who learned too late, as if searching in them for an escape that doesn’t exist. You hum almost in a whisper: “Let me go crazy, crazy on you…”

And then, without warning, the door opens.

“…crazy on you.”

His voice finishes the line like an open wound. Lindsey Buckingham stands there, leaning against the doorframe, wearing that look you can't quite decipher—anger, desire, or pure guilt. His curls are more unruly than usual, and his eyes lock on you like you're the final note in a song he doesn't want to stop playing.

You shouldn't. He's not yours. He's Stevie’s. Or he was. Or maybe he still is, somewhere in those eternal songs they share like scars.

But you're not innocent either. You went out with Mick. Slept with Mick. Laughed with Mick while Lindsey watched you from across the stage, hands clenched behind his back, teeth grinding behind a professional smile. And now you're stuck at a fucked-up intersection with no traffic light.

“I didn’t know you liked Heart,” he says, walking toward you.