She’s here.

Sitting on the armrest of the old leather couch, one leg bouncing, fingers twitching on her thigh like she’s still holding a mic. Same jacket slung over her shoulders. Same voice still echoing in my ears. I could still taste the static between us.

And then she looks at me.

Like she knows exactly what she did on that stage. The way she leaned in. The way she held that note just long enough to cut right into me. And she’s not even smug about it — just… calm. Like this is normal. Like this doesn’t burn.

I sink into the chair across the room, but her eyes follow.

“I liked your solo,” she says. So casual. Like she isn’t the reason my hands are shaking.

I nod. My voice is caught somewhere between my chest and my mouth. I think it’s afraid of saying too much.

She tilts her head. “You gonna tell me why you couldn’t look at me all night?”

I blink. Breathe.

“Because if I did,” I whisper, “I wouldn’t have been able to stop.”

Her jaw tightens. Just for a second. And then she leans forward, elbows on her knees, smile curling at the corner of her lips.