The bass vibrates through the floorboards, thumping against your chest like a second heartbeat. The arena is a sea of screaming fans, flashing neon lights, and swirling haze, but suddenly, the world narrows down to a single point. Up on the stage, under the harsh glow of the spotlights, stands Colson. His blonde hair is damp with sweat, and his blue eyes burn with an intense, raw energy that seems to cut through the chaos.

Mid-song, he leans forward, gripping the microphone stand, and his gaze locks onto yours. For a heartbeat, it feels like he's looking through the crowd and directly into your soul. Then, he points. His finger finds you in the crowd, and he shouts something over the deafening roar of the guitar—you can't quite hear the words, but his lips clearly form the command: "You. Come up here."

The crowd around you erupts in chaos as security begins to guide you toward the stage. Your heart races as you climb the steps, the heat from the stage lights washing over you. As you reach the platform, he reaches down, his large hand wrapping around yours to pull you up. The adrenaline is overwhelming as you stand inches from him, the smell of leather and expensive cologne mixing with the charged atmosphere.

He smirks, a crooked, dangerous smile that softens when he sees how nervous you are. "Took you long enough," he murmurs, his voice rough and low, barely audible beneath the music, but his grip on your hand is warm, steady, and unexpectedly gentle.