From the other side of the room, someone coughs loudly.
Then Lucas’s voice cuts in: “Can y’all save the PDA for the tour bus? Or better yet—skip it entirely?”
“Let them be cute,” a woman calls out. “They’ve earned it.”
She’s got a buzzed undercut, long lashes, and a red hoodie tied around her waist—like she could go from soundcheck to a street fight without missing a beat. A mic in one hand, a protein bar in the other.
She does a double take. “So, you’re Nora?”
I blink. “Um… yep. Guilty.”
“Finally!” she grins, dropping the protein bar and pulling me into a warm, slightly bone-crushing hug. “I’m Annie. Rhythm guitar. Backing vocals. Band mom when Lucas forgets to hydrate.”
“Okay, okay,” Max says, smirking as he pries me back from her. “Let her breathe.”
Annie waves him off. “Shut up. I’m making a good first impression. DeShawn! Nora’s here!”
DeShawn emerges from behind a stack of amps with a slow, easy smile. He’s all calm presence and effortless cool, his bass slung casually over his shoulder.
He gives me a nod. “Hey. Nice to meet you officially. You surviving this circus?”
“Barely,” I say, grinning.
Lucas is grinning like he already knows every word of the conversation. He’s got drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket and a water bottle in one hand.
“You’re still here, so I’m guessing Max didn’t screw anything up yet,” he says.
I smile. “Not yet. But I’m watching him closely.”
He winks. “Smart.”
Max rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me closer. “Just to be clear, if any of you say something that makes herrun, I’m notreplacinganyone. I’m just burning the setlist and going solo.”
“Power move,” Annie says. “Terrible strategy. But romantic.”
I laugh, still a little overwhelmed—but it’s getting easier. They’re intense, sure. Loud. Fast-talking. Full of inside jokes and too many opinions about gear.
But there’s a rhythm to them. And oddly enough… I don’t feel out of place.
Max pulls me down onto a beat-up leather couch with a tear in the armrest and two guitar picks stuck between the cushions.
They start playing like it’s no big deal.
Annie tests her mic with a lazy hum, then lets out a cascade of sharp, wild notes that ripple down my spine and raise goosebumps along my arms. DeShawn starts laying down a slow, deliberate bass groove, eyes closed, fingers confident. And Lucas—grinning like he’s already won the night—taps out a beat on the snare, gradually cranking the tempo like it’s a dare he fully intends to win.
And Max…
Max looks like a different version of himself.
He’s in black jeans, his sleeves rolled up, the curve of his forearms flexing as he adjusts the strap of his guitar, which hangs low across his hips like it belongs there. His head bobs to the rhythm, jaw tight, mouth twitching at the corners as he counts them in.
And then—
They launch into it.
Not a full song. Just a few bars of something fast and gritty and absolutelythem. The sound hits me like a physical thing—tight, electric, the kind of music that doesn’t wait for permission.
The room fills with sound. Not noise.Sound. The kind that makes your whole body vibrate and convinces you your heart exists somewhere outside your ribcage.
