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Just a small, quick wink. The kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking directly at him.

My knees actually feel like they might not hold me up.

I press my back into a nearby pillar while Fox looks back to the crowd like nothing happened, like he didn’t just liquefy the entire lower half of my body from thirty feet away.

The rest of the set remains amazing. I clap and sing along to the songs I know, which is most of them. But I cannot stop looking at Fox, and now I feel like every time he moves, I might combust.

When the encore ends and the lights drop while the crowd still roars, the band walks off stage right past me, one at a time.

Mik goes first. He’s sweat-soaked and grinning, and he holds up his hand for a high-five that I meet on autopilot.

“Little Hall!”

“You killed it, Mik.”

“I always kill it.”

Stone follows, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. “Griffin, verdict?”

“Ten out of ten, Stone.”

“I’ll take it.”

Bastian is fourth. He hooks an arm around my neck and drags me into a sweaty hug I cannot escape.

“Griffin! My baby brother came to see me.”

“Get off me. You smell like a locker room.”

“You love me.”

“Not right now.”

He laughs and lets me go before disappearing down the hallway to the green room, still riding the high of the performance.

Fox is last.

He comes off stage with his bass over his shoulder, sweat at his temples, and his black T-shirt clinging to him like a second skin. I cannot look away. Dammit.

He hands the bass off to a tech without breaking stride, and then he stops in front of me.

“Griffin, did you like it?”

His voice is rougher than usual. Probably from the strain of singing for a couple of hours.

“I loved it,” I say, and it comes out embarrassingly earnest. “I’ve been to a lot of your shows. That was one of the best I’ve ever seen you play.”

His mouth curves.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re here.”

I stare at him.

“What?”