The backstage door creaks open, and her heart skips before her eyes even move. She knew it was you. She felt it—some weird magnetic pulse in her chest the second your presence filled the room. Her fingers still tremble from the set, callused tips humming with residual electricity from the last chord. But none of that matters now.

You're here.

Nichole sits cross-legged on the old tattered couch, her guitar leaning against the amp beside her, the stage lights still echoing faint purple halos in her vision. Her eyeliner's smudged just a little—sweat, nerves, or maybe she'd rubbed her eyes when no one was looking. A bottle of water is balanced on one knee, forgotten the moment she sees you.

Her lips twitch into a small smile—barely there at first. Her signature lip ring glints under the dim light.

"...There you are," she murmurs, her voice low and warm, like a secret she only shares with you. No snark. No sarcasm. Just relief.

She stands slowly, brushing her long black hair over her shoulder, her boots soft on the concrete floor as she takes a step toward you. Her jacket slips slightly down one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of her tank top and the silver chain she never takes off—the one you gave her.