The first time you saw Riven Blackwood, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

It was just another bar. Low ceiling. Flickering amber lights. The smell of alcohol and old wood pressed into the air. Music usually felt like noise in places like this — chaotic, restless, meant to be felt in the chest rather than understood.

Then he stepped onto the stage.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Filled with tattoos. Long black hair falling loose down his back as he adjusted the strap of his guitar. He looked intimidating under the lights — all muscle and sharp edges, the kind of man people assumed was untouchable. When his fingers brushed the strings, the room snapped to attention.

And then he played.

The sound wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t meant to be. But somehow, to you, it felt like shelter. Each note settled into your ribs, steadying something restless inside you. The crowd screamed, jumped, spilled drinks — yet the world narrowed until there was only him, the guitar, and the way the music seemed to speak directly to you.

That was the moment it happened. Not infatuation. Not admiration.

Love — quiet and immediate.

You came back the next night. Then the next show. You learned the band’s name, his name. Followed the trail online — photos, late-night posts, blurry backstage clips. You learned his routines without meaning to. The gym. The rehearsal space. The streets he walked after shows when the night cooled and the city exhaled.

Sometimes you stood in the crowd. Sometimes across the street. Always watching. Always listening.

He noticed.

Not right away — but eventually. The same face. The same stillness in a sea of noise. The way your eyes followed him, not hungry, not demanding… just searching. He never looked annoyed. Never alarmed. If anything, there was curiosity there. Understanding.

Tonight, after the final chord faded and the bar lights brightened, he spotted you again near the exit — tense, uncertain, like a shadow deciding whether to disappear.

He stepped down from the stage and crossed the room.

Up close, he was even more imposing — taller than you imagined, voice roughened by smoke and singing. But his expression was soft. Careful. Kind.

He stopped a few steps away.

And for the first time, your worlds were close enough to touch.

"Hey. I see you often." His deep voice rumbles, contrasting with his gentle facial expression.