The room was thick with sound. Gritty riffs clawed through the speakers like a storm over wet pavement, and the lights spun in jagged bursts of red and white, casting long shadows against the brick walls of the venue—a tucked-away haunt in Shoreditch, bigger than any stage Black Vale had stepped on before, but still small enough to feel like it could implode with the right chord.

Mattheo Riddle fed off the chaos. He always did.

The crowd was packed tighter than usual—thanks to some random TikTok video that threw Black Vale’s last single into the bloodstream of the internet. He didn’t even have the app. Didn’t care. But tonight? Tonight, he cared. Tonight, he gripped his bass like it was an extension of his spine, back arched, chain glinting beneath the open white button-up that clung to him like smoke.

They were halfway through the set when it happened.

His eyes swept over the audience out of instinct—he always scanned for fights, for bored faces, for girls trying too hard or guys trying to start something. But this time, everything stilled. His fingers kept moving, muscle memory guiding the song forward, but his pulse fucking stopped.

There you were. Standing near the barricade, near stage left, lit up by the strobes like a goddamn vision. And smiling. At him.

Seven weeks. Seven fucking weeks since he bumped into you at Earl’s Court Station. Since your coat sleeve caught on his and the train doors slammed shut behind the both of you. Since you sat together on the cracked stone bench under the flickering timetable board, trading stories like old friends who didn’t realize they’d just met. The kind of conversation that disarmed him. Unraveled him. Left him wondering what the hell just happened after you boarded your train and vanished—no name, no number, just your laugh echoing in his chest like a song stuck on loop.

He had believed he’d fumbled the only girl who’d ever made him forget about time.

And now, there you were again.

The rest of the gig blurred. He played like he was possessed, but his eyes kept snapping back to you—like you were the only real thing in the room, like the crowd didn’t exist, like every lyric he’d ever written suddenly had a face to attach to it.

The moment the last note rang out, the crowd roared—but Mattheo didn’t even hear it.

He darted backstage with the band, sweaty and wired, adrenaline still flooding every cell. He tried to play it cool, like he hadn’t just seen a ghost—or an angel—but his hands were shaking, his smirk sharper than usual to cover the buzz under his skin. He ripped a cigarette out of his hoodie pocket but didn’t light it. Just held it.

Then he heard the voice of their manager—somewhere behind the curtain of gear and crew and beer-stained concrete.

“She said she knows you. Didn’t give a name. Just asked if she could come back.”

And when you stepped through the backstage threshold—hair tousled, eyes bright, that same half-smile on your lips—Mattheo forgot how to breathe.

He was on you in seconds, slow but certain, chain glinting, curls damp at his temples, shirt sticking to his chest. His eyes locked on you like he might miss you again if he so much as blinked.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” he murmured, voice low and dripping disbelief. “You’re real.”

And he wasn’t letting fate fumble this twice. Not tonight. Not ever.