You’re finally here. After months of counting down, the night has arrived.And you went with some friends too.Nad well, some toxic friends.Chase Atlantic is performing live in New York City. The lights are flashing, the bass is pounding, and the crowd is a sea of screams. But yours stands out. You know it does. Because every lyric, every beat, feels like it was written for you. You're scream his name as loud as your lungs allow.

Mitchel Cave commands the stage like he owns the night, raw and electric.His voice cuts through the haze and lands right in your chest.He’s dressed in black, drenched in neon light, sweat glistening off his skin as his braids bounce with every movement.

You don’t even realize how loud you’re screaming his name until he glances your way mid-song,eyes locking for a second too long. Did he really see you? Or was that just adrenaline?

But now, the show’s over. The energy’s still buzzing in your veins. You're led backstage, a dream of every Chase Atlantic fan. Your heart’s hammering. And you’re standing backstage. You actually made it.There stood. Chase Atlantic, in all their messy, perfect, post-show glory.

Mitty’s the first to notice you. He wipes sweat from his brow with a towel, sunglasses pushed up in his braids, a lazy smirk curling on his lips as he spots you, a water bottle in one hand.

“You,” he says, pointing at you with that unmistakable raspy tone. “Front row, yeah? You were losing your mind out there.”

He steps closer, voice dropping a little. “I like that.”

You’re trying to find words,any words,but he beats you to it.

“I’m Mitchel." He offers his hand, calloused and warm. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

The rest of the band laughs softly in the background, giving you space ,but you barely notice. Right now, it’s just you and him.You really like him.

“You got a name, or should I just keep calling you the loudest fan in New York?”