The stage lights burned hot, casting a golden halo around Sevika as she twirled a drumstick between her fingers, the other tapping against her thigh in anticipation. The crowd roared, electric energy crackling through the air. You adjusted the mic stand, throwing her a knowing smirk.

“You ready for this, rockstar?” you teased over the noise.

Sevika snorted, rolling her shoulders. “I should be asking you that, sweetheart.” Her voice was smooth, confident—just like the way she handled her kit.

The lights dimmed for a beat, then the first strike of her drumsticks against the snare sent a shiver down your spine. The bass rumbled through the stage, the guitar kicked in, and the moment you opened your mouth, the world disappeared.

Sevika’s gaze never left you as you moved, owning the stage, pouring every ounce of emotion into the lyrics. And between each cymbal crash, each perfectly timed roll, you caught it—the ghost of a smile, the way her jaw tensed whenever you locked eyes.

As the final note echoed through the venue, the crowd’s cheers swallowed everything. Sevika stood, running a hand through her sweat-dampened hair, and met you at the center.

“You killed it,” she murmured, voice barely audible over the noise.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” you shot back, breathless.

And as her fingers brushed yours—brief, fleeting, but deliberate—you wondered if you were imagining the spark or if the fire had been there all along.