Onstage
Tonight is the first show.
And I’m more nervous than ifIwere the one going on stage.
We’re at the arena hours before the crowd. The venue smells like cold concrete and warm metal and distant popcorn. The air hums with the quiet chaos of cables being tested, lights warming up, and crew members shouting into radios. There’s a sort of electricity in the space already, like the whole building is holding its breath.
Max disappears backstage for soundcheck, and I’m left standing by the side curtain, hands clenched in the sleeves of my jacket. I probably look out of place in my jeans and ankle boots, the only one not wearing a lanyard or headset. But nobody seems to mind.
I spot DeShawn tuning his bass, Lucas arguing with the lighting guy over a last-minute change, and Annie stretching like she’s about to run a marathon.
And Max?
He’s already transformed.
Gone is the Max who kisses me half-asleep in the pod and buys me too many kinds of toothbrushes just in case. This version is larger-than-life. Dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a sleeveless black tee that’s downright illegal on those arms. His guitar is slung low. His jaw’s tight with focus. His voice, when he tests the mic, is low and dangerous and addictive.
I stand off to the side, feeling invisible and oddly grateful for it.
Because watching him in his element?
It’s like seeing him from the outside for the first time.
The man I’m falling for belongs to thousands of screaming fans. And yet—he keeps glancing toward me likeI’mthe one grounding him.
Showtime creeps closer.
The house lights dim. The bass vibrates through the floor. The intro track begins—something cinematic and thunderous—and I feel it in my chest like a heartbeat.
And then they’re on.
Storm & Silence.
All of them, stepping out onto the stage like gods in boots and leather.
The crowderupts.
And Max?
He owns the night.
Every lyric he sings, every guitar lick, every moment he throws his head back and lets his voice rip through the dark—he's fire. He’s chaos and command and charm.
I feel like I’m watching someone I both know intimately and not at all.
Because this version of Max—the onstage one, drenched in sweat and power and swagger?
He’s sex on legs.
And judging by the signs being waved in the crowd, I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“Marry me, Max!”
“Max, spit in my mouth!”
“Your voice is my religion!”
One fan’s holding a glittery poster that just says,I WANT TO BE YOUR GUITAR.
