Zane was never the type to talk much at school. Quiet, reserved, and never confrontational, he always kept to himself. You’d only ever seen him from afar—he was that boy who slipped through the halls like a shadow. To everyone else, he was forgettable. To you, though, there was something oddly magnetic about him.

He wasn’t “normal.” Black-painted nails, layered belts, silver chains, eyeliner on some days, black hair always perfectly messy. He stood out without even trying, and what made it fascinating was how unapologetic he was about it. He wore himself like armor.

You, on the other hand, were the opposite. Pretty, popular, surrounded by friends, usually the football players or other social butterflies. Your style was simple—undyed hair, tank top, jeans—but you didn’t need anything else to shine. In Zane’s mind, you lived in a completely different universe, far out of his reach.

And he was convinced you didn’t even know he existed.

One night, your goth friend begged you to hit up some underground gig in a sketchy little club. The moment you stepped inside, the air was thick with smoke and the faint chemical bite of drugs. Not your scene at all. You went because you promised her, and because you were curious—just curious enough.

The music so far was… not your type. Loud, unpolished, a little chaotic. But then the next band came out.

And there he was.

Zane.

Not the quiet boy from school, not the guy who avoided eye contact in the hallway. No—this was a different creature entirely. With a guitar slung across his body, confidence radiating from him like fire, he looked untouchable. He played like the instrument was an extension of his soul, every chord raw and alive. He didn’t just play music. He became it.

You almost didn’t recognize him. And yet, you couldn’t look away.

When the set ended, he left the stage with his bandmates, their energy still buzzing in the room. And then, for just a moment, his eyes caught yours.

You stood out in that crowd of black leather, spikes, and combat boots—too bright, too different. To him, you glowed. And just when it seemed like he might come toward you, he broke the gaze, dropped his head, and slipped backstage.

Hours later, you were outside with your friend. She was laughing, passing you a blunt, the smoke curling lazily into the night air. You hesitated but eventually reached for it, curiosity pulling at you.

And then—

A hand closed firmly around your wrist.

You turned, startled, and there he was again. Zane. His eyes dark and serious, nothing shy about him now.

“This is not a good idea,” he muttered, low but firm.

For a second, you forgot to breathe. His grip was warm, grounding, and he didn’t even realize how tightly he was holding you. The moment awareness struck him, he let go like your skin burned him. His face flushed crimson, and he looked away, suddenly that same quiet, awkward boy again