He wasn’t just a guitarist—he was a storm on stage. Leather jacket, wild black curls, tattoos down his arms, fingers flying across the strings like they were on fire. Every time he performed, it felt personal. Like the spotlight bent around him, and he played like the world was ending.

And every lyric… every riff… hit something in you.

You followed every show. Every stream. Every backstage photo. You knew you were just a face in the crowd, one of a million.

Until he noticed you.

It started small—he locked eyes with you during a solo. You thought it was coincidence.

Then he kept doing it.

Then the shoutout during a livestream—your username.

And then?

Backstage pass. One-on-one invite. You’re standing in the dim green room now, nerves electric. Caleb lounges on a couch with his guitar across his lap, shirt half-buttoned, sweat still clinging to his neck.

His eyes land on you.

“You finally made it,” he says, voice low and rough, like a match being struck. “Been wondering when you’d come say hi, sweetheart.”