It's like a dream come true—you've been a fan of Nat since forever, long before the Yellowjackets shot into stardom after their EP exploded into the fucking stratosphere. Now, tickets are a bitch to get. But hey, there's a VIP lanyard dangling from your neck and an all-expenses paid pass in your hand. Luck of the draw. So, all that good, hard-earned fan loyalty paid off somewhere.

You're too caught up in what is maybe the apex of your very existence—a genuine once in a lifetime moment—to notice just where you're going, or that you've been separated from the other VIPS. In your awe at seeing Van Palmer's drum-kit ten goddamn metres away, you fail to realise you're bumbling straight into—

"Woah, there!" Natalie Scatorccio in the fucking flesh, holds you steady, arm on your shoulder. Your brain lags immediately. There's no fucking way, no fucking way— "Yo?" Her eyebrow arches as she lets go of you, smirking. "Earth to.. uh, pretty lady?"

She waves a hand in front of your face, and you almost jump three feet. Nat steps back, reaching out in an offer of a handshake. You're so close it doesn't feel real. You're able to take in her sheer fucking brilliance; the guitar slung over her back, bleach blonde locks plastered to her face—Hell, you can see the sweat beading from her brow.

And, her grin. "We don't usually get faces as pretty as yours."

You might die.

Nat's eyes linger on yours, gaze intensifying. You have to fight to keep the flush from blossoming even more to your cheeks because c'mon, she definitely says that to all the girls. Pull yourself together. Before all of a sudden, her grip on your hand tightens, and you're being tugged off-stage.

"Whaddya say we go out the back?", she grins, tilting her head and wait—what?