“Yeah. Who’s asking?”
“This is Carl, manager over at The Lantern. You and your band sent a demo a while back?”
For a second, my brain blanks. Then everything kicks in at once—blood rushing, chest tight, pen slipping out of my fingers. “Yeah. Yeah, that was us.”
“Well, I gave it another listen this week. I like the sound. We’ve got an opening Friday next week—ten days out. Half-hour set. You interested?”
Interested? My pulse spikes so hard I nearly laugh. “Hell yes, we’re interested.”
“Good. You’ll bring your own gear. Load-in at seven, doors open at eight, you’re on at nine thirty. Payment’s modest, but if you guys pull a crowd, there’ll be repeat opportunities. Think of it as an audition for more.”
“Got it.” I’m pacing now, the guitar forgotten, Ollie staring at me like he’s trying to piece together the puzzle. “We’ll be there.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll email the details to the address you gave with the demo.”
“Perfect. Thanks, man.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Just bring it.”
The call ends. I lower the phone, staring at the screen like it might bite me. Then I look at Ollie, and the grin cracks my face so hard it hurts.
“The Lantern,” I say, breathless. “We’re in.”
His brows rise, and then—slowly, like he’s absorbing the weight of my words—he smiles. And fuck, that smile does something to me.
I’m too wired to sit. I’m pacing the living room, weaving between the coffee table and the couch, words tumbling out faster than I can control. “Ten days, man. We’ve got ten days to polish everything, to nail the setlist, to make sure we’re unforgettable. This is it—this is the kind of break we’ve been waiting for.”
Ollie sets his guitar aside, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches me burn a groove into the carpet. His eyes are steady, calm in the middle of my storm.
“You’re ready,” he says simply.
The words stop me cold. Because he doesn’t sayyou will beoryou could be. He saysyou’re ready. Present tense and so fucking certain.
I sink back onto the couch, my chest heaving with adrenaline, and I laugh—half wild, half disbelieving. “You really think so?”
His mouth tips into a small, sure smile. “I’ve watched you onstage. You’ve got it.”
I can’t breathe for a second. Not because of The Lantern, not because of the gig. Because Ollie Marshall, the guy who spends his whole life under pressure and still never cracks, just told me I’ve got it. And the way he says it, firm and serious, makes me believe it more than I ever have before.
I scrub a hand over my face, dragging in a breath, then lean back against the couch, close enough that our knees bump. “Ten days,” I whisper, the words tasting like fire. “We’ve got ten days to blow the roof off that place.”
And sitting here, guitar strings humming faint in the air from the stereo, Ollie’s heat seeping into my side, I feel it—that pulse I’ve been chasing since the day I met him. Music and him. Him and music. The heartbeat I can’t ignore.
I don’t realize I’m still grinning until my face starts to ache. Ollie’s watching me like he’s memorizing this version of me—the hopped-up, vibrating, can’t-sit-still idiot who just got told a door finally opened.
“Text the guys,” he says, calm as a metronome.
“Already on it.” My thumbs are moving before my brain catches up.
Me: LANTERN CALLED. WE’RE IN. 10 DAYS. FRIDAY. 9:30 SET.
Miles: SHUT. UP.
Eli: HE’S LYING. HE’S LYING.
Miles: Confirm details. Is this real?
Me: Load-in 7. Doors 8. 30 min set. Bring gear. Carl’s emailing.
