Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Track 01: 'I Knew You Were Trouble' - Notion

The bar smelled like old beer and dreams.

You adjust the mic stand for the third time— it keeps dropping like it’s given up on life— while Danzel, your drummer, taps out something chaotic behind you. Someone in the crowd whistles. You raise your hand in a half-hearted “yeah, yeah, we hear you” wave, and almost knock over your water bottle in the process.

Off to a killer start.

A warm, vaguely grimy glow envelops the bar, one that you’ve come to love— low lights, peeling walls, brand stickers on every surface. The Heaven’s Gate isn’t glamorous, but it lets you scream your lungs out once a week, and that’s more than enough.

The turnout tonight is… decent. Couple of diehards in the front, a few bored college students in the back. Some girl with big eyes and a coat sipping something citrusy in the corner. You flash a grin at the front row, even though your stomach is doing its usual backflips. 

You're loud. You're cocky. But only when people already know you. This — the waiting — it’s the part that gets you.

The lights dim.

Your bassist kicks off the first note like a gunshot. You step into the mic and the world tilts just slightly.

And then you sing.

“Once upon a time, a few mistakes ago,

I was in your sights, you got me alone…”

Your voice cuts through the room, rough and reckless. YOu don’t try to sound pretty. That’s not your thing. You sound real . Raw. Like someone relieving every mess they've ever walked into and walked out of it with a crooked grin.

"You found me, you found me, you found me..."

Annabeth Chase doesn’t mean to be watching.

Thalia said it’d be “fun” to get out of the dorm. "Come on, it'll be a vibe," she said. “Live a little,” she said. Now Annabeth’s perched on a wobbly bar stool, trying to figure out what flavor of drink she accidentally ordered, and very much not paying attention to the stage.

Until she hears you .

Your voice is rough, unpolished. You move like you’ve never planned a motion in your life— like your body is reacting half a second behind your thoughts. But gods, there’s something magnetic about it. About you .

You’re not trying to impress anyone. You were living in the moment— in the sound.

And for someone like Annabeth— someone who’s spent her life clinging to order, passion and control, watching you on stage feels a little like watching a wildfire.

And worse? She can’t look away.

"I knew you were trouble when you walked in,

So shame on me now..."

You’re leaning into the chorus, spitting every word like it’s personal— like you wrote it to yourself. The band builds behind you — bass thrumming, drums slamming, guitar growling with attitude, and keyboard flowing just right with your voice. You twist the mic cord around your hand and let yourself go for it.

"Flew me to places I’d never been,

Now I’m lying on the cold hard ground..."

"OH—OH—TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE..."

You shout the echoes with the crowd— a few people join in, more amused than anything, but it works. You catch a glimpse of the girl in the corner. She’s watching now. Arms crossed. Mouth neutral. But her eyes? They’re glued to you.

You smirk as you enter the next verse.

“No apologies, he’ll never see you cry…”
You step back, spin around, trip slightly over a cord — but recover in time to belt the line like nothing happened. The bassist snorts behind you. You flash a grin without looking.

"Pretends he doesn’t know that he’s the reason why..."

Annabeth should be annoyed.

You’re sloppy. You’re dramatic. You’re basically the opposite of everything she’s ever tried to be. But somehow, the longer she watches, the more she feels this weird twinge deep in her chest.

Jealousy. Maybe. Curiosity, definitely.

How do people like you just... exist like that?

She sips her drink, eyes never leaving the stage.

The final chorus hits like a wave.

"I knew you were trouble when you walked in—"

You scream the last line like you’re exorcising a demon.

"NOW I’M LYING ON THE COLD HARD GROUND—"

The whole bar pulses with sound. You throw your head back, sweat on your brow, grin wide and shameless. Applause erupts. Some cheers. A few whoops. You bow with a dramatic flair that almost lands you flat on your face. Again.

You live for this.

Later, at the bar, you’re wiping sweat off your neck with a towel when someone slides into the stool next to you.

“Nice recovery.”

You glance over— and nearly choke on your water.

Her.

Up close, she’s even more stunning. Hair still in that neat braid. Leather jacket. Sharp gray eyes that could cut glass. You blink.

“You saw that?”

“I like to think everyone did, including the girl throwing up in the bathroom right now.”

You snort. “That was my signature move, actually.”

“It looked like gravity won.”

You raise your glass in salute. “Happens a lot. I’m very grounded.”

She doesn’t laugh. But she doesn’t walk away, either.

You glance at her. “So, uh... you come here often?”

“That’s your line?”

“No, my line was going to be cooler, but then you showed up and my brain short-circuited.”

A beat. Her lips twitch. You feel like you won something.

You lean in slightly. “What’s your name?”

Before she can answer—

“Annabeth!” someone calls from the door. “We’re living!”

She looks over. Hesitates. Then looks back at you.

“I have to go.”

Wait, but—”

She’s already slipping off the stool, weaving through a crowd. One last glance over her shoulder— like she’s trying to memorize you— and then she’s gone.

You’re left with a half-empty glass, a racing heart, and the feeling that you’ve just met someone who’s going to ruin your peace completely.

And you didn’t even get her name.

Chapter Text

Track 02: 'Complicated' - Notion

Annabeth Chase is not thinking about you.

Or she’s trying very hard not to.

She’s at her usual cafe— the one tucked just far enough off campus that most people don’t bother finding it. The tables are always clean, the Wi-Fi always fast, and the barista already knows to leave her alone. It’s perfect for people who have actual futures to focus on. Plans. Goals. 

She opens her planner. Flips to the week ahead. It’s filled with deadlines and color-coded tabs and exactly zero chaos.

Which is why it’s incredibly annoying that her brain keeps drifting to the bar.

To you, on that stage.

To your voice — loud, raw, cracking on purpose like you meant every word of it. To the way you grinned like nothing could touch you, even after tripping on your mic cable mid-performance. To the way you looked at her like she'd ruined your life just by standing there.

She doesn’t even know your name.

And it’s making her insane .

Meanwhile, across town, you’re stirring sugar into a lukewarm coffee in a café you definitely can’t afford to be in. You’re here because your bassist is flirting with the barista and you couldn’t say no without looking like a jerk.

So now you're stuck at a too-small table with a drink you hate and a brain full of static. The image of her — the terrifyingly hot, composed girl from the bar — hasn’t left you since the gig. She’d said like three things to you and walked off like it was no big deal. And yeah, okay, you didn’t have to keep replaying it in your head like a dramatic movie montage, but here we are.

She never told you her name.

And that has you spiraling more than you care to admit.

Your phone buzzes. It’s a group chat:
[Bassist]: did u even see her? she was locked in. i thought she was gonna laser beam u w her eyes.
[Drummer]: r u talking abt bar girl again omg
[You]: u don’t get it. she looked like she was built in a lab to destroy me
[Bassist]: u need help

You groan and shut your phone off, sinking deeper into your seat.

You’re never seeing her again. No way. No one that cool shows up to the same tiny bar twice.

Annabeth’s planner is open to Thursday when her own version of chaos arrives.

The bell over the café door jingles — and in walks Thalia Grace.

Leather jacket, combat boots, streak of blue in her hair. She’s a walking contradiction in a world Annabeth tries to keep neat.

“Don’t even say it,” Annabeth mutters as Thalia slides into the chair across from her.

“I didn’t say anything,” Thalia says, way too innocently. Then, “How’s the girl crush?”

Annabeth glares.

Thalia grins and pulls a crumpled flyer from her jacket pocket.

Annabeth doesn’t even have to look. “Oh, gods. Please tell me that’s not—”

“Saturday night. Your mystery girl’s band. That place.. You’re welcome.”

“I’m not going to some sketchy bar again just because I briefly found someone interesting—”

“Briefly?”

Annabeth exhales like she’s being personally attacked by the universe.

“You think too much,” Thalia says, kicking her boots up on the chair beside her. “Just go. See if lightning strikes twice.”

Annabeth stares at the flyer.

She’s already planning her outfit.

The venue tonight is one of those grimy, underground places that only exists if you already know where to look. No signs. No stage lights worth bragging about. Just a black-painted door behind a pizza place, a few hanging bulbs above the makeshift bar, and too many people packed into too little space. It smells like cheap beer, smoke, and spilled adrenaline.

You feel it in your chest before you even step out—this dull, buzzing throb of anticipation that’s half-stage jitters, half unfiltered adrenaline. But mostly? It’s the feeling that something’s about to happen.

You’re backstage—if you can call it that—pacing slow circles in the cluttered hallway. Old amps lean against peeling brick. There’s a single flickering bulb overhead that makes your shadow twitch every time you pass it. Your guitarist tunes by ear, your bassist is trying to fix a busted cable using chewing gum and hope, and your drummer is already shirtless, tapping out a beat on the wall.

The moment’s messy. Loud. Exactly how you like it.

You bounce on your heels a little, trying to shake the tension out of your legs. You’ve done this a hundred times before, but somehow tonight feels… sharper. Electric.

Then someone mentions the crowd’s already packed. Shoulder to shoulder. “They’re rowdy tonight,” your drummer calls with a grin, like that’s a personal gift from the gods.

You exhale and peek through the curtain.

That’s when you see her.

Annabeth.

Standing dead center in the front row, arms folded across her chest like a fortress. Her braid’s perfectly intact, not a strand out of place, and her expression is unreadable—cool, reserved, just this side of unimpressed.

And yet, she’s here.

You blink, almost disbelieving. You didn’t think she’d come. Or maybe you’d hoped she wouldn’t. It was easier to pretend that meeting her didn’t mean anything. Easier not to wonder what she’d look like standing on the edge of your world.

Now you can’t stop looking.

You’re halfway through a breath when the house lights drop and the low hum of the crowd shifts from casual chatter to something deeper—like the undercurrent of a wave just before it breaks.

Your band takes their places without a word. You step up to the mic, and the grip of it is grounding. Familiar. You curl your fingers around it and look out across the room. Your heartbeat is thudding behind your ribs, but you don’t show it.

You lean in close. “We’re Notion,” you say, your voice low and rough with grit. “And this one’s ours.”

No one in this crowd knows what that means yet.

But they’re about to.

The count-in is instinctual. Four seconds, and then the world explodes.

“Chill out, what you yelling for?

Lay back, it’s all been done before…”

The first verse rolls off your tongue sharp and fast, and the room starts to move. Not all at once. Not in sync. But enough to feel it. Heads nod. Shoulders sway. People start to get it.

You don’t have to scream to be heard. You command the noise.

You don’t look at her again. Not yet. You’re not ready to know what her face is doing.

“You look like you’re fooling me

Telling me I’m wrong and I know I’m right

But you always go and change it…”

The chorus hits, and it hits hard.

“Why do you have to go and make things so complicated?

I see the way you’re acting like you’re somebody else

Gets me frustrated…”

It’s more than a breakup anthem. It’s a fuck-you to every person who made you doubt your fire, who tried to twist you into something you weren’t. You wrote this song on a night you nearly quit everything. It spilled out like venom—and somehow, it turned into something powerful.

On stage, it becomes something else entirely. Something uncontainable.

You’re pacing across the platform now, tugging the mic from its stand. You sing like you mean it, because you do. You slam the truth down in verses and throw your soul into every note.

You finally look at her.

Annabeth’s still. Completely still. But her gaze is locked on you like she can’t look away. Her arms are still crossed, but the corners of her mouth aren’t as tight. Her eyes are… softer. Focused.

You don’t think she’s ever been in a place like this before.

And yet—she’s here.

“You fall and you crawl and you break

And you take what you get and you turn it into honesty

And promise me I’m never gonna find you faking—

No, no, no!”

The band crashes in behind you for the final chorus, and the room is all heat and movement and the echo of voices that already know the words. They sing like they’ve felt it too, like your pain is their pain, like maybe your story isn’t just yours.

When the last note hits, you’re breathless. Sweaty. Electrified. You lift the mic one last time.

“Thanks for listening to Complicated,” you say. “We’ve got more for later so hold on to your beers and stay tuned…”

You duck offstage as your band rolls into the next track. The crowd’s alive with noise, but all you can hear is the thrum in your chest.

You glance back through the haze and pulsing light.

Annabeth is gone.

No wave. No nod. No goodbye.

It shouldn’t matter.

You barely know her.

But somehow, it feels like you just lost something before you even had a chance to find it.

Chapter Text

Track 03: “Sugar” - Notion

You didn’t expect to see her again.

The night after the gig fades the way they always do—washed out in ringing ears, a hoarse throat, and sore legs that feel like you ran through a hurricane. You crash on your bassist’s couch around three in the morning with a half-eaten taco in one hand and your phone buzzing with two unread texts from a girl you haven’t spoken to in months.

You ignore them both.

The morning after is worse. You're hungover from adrenaline, not alcohol, and your body feels like it’s been folded wrong. You grab your jacket off the floor, your phone off the amp, and wander outside like something might shake loose if you walk long enough.

You don’t even remember agreeing to meet Thalia until she calls you, yelling over traffic. “Get your ass to Greasy Joe’s. I’m already here.”

You barely know Thalia Grace. She's not your friend—more like a friend of a friend of a friend. You’ve played the same house party once or twice. She’d crowd-surfed into a table at your bassist's cousin’s birthday. The two of you share maybe three inside jokes and a mutual appreciation for fried food and sarcasm.

But she texts you when you’re spiraling, and that’s more than you can say for most people.

So you show up.

The long walk to the diner helps shake off the post-show fog, but your brain’s still stuck on one detail: Annabeth.

Her face has been living rent-free in your head ever since you spotted her in the crowd. You’re not used to people like her at your shows—tight-lipped and polished, like she wandered into the wrong place and stayed just to prove she could. The way she looked at you, unreadable but sharp, has been looping in your head like a stuck chord.

You’re still thinking about it when you shove open the door to Greasy Joe’s.

The place is as glorious and rundown as ever. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Grease-stained menus. Vinyl booths that squeak when you sit down. It smells like burnt coffee and hash browns—nostalgic in the best way.

Thalia’s easy to spot. Combat boots kicked up on the booth’s edge, black hoodie with a ripped cuff, slurping a vanilla milkshake like it’s the best thing on earth.

“’Bout time,” she says, not looking up from her phone.

You flop into the seat across from her. “You better be paying.”

“I’m not,” she replies without missing a beat, then nods toward the back of the diner. “But I did bring you some unexpected drama.”

You raise a brow.

“Don’t look yet,” she warns. “Be cool.”

You lean back, wary. “What am I being cool about?”

Thalia finally glances up, smirking. “See the blonde, three booths down? Laptop. Braid. Looks like she pays for things with crisp hundred-dollar bills.”

You already know.

Your stomach dips.

Annabeth Chase.

She’s there—again. Sitting alone, hunched slightly over her laptop with her usual fortress of notebooks and pens and caffeine. Same braid, same clean edges. But now that you’re seeing her this close, in the soft buzz of diner light, she looks… tired. Focused, but tired. Like the world’s been pressing in and she refuses to flinch.

“She’s your friend?” you ask.

Thalia shrugs. “Best friend. Since forever. Childhood trauma, matching knives, all that crap.”

You blink. “And you didn’t think to tell me this earlier?”

“I didn’t know she’d actually go to your show,” she says. “I told her about it ‘cause she’s been stuck in this weird, existential crisis thing—like ‘what am I doing with my life’ but in honor-student dialect. Figured seeing people who actually do stuff might shake something loose.”

Your jaw tightens. “So I was a case study?”

“More like an accidental muse,” Thalia says, amused. “You made an impression, if that helps.”

You peek over your shoulder. Annabeth’s still focused on her screen, but her fingers aren’t moving. Like she’s not actually typing. Like she knows you’re looking.

And then—she glances up.

You lock eyes for half a second too long.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just tilts her head a fraction, a silent acknowledgment.

You turn back around, heart annoyingly fluttery. “I’m not going over there.”

“You kind of have to now,” Thalia replies, sipping loudly from her straw. “She’s gonna think you’re scared.”

“I am scared.”

“Of what? A rich girl with a planner addiction?”

You mutter something under your breath and shove a fry in your mouth to avoid answering. Thalia watches you like a cat watches a bird.

“She liked the song,” she says after a beat.

You glance at her.

“ Complicated. She didn’t say it outright, but I could tell.”

You stare down at the table for a moment. Your fingers drum the edge of the salt shaker. You’re not used to this—being seen by someone like her. Someone who seems so far removed from your mess of a life that it doesn’t even feel like you belong in the same story.

But… you kind of want to.

And that’s dangerous.

Still.

You get up.

You walk over with your hands in your pockets, trying not to look like someone who rehearsed this moment twice in their head and almost chickened out both times.

“Hey,” you say, voice casual. “You a regular?.”

Annabeth closes her laptop slowly. She looks at you with the same composed expression from the night of the show. “I like the food,” she replies. “And the quiet.”

You glance around at the clattering plates and the waitress yelling orders toward the kitchen. “Really?”

“I said quiet. Not silence.”

You raise an eyebrow, impressed. “Deep.”

She shrugs, but there’s a glint in her eye now. “So… you’re the lead singer.”

“Guilty.”

“I liked your song,” she adds. “ Complicated. It sounded like you meant every word.”

You nod slowly. “That’s kind of the point.”

Annabeth folds her hands, resting them on the edge of her laptop. She’s still studying you, still watching like she’s trying to figure out where to place you in her neatly organized world.

“You never told me your name,” she says.

You smile. “That’s because I didn’t know if I’d get a second shot.”

“And now?”

You shrug. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

She doesn’t respond right away, but the corner of her mouth twitches—just enough to let you know you’re getting somewhere.

You tell her your name.

She nods. Says hers even though you already know it. Pretends this is all very normal, like the static between you doesn’t exist.

But the way she looks at you—curious, a little cautious, like she’s been starved of something she doesn’t know how to ask for—it tells you everything.

And for once, you don’t feel the need to fill the silence.

You don’t expect anything.

After the brief conversation, she’d packed up neatly—closed her laptop, slid her papers into a folder so precise it almost made you self-conscious about your wrinkled band tee. She said she had class. Or maybe a meeting. Something important. She said it like she meant it, but lingered just long enough at the booth to make you wonder if she really wanted to leave.

You walk back to your apartment alone. Hoodie up. Hands deep in your pockets. The diner’s hum still echoing in your chest.

You spend the night replaying everything she said. Every glance. Every pause. Every tiny, almost-smile.

You don’t expect anything.

But around midnight, your phone buzzes.

Unknown number:

That was the first time in a while something felt... honest.

Then, a second text.

Also, your bridge in “Complicated”? Brutal. In the best way.

Your heart trips over itself.

You stare at the screen like it might vanish if you breathe too loud. You don’t respond right away. You let it sit. You let it settle.

Then finally:

You:

I could say the same about you. The honesty part. Not the bridge. Unless you’ve got one I haven’t heard yet.

No reply for a few minutes. Then—

Maybe I do.

Chapter Text

Track 04: “One Way Or Another” — Notion

Annabeth tells herself it’s just another night.

It’s not. But she tells herself that anyway.

She’s on her second walk past the bar—technically a detour on her route back from a late study group—and the glow of the neon sign hits the sidewalk just like it did that first night. The same buzz in the air. The same torn posters on the windows, advertising “Live! Local! Loud!” in three different fonts.

Her fingers twitch at her side. She’s not sure if it’s from nerves or the cold.

Inside, the bar is already packed, and the buzz of conversation climbs higher with each passing second. The crowd has that expectant edge to it—like they all know what they’re here for. Annabeth shoulders her way toward the back, slipping into her usual corner, unnoticed but observant.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

“They’re kinda loud tonight,” Danzel muttered, peeking through the curtain as the crowd grew.

“Good loud or riot loud?” Ivonne asked as she tuned her bass.

“Guess we’ll find out,” Khira added, standing up from the worn-out piano bench.

“Let’s just melt their faces and figure it out later,” Nhate offered, guitar already slung into place.

You laughed, flashing your band that cocky grin that only barely covered your nerves. “One way or another, right?”

You enter with a laugh at someone’s joke, dragging half your band behind you. Your presence hits the room like a jolt—suddenly louder, more alive. You look like the version of yourself that lives onstage: electric and shameless and glowing with that kind of confidence Annabeth doesn’t trust but secretly envies.

You don’t see her right away. But your voice carries, playful and raspy.

“Alright, alright—Notion’s in the house and we’re wired on caffeine and poor decisions. This one’s about chasing what you probably shouldn’t want… but, you know, doing it anyway.”

Your bassist whistles. The crowd laughs. And then the lights dim.

“One way or another
I’m gonna find ya
I’m gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha…”

The band erupts . The energy is immediate and tangible, like a fuse lit in the center of the room. You’re strutting across the stage, eyes sweeping the crowd like a predator playing with its food. And then—there it is.

That flicker of recognition.

You see her.

Your smirk isn’t obvious, but it’s different. It’s layered. A little smug, a little soft. Like the performance suddenly has an audience of one.

“One way or another
I’m gonna win ya
I’m gonna getcha, getcha, getcha…”

Annabeth folds her arms. She should look away.

She doesn’t.

Because what’s happening isn’t just a set. It’s a message.

And that realization is… inconvenient.

You’re offstage after the final chorus, sweaty and radiant, your breath still catching in your throat as you toss a water bottle at your drummer and hop off the platform like it’s instinct.

Someone tries to flag you down for a picture. You oblige, but your eyes drift.

Annabeth’s still there.

You weave through the crowd until you’re standing in front of her, voice casual and bright.

“You came back.”

She sips her drink. “You weren’t as off-key this time.”

You gasp like you’ve been stabbed. “Rude. I bled on that stage for you.”

“Barely. I saw the bandaid.”

You grin, and for a moment, your usual bravado softens into something else—less performative, more you.

“Thanks for coming,” you say, quieter now. “Really.”

Annabeth tilts her head. “You always this charming post-show?”

“Only for you, Chase.”

Her heart trips over itself.

And then, of course, salvation (or disaster) arrives in the form of Thalia Grace.

She appears over Annabeth’s shoulder with a bottle of cider and an arched brow. “Annabeth. So this is the girl.”

You nearly spit your drink.

Annabeth whips around. “Thalia—”

“No, no, please. Don’t let me interrupt.” Thalia slides in beside her like she’s claiming a front-row seat to the drama. “I just wanted to meet the chaos gremlin who’s been haunting your playlists and your texting history.”

You blink. “Haunting?” It was weird how that word caught your attention more than Thalia calling you a gremlin .

“She means ‘serenading,’” Annabeth mutters, glaring.

Thalia ignores her. “Anyway, nice set. Your voice is hot.”

“Thalia,” Annabeth hisses.

You beam. “Thanks! I try to sound like a sexy car crash.”

Thalia clinks her bottle with yours. “Nailed it.”

Annabeth wants to melt into the floor.

Eventually, Thalia wanders off, clearly pleased with herself, and leaves you both standing there in the afterglow of basslines and snark.

You shuffle your feet, sudden awkwardness creeping in. “So, uh. What now?”

Annabeth shrugs. “I don’t know. You tell me, rockstar.”

You laugh, just once. “I guess I’ll keep singing until you ask for an encore.”

Annabeth bites back a smile and shakes her head before taking a swig of her drink. “Don’t hold your breath.”

But you catch it—that flicker of something just shy of a grin. And it’s enough to plaster a grin on your face as you curtsy in front of her jokingly.

“I’ll be back then.”

Before she can fire back with another smart remark, you’re already turning, making your way through the crowd with that same confident sway, all swagger and strut. But there’s a spring in your step now. A spark. Something you don’t even bother to hide.

You climb back on stage like you belong there—and you do . Your bandmates are lounging near the drum kit, halfway into banter and water bottles, but you lift your mic and they fall into place like clockwork.

You glance toward the crowd again, eyes flicking through until they find her.

She’s back in her corner, same drink in hand, posture a little more relaxed now. Watching you like you’re some kind of puzzle she’s still deciding whether to solve or just stare at.

You grin, and the room catches it too.

“This one’s called Drag Me Down ,” you say into the mic, fingers tapping the stand. “For those who pretend they’re not listening when they absolutely are.”

There’s a quick laugh from the audience. Somewhere, Thalia whistles.

Annabeth just rolls her eyes—but she’s still watching.

The beat kicks in heavy and smooth. It’s different from the last set—less teasing, more powerful. Still playful, but with bite. You sing like you mean every word, even as your eyes occasionally flick back to the girl who pretends she’s not affected.

But Annabeth is affected.

She’s clenching her jaw in that barely-there way she does when she’s trying to seem unaffected. She crosses her legs. Sips her drink slowly. Doesn’t look away once.

You don’t break eye contact. Not even as you dance across the stage, spinning the mic cord in one hand, voice raspy and unfiltered.

You weren’t kidding when you said you bled for this.

Annabeth feels it. In her ribs. In her throat.

You sing like the world ends with this song, like this is your last chance to be heard. And she hates how much it makes her want to listen. How it pulls at something in her she can’t quite name—envy, fascination, that low burn in her stomach that’s not quite either.

By the time the final note rings out, you’re breathless. You don’t say anything else—just flash one last grin in her direction and hop off the stage like it’s nothing.

But Annabeth is still standing there long after the applause fades, fingers tapping against her glass. Still pretending she isn’t listening. Still pretending she doesn’t care.

But her heart’s racing.

And Thalia, of course, notices. She sidles back over with a raised brow, leaning in without looking away from the crowd.

“You good?”

Annabeth keeps her eyes on the stage. “Fine.”

Thalia smirks. “Mm-hmm.”

“She’s obnoxious.”

“She’s into you.”

“She’s loud.”

“You like it.”

Annabeth doesn’t respond.

She doesn’t have to.

The night ends slower than it started.

The crowd thins out in waves—some lingering for selfies, others shuffling out with the dregs of their drinks and hoarse voices from yelling lyrics too loud. The bar hums with that weird, beautiful ache that follows a good night: warm, electric, tired.

You’re crouched near the back door with your jacket off, sweating through your shirt and peeling the tape off your boots. Your hands are still trembling a little from the adrenaline. Your voice is shredded, and you know you’re gonna regret it in the morning.

But it’s worth it.

You lean back against the wall, legs sprawled on the pavement like you’ve got nowhere to be. For a moment, you let the quiet settle in, an unlit cigarette resting between your index and middle finger.

And then—

“Need a light?”

You look up.

Annabeth’s there, arms crossed, hair a little messy from the humidity. She looks freshly untouchable and very much like she didn’t plan on coming out back—but now that she has, she’s pretending it was all very casual.

You grin. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“I was waiting for the part where you collapse dramatically in the alley.”

“Oh? Hoping to catch me at my most vulnerable?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a curl at the edge of her lips. “You’re such a flirt.”

“And you’re still here— the Annabeth Chase offering her lighter to me?”

Annabeth sits down on the curb beside you—not close, but not far either. Just enough distance that it feels intentional. You take the lighter from her outreached hand and light your cigarette, taking a long drag from it before turning your head away from her to exhale the smoke. 

You weren’t one to judge, but the way her nose scrunched up at the faint smell of the cigarette was enough to tell you that she didn’t smoke. Which made you wonder why she was carrying a lighter around— but you didn’t ask, didn’t pry. You just look down at the red lighter on your hands, looking new and unused. 

Annabeth stares out at the empty street, streetlights buzzing faintly overhead.

There’s a moment where neither of you says anything.

And then she glances sideways. “So, didn’t think I’d see you like this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?’”

“Not onstage. Not holding a mic. Just… this.” She gestures vaguely at you. “Sweaty and exhausted and picking at your shoelace like a five-year-old.”

You snort. “Did I ruin your fantasies of me in your head?”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Then, “You look different like this.”

“Better or worse?”

She looks at you for a long second. “Softer.”

You blink.

That wasn’t what you expected. And for a second, you don’t know how to respond.

So you lean your head back against the brick and laugh under your breath. “Don’t tell my band that. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“You mean the loud-mouthed, all-or-nothing, possibly-feral frontwoman of Notion?”

“Exactly.”

Annabeth hums. “Right.”

There’s another pause. But it’s not awkward. It’s quiet in a way that feels rare. You can hear the clink of bottles inside, someone laughing too loud, a car rolling past in the distance.

She speaks again. This time, softer. “That last song. Did you write it?”

You hesitate. “Yeah.”

Annabeth looks at you like she’s seeing you in a new light. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

You shrug. “I don’t see the point. You either feel things or you don’t.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

And when she does, it’s barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt that sure of anything.”

You turn your head to look at her.

She’s staring out at the street again. But there’s something about her posture—tight shoulders, hands clasped between her knees—that tells you she didn’t mean to say that out loud.

You lean in, just slightly.

“You will,” you say quietly. “Maybe not all at once. But it’ll hit you when it matters.”

Annabeth finally meets your eyes. And for the first time, there’s nothing guarded there.

Just curiosity. And a little wonder.

You nudge her with your knee. “Wanna go for a walk?”

She hesitates for half a second too long. Then she nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

You stand up, groaning dramatically, offering her your hand with a grin. “Careful, Chase. Say yes too often and people might think you like me.”

She accepts your hand and rolls her eyes as she gets to her feet. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But she doesn’t let go right away.

And you don’t say anything about it.

Chapter Text

Track 05: “Sunday Morning” — Notion

The morning air is crisp and unfairly bright when Annabeth finally drags herself out of bed. Her head isn’t pounding, but there’s a gentle buzz behind her temples—a leftover echo of last night’s lights, noise, and your voice ringing somewhere just beneath her skin.

She hadn’t planned to stay out late. Hadn’t planned to talk to you. Hadn’t planned to think about you still.

And yet.

Her phone vibrates on the kitchen counter, face down.

She picks it up without thinking.

[Unknown Number]

did you survive the night or did the alley win

(if it did, tell thalia she owes me ten bucks. i said you’d make it.)

anyway. i meant what i said, for real.

and i’m still keeping your lighter.

from: this is the feral frontwoman

Annabeth stares at the screen, thumb hovering. Then—because she’s not ready to text back (because she’s too ready)—she locks it and sets it down, pressing her lips together.

The worst part is that it makes her smile .

She’s still mildly annoyed at herself when she gets to the café.

It’s nothing special. Just a cozy corner spot down a side street, not far from campus. She likes it because it’s quiet. Predictable. The coffee is strong and nobody bothers her.

She orders her usual, sits by the window, and pulls out her planner.

She’s flipping through her color-coded mess of deadlines and class notes when she hears the door chime.

She glances up absently—and freezes.

You walk in, half-hunched against the wind, jacket swapped for a soft knit hoodie and your hair still damp from a rushed shower. There’s no stage makeup, no spotlight. Just flushed cheeks, a sleepy scowl, and a backpack slung over one shoulder like you forgot how to carry it.

You look… normal.

Not in a bad way. Not at all.

It’s just—Annabeth had only ever seen you loud. Big. Bold.

But here you are, stripped down to something real. Something smaller.

Vulnerable.

And you don’t see her. Not at first. You’re too busy squinting at the menu board, yawning into your sleeve.

She should look away. Pretend she’s buried in her planner. But she doesn’t.

She watches you order your coffee, voice quiet, smile lazy. Watches you nudge your knuckles against the counter while waiting, bouncing your leg with residual nerves. Watches you push your hair out of your eyes and mumble a thank-you when the barista slides the cup your way.

Then, finally, you turn.

And you see her.

Annabeth watches your expression flicker—surprise, amusement, and then something like embarrassment.

She raises an eyebrow, lips twitching.

You mouth a slow, “Hey.”

She gestures at the seat across from her. You hesitate, then walk over, setting your cup down before easing into the chair.

“I didn’t know you came here,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck.

“I didn’t know you were a person before 2 p.m.”

You laugh under your breath, a little sheepish. “Yeah. This is what I look like when I’m not trying to seduce an audience.”

Annabeth hums. “Shame.”

You glance at her. “I could still try to seduce you .”

She lifts her coffee to her lips. “You’re not dressed for it.”

You gasp dramatically. “Wow. Judging my hoodie now?”

“I’m judging your existence .”

You snort into your drink, but the moment softens as you curl your hands around the cup, thumbs dragging against the warm ceramic.

There’s a brief silence. Not awkward—just gentle.

Then: “You looked really different last night,” Annabeth says quietly.

You blink. “Different how?”

She hesitates, then shrugs. “Big. Loud. Confident.”

You nod slowly. “And now I look like I just crawled out of a dorm basement.”

“Now you look like someone I could talk to.”

You glance up at her, and her words land heavier than she intended.

Not in a bad way. But in a real one.

You smile, smaller this time. “Good. Because I kind of wanted to talk to you again.”

Annabeth doesn’t smile.

But she doesn’t look away either.

Your hoodie sleeves are too long and your nerves are too loud.

Annabeth Chase is sitting across from you like she owns the table, the coffee shop, and maybe even the air in your lungs. And you—you’re just trying to act normal. Like you belong in the daylight. Like you don’t feel like some actor caught offstage, stripped of the glitter and grime.

You didn’t think she’d be here.

You didn’t think she’d look at you like that .

There’s something different in her eyes today—curiosity, sure, but something else under it. Like she’s trying to figure you out. Like she wants to. And that scares you more than it should.

Most people only ever want the version of you that’s screaming into a mic with sweat-drenched hair and ripped jeans and lights flashing behind your eyes.

But this?

This is just you. Soft hoodie. Messy hair. Sleep still crusting at the edges of your voice.

And she still hasn’t looked away.

You pick at the edge of your cup and try to sound casual. “So, uh… you come here often?”

Annabeth gives you a look so flat it’s almost art. “Did you just try to use a pickup line on me at 10 a.m. ?”

You grin. “Bold of you to assume it wasn’t a genuine question.”

Her lips twitch, and it hits you like the crash after a high note. That not-smile she keeps giving you—barely there, all restraint—it’s addictive. It makes you want to see what her real smile looks like.

She takes another sip of her drink and sets it down. “Thalia says you’re a dropout.”

You blink. “She said it like that?”

“She said it like it was a badge of honor.”

You shrug, fingers tracing your cup. “I guess it kind of is. I didn’t leave because I couldn’t handle it. I left because it wasn’t mine.”

Annabeth leans back. “And music is?”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. Even when it sucks. Even when we’re playing to half-empty bars and drunk guys who think shouting requests counts as flirting. It’s still… mine. I’m not great at much else. But this—I know I’m meant to do this.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Watching you.

And for a second, you wonder if you said too much. If you look stupid for trying to explain something that’s probably obvious to someone like her.

But then she says, “That’s kind of cool.”

You blink.

“That you have something that feels like yours . Not everyone does.”

Her tone’s soft, almost absent. Like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You look at her, really look—past the polished exterior and carefully chosen outfit and the way she holds herself like she’s afraid of slipping. And suddenly you get it.

She’s the opposite of you.

Put-together. Respected. Probably triple-checks her syllabus and color-codes her notes.

But maybe— maybe —she doesn’t have anything that makes her feel like she’s on fire.

You shift in your seat, a little bolder now.

“Hey,” you say, “You ever wanna come to a rehearsal? I mean, it’s messy. Loud. Lots of yelling over amp feedback. But… I could use a critical eye.”

Annabeth raises a brow. “You think I’d be critical?”

“I think you already are.” You grin, cheeky again, back in your element. “But maybe that’s why I want you there.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for her drink, her fingers brushing the lid. Then: “Maybe I’ll come. Just to make sure you’re not wasting your dropout potential.”

And there it is again—that flicker of something soft at the edge of her mouth. You wonder if she knows how close she is to smiling. And you wonder if you’re the reason for it.

Annabeth finishes her coffee with one last sip, then glances at her watch. “I should get going. Study group.”

You nod, standing as she does. “Let me guess—organic chem? Political theory? Advanced underwater basket weaving?”

She gives you a deadpan look. “I’m a double major, not a magician.”

You fall into step beside her as you both head toward the door, the air shifting when she holds it open for you. Outside, the sun’s a little higher, a little softer. Still chilly, but not unfriendly.

You shove your hands into your pockets, kicking a loose pebble on the sidewalk. “Thanks for not pretending you didn’t know me, by the way. I’ve had girls do that before. See me in normal clothes and suddenly act like I’m invisible.”

Annabeth scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”

You glance sideways at her. “You sure? I look like a wet stray cat.”

“You looked like a wet stray cat last night too.”

You laugh, head tilted back, and she bites her lip—like she didn’t mean for that to sound like a compliment. Like it was one.

The sidewalk splits ahead. She slows near the corner.

“This is me,” she says, nodding toward the other street.

You shift your weight. “You got my number now.”

She raises a brow. “And?”

“And I’m not above sending you unprovoked demo tracks at 2 a.m. Don’t test me.”

Annabeth smirks. “You send me noise at 2 a.m., and I will block you.”

You grin, stepping backward toward your own route. “Worth it.”

She shakes her head, turns away—but just before she disappears down the block, she glances back.

Not a full look. Not enough to call attention to it.

Just enough to let you know she’s still thinking about you.

You tug your hood up as the wind picks up, heart warm in a way it hasn’t been in a while.

You weren’t sure if she’d want to see you again.

But now… you’re starting to think she will.

Chapter Text

Track 06: “Gorgeous” — Notion

You didn’t expect her to actually come.

Sure, she said “maybe” in that way she does—controlled, cool, with a sliver of sincerity tucked under layers of sarcasm—but you’d already learned not to read too much into the things Annabeth Chase says when she’s wearing her mask of effortless detachment.

So you definitely didn’t expect her to knock on the peeling red garage door right in the middle of band practice.

She stands there in casual jeans and a hoodie, hair in a messy bun like she just walked off a college campus and wandered into a place that smells like guitar strings, sweat, and leftover takeout. Somehow, she makes it look chic. Somehow, she makes everything look easy.

You blink at her from across the room, your guitar still slung lazily across your front as you pause mid-chord. Sweat slicks the back of your neck, your hoodie already abandoned and tossed over an amp. Your tank is sticking to your skin and your voice is shot from a rough run-through of Drag Me Down two minutes ago.

Thalia, who’s lounging on top of an overturned speaker, raises an eyebrow and grins. “You get lost on your way to a Greek mythology seminar?”

“Wow,” you say, wiping your hands on your jeans. “Can’t believe you dragged yourself out of your ivory tower just for our disaster rehearsal.”

Annabeth’s lips twitch, that now-familiar ghost of a smirk. “I was promised noise, questionable fashion choices, and a potential fire hazard. So far, you’re delivering.”

You pretend to bow. “We live to serve.”

Annabeth shoots her a look but doesn’t deny it. “Thought I’d see what the hype was about.”

You tip your head with a crooked grin. “Hope you’re ready for a fire hazard with commitment issues.”

She shrugs, arms crossed as she takes in the chaos of tangled wires and half-eaten chips on a drum case. “Sounds about right.”

You gesture toward the mic. “Want to hear something?”

She hesitates. And then nods.

It’s not a song you planned to do today. But the moment you see her leaning against the doorframe like she belongs nowhere and everywhere at once, it clicks. You meet eyes with your bassist, give the subtle nod. They know what’s coming.

You step up to the mic and, without meaning to, you glance at her again.

You don’t mean to say it into the mic, but your voice slips anyway—half-joke, half-truth.

“This one’s about a girl who makes you feel like setting something on fire and writing poetry about it at the same time.”

The chords hit. The rhythm settles under your skin. And then the lyrics spill out, soft and deliberate.

“You're so gorgeous, I can't say anything to your face...”

You catch it—the way Annabeth’s expression falters just enough. Like she didn’t expect you to go there. Like she suddenly doesn’t know if she’s just watching or being watched.

You don’t break eye contact.

“Guess I’ll just stumble on home to my cats... alone.” 

Your voice dips on that last word, laced with a smirk. It earns you an almost imperceptible twitch of her lips, a silent dare.

The rest of the band rides the wave of your energy, matching your every glance and subtle sway. The song ends with a clean chord, hanging in the air like heat after lightning.

You exhale. She claps—just twice—but it’s enough. You see it in her eyes: she’s not just amused anymore.

She’s intrigued.

As practice winds down and gear starts getting packed, you wander over, towel around your neck, bottle of water in hand. She’s still leaning on the wall, like she never moved.

“So?” you ask, bumping her shoulder lightly. “Do I get a grade?”

“I’ll give it a B+,” she says coolly. “You lose points for shameless flattery in the lyrics.”

You laugh. “That line about your eyes? Pure inspiration.”

“I don’t have ocean blue eyes.”

“No,” you say, stepping a little closer. “Yours are storm gray. Way more dangerous.”

You watch her swallow down the smirk. Her eyes flick over you—sweaty, tired, real. It feels like she sees more of you here than she ever did at the bar. It also feels like she doesn’t mind.

You think about what it means to want someone who isn’t impressed by spotlights but still shows up to watch you practice in a dusty garage.

And then she murmurs, “You’re trouble.”

You grin. “So are you.”

The air outside is cooler than it was inside the garage, where the amps buzzed louder than the fans. You tug your hoodie back on as you step out into the early evening, still flushed from the heat and the adrenaline of performing that song with her in the room.

Annabeth follows, slower, like she’s taking her time letting the noise settle.

You pause on the curb, spinning a drumstick between your fingers—muscle memory from a hundred post-practice lulls—and glance sideways at her. She’s quiet, which isn’t new, but the silence now feels... different. Thoughtful, maybe. Like her mind’s still somewhere between the lyrics and the smirk you gave her right before the chorus.

“You hungry?” you ask, brushing your hair back and slinging your hoodie properly over your head.

Annabeth lifts a brow. “What, no backstage catering?”

You smirk. “Only if you count the stale trail mix in Nhate’s glove compartment.”

She gives you that look again—the one where her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile, and her eyes glint like she’s halfway between amused and impressed. “I could eat,” she says, tone breezy but eyes lingering.

“Cool,” you nod, already heading toward the side of the garage. “Helmet’s in the back.”

She follows you with narrowed eyes, then slows to a stop as you wheel it out.

A brown vintage motorcycle. Slightly scuffed. Shiny in the places that matter. Loud in the way you are—bold and kind of ridiculous and hard not to notice.

“You ride that thing?” Annabeth asks, crossing her arms.

You toss her a second helmet, chin lifted. “Sure do. What, too uptown for a little wind in your hair?”

She catches it easily, studies you for a beat. “You crash often?”

“Only when I’m showing off.” You wink. “And I promise to keep both hands on the handlebars tonight. Scout’s honor.”

“You were definitely never a scout,” she says, but she pulls the helmet on anyway. “And I swear to the gods, if this thing breaks down—”

“Then we walk,” you shrug. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?”

You straddle the seat, pat the space behind you. “Hop on, Chase.”

And she does.

Carefully. Arms sliding around your waist in a way that feels both accidental and intentional. Her body fits snug against your back, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

You rev the engine and take off down the street, tires humming against the pavement. The wind rushes past, carrying the scent of gasoline and dusk and the faintest trace of her perfume.

You don’t speak on the ride. But you feel her—the warmth of her hands through your hoodie, the way she leans into the curves like she’s done this before. Like maybe she wants to trust you.

The taco truck is glowing like a beacon at the corner of some cracked intersection, and you pull up right beside it, parking half on the curb like a rebel.

She steps off, pulling the helmet off like it’s nothing, hair tousled and face lit up by neon reds and golds.

“I can’t believe I got on a motorcycle for tacos,” she says, handing you the helmet.

You smirk. “Hey, these tacos have been called ‘life-changing’ by at least two drunk guys and Thalia.”

“High praise,” she says, but she’s already walking toward the window.

You order for both of you—two taco fajita, two carne asada, extra lime, because that’s how you do it. Annabeth doesn’t stop you, and you take that as a tiny victory.

You find a bench a little away from the truck, under a flickering streetlight. The city hums around you—cars in the distance, the occasional siren, someone laughing too loud on the other side of the block.

Annabeth unwraps her taco slowly. “So,” she says. “Is this your usual post-rehearsal routine? Garage concerts and greasy food?”

You lean back, chewing thoughtfully. “Only when the audience is hot.”

She freezes for half a second. Then, “You’re unbelievable.”

You shrug. “I warned you. I’m trouble.”

She rolls her eyes. But you catch her smiling behind her second taco.

You sit like that for a while, sharing bites and stories. She tells you about her internship hell. You tell her about the worst gig Notion ever played (someone threw a shoe at you, and you dodged it only to fall off the stage). She laughs— really laughs—and you swear you’d write a hundred songs just to hear it again.

When it’s time to go, you both stand slowly, reluctant.

She looks at you across the dim sidewalk, soft and unreadable.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends now,” she says lightly.

You grin. “Of course not. That would mean you like me.”

“I don’t.”

“I know.”

But she’s already walking ahead, waiting for you to catch up.

And you do.

Chapter Text

Track 07: “Wish You Were Here” — Notion, acoustic version

You don’t see Annabeth for three days.

Which wouldn’t be a big deal—shouldn’t be a big deal—except you can’t stop thinking about her.

Not in a lovesick, cheesy kind of way. More like… in that quiet ache kind of way. The kind that shows up when you’re alone with your guitar and your thoughts, and the silence between each chord feels heavier than it should.

She lingers. In the way your helmet still smells like her shampoo. In the way you keep reliving that moment outside the garage, when she looked at you like she almost had something to say but didn’t. In the way your stomach tightens every time your phone buzzes, only for it to be a spam email or your drummer asking for ramen money.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re just being weird. That Annabeth Chase—golden girl, all buttoned-up brilliance and granite-edged glances—hasn’t thought about you once. She’s probably knee-deep in blueprints and essays and that immaculate life you only got a brief peek into.

Still. You check your phone more than you want to admit.

And then, on the third night—when your band is crammed into your living room arguing about whether or not to bring back your very cursed hardcore phase—you see it.

Annabeth:
you’re playing this friday, right?

You freeze, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment too long. Your heartbeat is annoyingly loud in your ears, and you try to play it cool, like she hasn’t just hit you with a text you were half-convinced you’d never get.

You:
yeah
who told you

Annabeth:
don’t worry about it
should i not come?

It’s so her —to check in, to act indifferent, to pretend she’s not already halfway out the door.

You:
only if you wanna miss me crying on stage
real tragic

Annabeth:
drama queen

You:
you love it
be there or be square, chase
this one’s a good one

She doesn’t text back right away, but you don’t need her to. You already feel it in your chest: she’ll come.

The venue is older than your band. The paint’s peeling off the walls, the stage creaks when you jump, and the lighting setup hasn’t worked properly since 2009. But the second you step into the familiar haze of cigarette smoke, sweat, and distant bass reverb, your shoulders loosen. This is your place. Your world. It’s where everything makes sense.

You spot her before you even hit the stage.

She’s tucked near the back, arms crossed, face unreadable. But she’s there. She showed up.

And that’s enough to set your pulse thrumming beneath your skin.

You strum a few chords to warm up, fingers tingling with the anticipation that always comes before you step into the light. Your bandmates are grinning, feeding off the crowd’s energy. You take a breath and lean into the mic, voice steady even though your heart’s doing somersaults.

“This one’s for the nights that hit too hard, and the people you wish you could drag into the moment with you.”

The lights dim slightly, and the soft acoustic intro fills the room.

“I can be tough, I can be strong
But with you, it’s not like that at all…”

You sing softer tonight. Not because your voice can’t handle it, but because this song—this one’s different. It was born from loneliness, scrawled into the margins of an old notebook on a night you almost called someone you shouldn’t. You never expected to sing it in front of her .

“There’s a girl that gives a shit
Behind this wall, you just walk through it…”

The room quiets with every word, like the crowd knows not to interrupt. You can feel Annabeth’s gaze on you like a pulse, steady and impossible to ignore. You don’t look directly at her—not yet. It’d ruin you.

“I wish you were here
You’re always there, you’re everywhere...
But right now I wish you were here.”

When you glance at the crowd again, your eyes meet hers for the briefest second.

And she’s not cold. Not indifferent. Just… watching. Like she’s trying to understand you the way you understand chords. Like she’s starting to get it.

“And damn, damn, damn
What I’d do to have you here, here, here…”

You drag out the final note with your eyes closed, letting it fall off your lips like a secret, and when the lights come back up, the applause doesn’t hit all at once. It builds slowly, like people are afraid to disrupt the stillness.

You duck off stage, adrenaline cooling fast in your veins, trying not to look too obvious as you weave through the crowd.

Annabeth’s waiting.

She’s outside, leaning against your bike like it’s hers, hands in her jacket pockets, hair tied back and messy in a way you’ve never seen before.

“You changed the chords,” she says when you approach.

You raise an eyebrow, wiping sweat from your brow. “You noticed?”

“They used to resolve differently. You held them longer this time.”

You blink. The breath you take feels sharp in your throat. “Yeah. Been sitting in it more lately, I guess.”

She nods, gaze flicking over your face, your hoodie, your hands. “It sounded… honest.”

There’s something quieter about her tonight. Less armor. Like maybe you’re not the only one being tugged toward something terrifying and beautiful.

“I’ll take that as the highest compliment from you,” you murmur.

Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, but it never fully appears. “You wrote it?”

“Senior year. Mid-meltdown. All-time emotional low.”

She doesn’t laugh. She just studies you for a long, long moment.

“You sound different when you sing,” she says finally.

You lean back against the bike beside her, close enough to feel her body heat.

“How different?”

She looks up at the sky like it might help her find the right words.

“Like you’re not afraid to feel things. Even the messy parts.”

You hum. “Maybe I’m not. Not when I know someone’s listening.”

And this time, when she glances at you, there’s no guardedness. No smirk. Just a slow blink and a shift in the air between you, like the thread tying you two together just pulled tighter.

“I was listening,” she says softly.

Neither of you say anything after that. You just stand there for a while—two girls from different worlds, brushing shoulders, watching the night roll in.

And when you walk off together into the dim halo of the streetlight, you don’t need to look back.

Because for the first time in three days, it doesn’t feel like she’s gone.

Chapter Text

Track 08: “Perfect” — Notion

The energy in the venue is alive, humming beneath the floorboards like a low-voltage current. Cigarette smoke curls near the ceiling, the stage lights bleed warm amber onto the crowd, and laughter buzzes like static. It’s all the usual chaos—but something in the air feels freshly lit.

Because she’s here again.

Annabeth.

You spot her not long after soundcheck, tucked near the back wall in that posture you’re starting to associate with her: arms crossed, expression unreadable, her steely eyes cutting clean through the haze. Her lips are drawn in a careful line, but you’ve seen the way they twitch when she’s holding back a smile. And tonight, she looks... poised. Like she doesn’t belong in this dusty corner of town—but she keeps showing up anyway.

You take the stage with a cocky grin and a bassline already thrumming in your chest.

“This one’s kinda close to our hearts,” you say into the mic. “Wrote it after a string of terrible decisions and two hotel bans. You know. Romance.”

The crowd cheers. You don’t look at them, though. Your eyes find hers, like they always do now.

“It’s called Perfect. ”

The first notes fall easy, smooth and slow, like rain sliding down a windowpane. You step into the mic as your band settles behind you—bass thick and low, drums heartbeat-steady.

“I might never be your knight in shining armor

I might never be the one you take home to mother

And I might never be the one who brings you flowers…”

You sing with that grin curling the edge of your lips, your voice settling into something lower, more intimate. You let the words stretch out just enough to sting.

“And if you like midnight drives with the windows down...
If you like going places we can’t even pronounce…

If you like to do whatever you’ve been dreaming about...
Baby, you're perfect.”

The way she stiffens just a little tells you she heard it. Really heard it.

You move across the stage, gaze never straying far from her, like there’s a current tethered between you—some invisible pull that tightens with every lyric.

“If you like causing trouble up in hotel rooms...
And if you like having secret little rendezvous...
If you like to do the things you know we shouldn’t do...
Baby, I’m perfect.”

You lean into the mic again. Your voice drops just a little more, silk-soft.

“I’m perfect for you.”

There’s a moment—barely a beat—where you swear you see her flinch. Not in discomfort, but in recognition. Like something in the lyrics snagged on her ribcage. Like maybe she doesn’t want them to be true, but they are.

The applause crashes through before the last note even fades, and you bow with a grin, already knowing the rest of the night is doomed to orbit that look she gave you.

She finds you outside afterward, helmet already in her hands.

“You know,” she says, stepping close enough to cast her shadow over your boots, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was pointed.”

You smirk, resting a hand casually on your motorcycle’s worn leather seat. “Maybe I just knew you’d be here again.”

Her mouth twitches—just slightly. “I told you not to hold your breath.”

You toss her the helmet. “Guess I like the gamble.”

It’s an old brown bike, your favorite piece of junk. Scratched, reliable, loud as hell. You fire up the engine as she slides on behind you, arms slipping around your waist like it’s second nature. You don’t say anything as you pull out of the parking lot, letting the wind fill in the quiet.

She’s pressed against your back, her chin tucked near your shoulder, and the streetlights blur past like smudged gold. The night’s warm, the city buzzing under your wheels, and you let the thrill of it settle in your spine.

You take her to a little diner across town. The kind of place with cheap burgers and broken jukeboxes, open too late for anyone with a normal life. She sits across from you in a booth by the window, grey eyes flicking down at the laminated menu, then up at you with something softer than her usual guarded look.

“You always bring girls here after serenading them?”

You tear off a piece of your napkin and shrug. “Only the ones who stare at me like they know how the song ends.”

She rolls her eyes, but you catch the corner of her mouth quirking up. She orders pancakes. You try not to grin too much about it.

Dinner’s slow, comfortable. She listens when you talk, asks questions she doesn’t need to ask, leans in with just enough interest to make your hands sweat. She doesn’t say much about your music, but every now and then, her eyes flicker like she’s still hearing it. Like maybe she hasn’t stopped.

Outside, you offer her the helmet again without a word. She takes it without argument.

The ride back is quieter. You don’t head toward her neighborhood.

You pull into your place instead—a tiny apartment above an old repair shop. There’s nothing fancy about it. A battered couch, a string of lights taped haphazardly to the walls, guitars leaning in corners like lazy roommates. But it smells like pine and vinyl and home.

Annabeth steps inside slowly, turning once to take it in. “You live above a garage?”

You smile. “Romantic, right?”

She walks further in, brushing her fingers across a stack of records. “Charming,” she murmurs.

You hand her a bottle of water, suddenly too aware of how quiet it is between you. There’s a weight to it now. Not awkward, just... full. Like neither of you knows what to do next, and both of you know what this could become.

“Stay,” you say, the word coming out low.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just meets your eyes and studies you for a long, still moment.

Then she nods.

You find an old shirt for her, soft from years of wear, and toss it to her with a sheepish look. She disappears into the bathroom while you pretend to be focused on clearing couch space.

When she returns, you blink once. She looks out of place in your clothes, but in the best possible way—like she doesn’t belong here, but she’s choosing to be here anyway.

She curls up on the couch, legs tucked under her. “Don’t get any ideas,” she warns, eyes narrowing playfully.

You grin and sit across from her, grabbing your acoustic guitar. “Not unless you ask nicely.”

And just like that, the silence folds into something warm. Comfortable.

You play something soft. Not a full song, just chords you like, melodies that drift around the things you don’t say yet. She watches you with her head tilted slightly, eyes calmer now. Less guarded.

Eventually, you both drift. Not into anything dramatic. Just sleep. She stays curled on the couch, and you take the floor, but the space between you feels smaller than it should.

And as your eyes fall closed, you catch a glimpse of her—half-asleep, skin lit by the glow of the streetlamp through the window—and you think, maybe, this is what perfect feels like.

Chapter Text

Track 09: “Sway” — Notion

The sunlight was barely creeping through the blinds, but the memory from last night still clung to you like the scent of her perfume in your hoodie.

You hadn’t expected to talk for hours. But she’d stayed—legs curled beneath her on your worn-down couch, one hand propping her cheek up while the other fiddled with the drawstring of your borrowed hoodie. You sat on the floor, guitar forgotten in your lap, your legs stretched out like you had all the time in the world.

At some point, the silence had thinned into something soft. Easy. And she’d spoken, almost out of nowhere.

“There’s a school festival coming up,” she said, voice barely above a murmur. “End of the month. I’m head of the committee.”

You raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Of course you are.”

She gave you a look, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. “It’s a big deal. Tents, art showcases, guest booths… and a stage. Live music.”

You blinked. “Uh huh?”

And then, just like that, she said it.

“I was wondering if Notion would want to perform.”

There was no sarcasm in her voice, no teasing curve to her lip. Just plain, quiet curiosity—like she wasn’t trying to lure you in, but genuinely wanted you there.

Your heart had tripped over itself.

“Us? At… a university festival?”

She nodded. “The crowd’s usually huge. Real sound system. Proper stage. You’d kill it.”

You’d smiled—small, crooked, tight at the corners.

But you hadn’t said yes.

Now, in the warmth of morning, you found yourself pacing the edge of your rooftop, coffee growing cold in your hands. The city rumbled below, car horns and garbage trucks slicing through the quiet. You weren’t usually one to get caught up in nerves—not before gigs, not even during them. But this wasn’t just a gig.

This was her world.

Polished, bright, full of expectations and eyes that might not understand the raw mess your music came from. Notion wasn’t a polished band. You were duct-taped chords, last-minute soundchecks, borrowed amps. You were dive bars and garage floors and figuring it out as you went.

And yet, something about the way Annabeth had asked—like she genuinely believed you could hold that stage—had made you want to believe it too.

You’d seen her before she left last night, her expression unreadable as she stood by your door, tucking her hair behind her ear and avoiding your eyes when she mumbled, “Don’t overthink it. Just… think about it.”

You had. You still were.

And now, with the morning slipping into full daylight, you knew it wasn’t just about the crowd or the stage or the nerves. It was about showing up in her world.

And not screwing it up

You brought it up the next time the band was all in one place—mid-rehearsal, mid-soundcheck, mid-chaos. Which was, realistically, always.

Ivonne was crouched by the amp, rewiring a mess of cables with her hair tied in a haphazard knot. Danzel drummed an absent rhythm on the edge of a pizza box. You leaned against the mic stand, arms crossed and fingers twitching with nerves.

“So…” you cleared your throat, loud enough to break the hum of idle chatter. “We, uh, might have a shot to play at a university festival.”

Three heads turned at once.

“Like a school school?” Milo blinked.

“It’s not just a school,” you said quickly. “It’s—uh—it’s New Athens . They host this massive fall festival every year. Outdoor stage. A crowd. A real one.”

Rhea raised an eyebrow. “How’d we get on that radar?”

You shrugged. “A friend. Asked if we’d be interested.”

They were quiet for a beat. And then…

“Hell yeah,” Milo grinned. “Are you kidding? A real stage? That’s huge!”

“Are you okay with it?” Rhea’s eyes were sharp, too sharp. “You’re not exactly glowing with enthusiasm.”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Just… big crowd. Fancy setup. It's different.”

She didn’t push it further, and you were grateful. You couldn’t tell them it was less about the crowd and more about the fact that Annabeth would be in it. Watching. That this whole thing suddenly felt like it meant more than just another setlist.

You tried to bury it by diving into the rehearsal, but the chords didn’t feel right beneath your fingers. Your voice cracked once, twice, and you cursed under your breath.

You were mid-argument with a stubborn amp when the garage door creaked open.

The afternoon sunlight spilled in—and with it, Annabeth.

You nearly dropped your mic.

She looked out of place in the best way: pale blue jeans, sleeves of her white button up pushed up her forearms, a to-go carton in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. There was no announcement, no dramatic flair—just a simple, “Hey.”

Nhate turned first. “Oh damn, she’s real?”

Ivonne smirked but said nothing. You stood frozen as Annabeth crossed the room and handed the drinks to Nhate before turning to you, lifting the bag in her hand.

“Figured you haven’t eaten. You look like you’re about to combust.”

You blinked. “You came all the way here to—?”

“To make sure you don’t pass out.” She said it so simply, so evenly, that it stole the breath right out of your lungs.

You set your mic down, suddenly too aware of the sweat on your collar and the frizz in your hair. “I’m not combusting.”

Annabeth tilted her head. “Your eye’s twitching.”

You groaned and sat down on the nearest amp like your legs couldn’t hold you up anymore. “This is gonna suck.”

She knelt in front of you before you could hide your face behind your hands, her voice dropping low. “You’ve played in worse conditions. In worse places. With broken strings and no monitor and drunk hecklers yelling song requests.”

You looked up, startled.

“You’ve always been good,” she added, more softly. “And that’s without a fancy stage. You’re gonna kill it.”

It was the first time you let her see you like this—unbrushed, unfiltered, nervous and knotted with self-doubt. You weren’t the lead singer, the chaos-gremlin frontwoman with the cocky smirk and the “screw it” attitude. You were just a girl in an old hoodie, fidgeting with a pick between your fingers, hoping you didn’t choke.

And she was looking at you like you were still golden.

“Thanks,” you muttered, the word awkward in your throat. “I… needed that.”

Annabeth smiled and nudged your leg with her knee, gentle. “You’re welcome.”

You didn’t say it, but her showing up—food, drinks, grounding presence and all—meant more than any crowd ever could.

Khira gave you a knowing look across the room. You ignored it. You just let yourself breathe again.

Chapter Text

Track 10: “There’s Nothing Holding Me Back” — Notion

The next time she came to rehearsal, no one batted an eye.

Annabeth slipped in through the half-open garage door like she belonged there. No clipboard. No to-go tray. Just a canvas tote slung over her shoulder and a thick textbook tucked under one arm. She wore a gray sweatshirt with the cuffs chewed up and her hair tied into a loose knot like she hadn’t meant to impress anyone. And maybe she hadn’t. But she still walked in like she didn’t need to.

You noticed her before the others did—caught in that lazy moment between soundcheck and warm-up, pretending to tune your guitar while watching the way she scanned the room like she was taking inventory. She gave you a short nod, like a secret shared only between the two of you, and settled into the sagging couch pushed against the back wall.

The guys barely reacted. Khira tossed her a wave. Danzel said “hey” around a bite of protein bar. You didn’t say anything—just picked up your mic and let it hum to life in your hand like it always did when she was watching.

She pulled out a highlighter and started reading. Just like that.

No fuss. No drama. Just Annabeth Grace Chase using your setlist as study music.

It was stupid, probably, how that small thing made your chest feel tight. Like she trusted you. Like she liked being here, enough to fold herself into your world without asking for permission or making it weird.

And when the band started playing—when your voice cracked open and poured over the beat of There's Nothing Holdin' Me Back , wild and unruly and grinning through every word—you swore she smiled every time you looked her way.

She wasn’t reading anymore by the second chorus. Her textbook was open on her lap, forgotten. Her eyes were on you.

By the time rehearsal ended, the sky had dipped into a dusky blue and the others filtered out with the usual chaos of zippers and backslaps and empty soda cans rolling across the concrete. Milo yelled something about burgers. Rhea muttered something sarcastic in response. They waved at Annabeth on their way out like she was just another one of you.

And then it was quiet again.

You stood by the amp, pretending to be busy coiling a cable. Annabeth was still on the couch, her knees pulled up and her textbook finally closed.

“You guys sound better every time,” she said simply.

You looked over your shoulder. “You always say that.”

She smiled—really smiled, and it didn’t have that calculating edge it sometimes did. It looked almost proud.

“Because it’s true.”

You dropped the cable and walked over, sitting beside her with a sigh. The couch dipped under your weight, and your knee brushed hers.

For a second, you just sat there. The echo of music still humming in your bones, the warmth of her shoulder so close to yours. Your heartbeat felt louder than it should.

“You’re not sick of us yet?” you asked quietly.

She tilted her head toward you. “Of Notion? Never.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“You make it easy,” she said. “To forget everything else.”

That hit harder than you expected.

You turned to her slowly. “You’re gonna make me write a love song.”

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You laughed, light and breathless. “Too late.”

And then—for just a heartbeat—you both looked at each other without saying anything. Not like a challenge. Not like a joke. Just… seeing.

You didn’t kiss her. But you wanted to.

And she didn’t move away.

The moment passed like it always does—quiet, full of almosts.

But when you stood to start packing up, she lingered a little longer. Watched you a little closer. And when she finally got up to leave, her hand brushed yours on the way out, deliberate and soft and electric.

You didn’t speak after that. You didn’t need to.

There was something in the silence that already said enough.

Chapter Text

Track 11: “When She Cries” - Notion

You weren’t used to walking hallways this pristine.

They gleamed. Everything did. The brick buildings were old but polished, ivy coiled in perfect symmetry along the arches. The students passed by in pressed slacks and soft knits, arms full of textbooks and iced coffees that probably cost more than your whole outfit. You tried not to fidget with your denim jacket, but your fingers kept twitching.

Thalia—who had made the introductions with an eye roll and a quick “don’t be weird” as she hugged Annabeth hello—was now leading the tour through the main quad. She pointed out lecture halls and libraries like it was all casual, but her posture was upright, practiced. Comfortable.

Unlike you.

Your bandmates trailed behind you, each trying to play it cool, but their eyes darted at every sculpture and every perfect little bench arrangement like they were walking through a museum, not a college. Alex whispered something about how the grass looked too green , and the rest of Notion muffled laughs behind their hands.

But you couldn’t laugh. Not today.

Not when Annabeth looked like this . Confident. Elegant in her navy blazer and boots, her hair catching the sunlight like a painting. She belonged here. She fit here.

And you—well. You weren’t sure you belonged anywhere lately.

You were already working on a smile when her voice called your name—“C’mon, Rockstar”—like a joke between the two of you, something private.

You glanced up. She was waiting, one eyebrow raised. Her eyes softened when she saw your face, like she was about to say something—

But then someone else appeared beside her.

A guy. Tall, clean-cut. Crisp white shirt, golden watch flashing when he adjusted his bag. He said something to her, made her laugh. She turned toward him for just a second, and in that second you felt it.

A pinch in your chest. Stupid and small and sharp.

You tried not to let it show. But you watched the way she smiled at him—polite, professional, warm. You heard her say, “I’ll catch up in a second, I’m just giving a tour,” and you still couldn’t breathe quite right.

He looked like her world.

He looked like the kind of guy someone like Annabeth could fall for without a second thought—stable, brilliant, someone who wouldn't get stage lights in her eyes or burn pancakes in the morning or forget appointments. Someone who wouldn’t look this out of place.

You shoved your hands in your pockets and didn’t say much for the rest of the day.

Even when Annabeth circled back to you, even when she tried to nudge you into a joke or asked if you were okay, you just smiled. Smiled through the afternoon. Smiled when Thalia complimented your band. Smiled through the ivy-covered buildings and the fancy little café where the barista knew her name.

By the time you all headed back to your place, you were exhausted from pretending.

Your apartment smelled like guitar polish and lemon cleaner. There were posters tacked up unevenly and mugs on the counter that no one remembered washing. But it was yours . And still, today, it felt small.

You stood in the kitchen, running cold water over your hands just to feel something real. The others had cleared out—Alex and Riley grabbing food, Harper saying she’d crash at her cousin’s. It was just the two of you now.

Annabeth leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. You didn’t look up until she said, quiet, “You were quiet today.”

You shrugged. “Guess your school’s too fancy for someone like me.”

“I didn’t bring you there to impress anyone,” she said. “I brought you because I wanted you there.”

You dried your hands on your jeans. “Well, maybe I didn’t want to feel like I needed impressing.”

Silence.

Then soft steps. She walked up and took the dish towel from your hands, like she knew you were using it to avoid looking at her.

“Was it because of Carter?” she asked gently. “The guy from earlier?”

Your jaw tensed before you could help it. “I didn’t say that.”

“No. But your face did.”

You forced a laugh. “I just… it’s easy to imagine you ending up with someone like that, you know? Polished. Smart. Knows how to pronounce charcuterie .”

She tilted her head. “And what, you think I only like people who fit some mold?”

“I think you deserve someone who doesn’t feel like they’re ruining the view,” you muttered.

There was a pause. Then her voice, softer now. “You know, I’ve felt like that too.”

You turned to her, confused. “You?”

She nodded. “All the time. Even here. Especially here. Everyone thinks I’m perfect because I get good grades or because I plan things well—but most days I’m just... holding it all together. Wondering if I’m really meant to do any of this, or if I’m just playing the role well enough not to be noticed.”

You didn’t speak. Just watched her, feeling the words nest in your ribs like they’d been waiting to.

“I’m not perfect,” she said. “And you don’t have to be either.”

Your voice cracked, just a little. “Why are you saying all this?”

She hesitated, then stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the nervous flicker in her eyes.

“Because I like you,” she said. “Even when you’re too loud, or too stubborn. Even when you try to hide what you’re really feeling. I like you.”

You stared.

Then laughed once, breathless. “You really pick the worst timing.”

She smiled. “You’ve never liked easy, have you?”

You leaned in, forehead brushing hers. “No. But I like you too.”

It wasn’t a grand moment. It wasn’t a kiss or a love song.

It was just that—quiet and true and full of all the things you hadn’t said until now.

The apartment was quiet when you woke. Sunlight had just begun to filter in through the half-drawn blinds, golden streaks stretching across the worn wood floors of your living room. You blinked the sleep from your eyes, feeling the faintest warmth beside you, the soft brush of fingers still barely grazing your own. Annabeth was curled up on your couch, hair mussed from sleep and features finally at rest in a way you’d never seen before—unguarded, almost delicate.

You stayed there for a moment, not moving, just watching the rise and fall of her chest. Her sweatshirt had slipped slightly off one shoulder in the night, revealing a sun-kissed collarbone and the edge of that university tank she’d pulled over her clothes last night. And still, even in your oversized blanket, even with your mismatched throw pillows cradling her head, she looked like she belonged. It was a thought that hit you like a rush—quiet, but undeniable.

Your stomach growled softly, and you glanced toward the kitchen. You figured she deserved a good morning. Or at least a good cup of coffee.

You padded across the room on bare feet, careful not to wake her as you gathered what little you had—eggs, a bit of cheese, some bread that wasn’t too far gone. You worked on autopilot, hands moving with practiced ease even as your head buzzed with everything from last night.

Her voice replayed in your head like a chorus:

"You don’t have to be perfect, you know. Not for me."

You weren’t used to that—someone seeing through the noise and still choosing to stay. Still choosing you .

The kitchen smelled like butter and toast, like something real and warm and lived-in, and you were plating two scrambled eggs each when you heard the couch creak gently behind you.

“…are you seriously making breakfast?” Annabeth’s voice came out hoarse and half-asleep.

You turned over your shoulder with a crooked smile. “I figured if you’re gonna have an emotional breakthrough on my couch, the least I can do is feed you after.”

She grunted— actually grunted —as she sat up and rubbed her face, blinking the morning light out of her eyes. “You’re so dramatic in the morning.”

“Says the girl who practically gave a TED talk on mutual vulnerability before passing out,” you shot back, walking the plate over and setting it down on your tiny dining table, which still had yesterday’s guitar picks scattered across it.

Annabeth looked up at you then—hair messy, cheeks still warm from sleep, eyes soft in a way that made your throat catch.

“You okay?” you asked, quieter now.

She nodded, slow. “Yeah. Are you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you crossed the room again, grabbed two mugs, poured her the good coffee, the one you saved for guests who mattered. You sat beside her on the floor this time, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

“I think I am,” you said finally. “I was scared yesterday. Not just about the crowd, but—just… seeing you talk to him. That guy from your school. It reminded me of how different we are. Like, I write songs and play garage gigs, and he probably interns for congressmen.”

Annabeth laughed softly into her mug. “He’s a dork. And he cried during Toy Story 3 .”

You smiled, leaning your head back against the edge of the couch. “Okay, maybe he’s not that threatening.”

She turned to you, brushing a crumb from her lip, and the morning sunlight caught the gold in her hair again. “Different doesn’t mean bad, you know. I like who you are. The loud, chaotic, passionate mess that you are.”

You raised a brow. “Mess, huh?”

“A lovable mess,” she corrected, lips quirking up.

There was a beat of silence then. The kind that felt good. Full.

“You staying for lunch too?” you asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

She pretended to consider it. “Depends. You got anything more impressive than scrambled eggs?”

You smirked. “We could get takeout and pretend I cooked. Real power move.”

Annabeth leaned against your shoulder then—fully leaned—and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel the need to say anything clever or flirt your way through the silence.

You just sat there with her, your hearts beating in the same quiet rhythm.

And somehow, that felt like enough.

Chapter Text

Track 12: “Stuck With U” — Notion

The week that followed moved like a slow-building storm.

Your band was now officially slotted for the school festival lineup—second to last on the main stage. Annabeth had confirmed it with a text sent sometime around midnight that made your heart stutter in your chest: You’re on the poster, by the way. Can’t wait to see you take the whole crowd by storm.

You’d read it about twenty times before replying with something chill like, hope I don’t vomit lol.

She sent back a smirking emoji and nothing else.

Now, standing in the cavernous university auditorium for your first official soundcheck, the weight of it all sat heavy on your shoulders. It was one thing to play at your usual dive bars or the occasional backyard venue where no one expected much. But this—this was different. There were banners, security, sound engineers, tech crews in matching shirts. Annabeth’s school didn’t play around.

Your fingers tugged at the sleeves of your denim jacket—old, frayed at the hem, and comforting in ways nothing else in your wardrobe could match. Your bandmates were scattered around, tuning instruments, testing pedals, running mic checks. From the corner of the stage, you could see the rows of stadium seats slowly filling with volunteers, committee heads, and the occasional student who wandered in too early.

Annabeth hadn’t arrived yet. And it was ridiculous how much that fact alone made your chest tighten.

“You good?” your drummer asked, tossing you a water bottle from behind his kit.

You caught it on reflex, nodding. “Yeah. Just… big place.”

“You’ve played before,” he said, eyeing you.

“Not with a thousand rich kids and a girl I’m kind of into watching.”

He smirked. “So it’s not the crowd, it’s her .”

You flipped him off and moved to the front of the stage where your mic stand waited, polished and too new-looking for your taste. You adjusted it with careful hands, tested your mic with a few low notes, and finally turned to the others. “Let’s start with Perfect , yeah?”

Your bassist let out a low whistle. “Starting with a serenade? Bold.”

“Shut up and count us in.”

They did. The opening riff echoed through the hall, drums following sharp and steady. You closed your eyes for a moment as you gripped the mic, remembering the way Annabeth had looked the last time you sang it—like she was trying not to let it show, but still getting pulled into you like gravity. That tiny, stunned smile she'd tried to hide.

The words poured out smoother than they had in days. When your voice cracked, it cracked in all the right places, raw and charged. By the time the final chord rang out, a few people in the hall had actually clapped.

You looked toward the entrance, wiping sweat from your brow—and there she was.

Annabeth stood just off the side aisle, arms crossed over her chest and a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She was in a navy blue blouse tucked into tan slacks, probably straight from another meeting, and she looked every bit the picture of poise.

But her eyes—those grey eyes lit up with something soft, something almost tender—that was what made your throat close up.

“You sounded great,” she said when she stepped closer to the stage.

You jumped down from the riser, landing with a thud, and gave a sheepish grin. “Only because you weren’t in the front row. That would’ve been illegal levels of pressure.”

Annabeth tilted her head, smirking. “You know you’re going to kill it.”

“I’m not sure I was built for all this,” you admitted, gesturing around at the pristine space and polished production. “We’re more of a garage-band-meets-shitty-bar type of vibe.”

“Well, maybe I like that vibe,” she said, just quiet enough for only you to hear.

Your breath caught. You wanted to say something clever back, something smooth and ridiculous, but all that came out was, “Yeah?”

She nodded, smile twitching at the corners again. “Yeah.”

Before you could process how your heart was doing little flips in your chest, one of the committee heads called her name from the back of the room, clipboard in hand.

“I’ll see you later?” she asked, already halfway turned around.

“Count on it,” you said, voice still hoarse from singing.

She looked back over her shoulder one more time before disappearing through the side doors.

Your bandmates started packing up behind you, and you stayed frozen for a second longer, staring at the spot where she’d just stood. Somehow, even in a sea of people, she made everything feel like it narrowed down to just the two of you.

You were falling. And maybe you didn’t mind.

The band had cleared out after the soundcheck, their gear loaded into Nhate’s van with the usual chaos—cables half-tangled, someone swearing over missing picks, someone else already pulling up to the nearest cheap fast-food spot. You were supposed to go with them, maybe grab a burger before heading home, but instead you stayed.

You told them you wanted to look around campus a bit, maybe kill some time before traffic. That was partially true.

What you didn’t say was that you’d texted Annabeth.

Hey, if you're still around after class… I’ll wait.

She replied five minutes later.

I’ve got an hour-long lecture. Stay if you want. Library’s open. :)

So here you were. In one of the quietest corners of the campus library, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, warm amber light spilling across rows of high shelves and the occasional stressed student. You found a seat tucked between the philosophy and history sections, a worn leather armchair that cracked when you sank into it.

You picked up a random book from a nearby return cart—something about ancient architecture. You opened the first page. Read a few sentences.

You made it to the second page before your eyes slipped shut.

Annabeth walked into the library nearly forty-five minutes later, her laptop bag slung over one shoulder, hair a little wind-tossed from her walk across the quad. She spotted you almost instantly, folded into yourself on that oversized chair, denim jacket bunched beneath your head like a pillow, mouth parted slightly in sleep. The book lay open in your lap—still on the second page.

She stood there for a moment, quiet smile softening her face, before crossing the floor with light steps. She crouched beside you and gently nudged your shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, voice low. “Sleeping Beauty.”

You blinked awake, startled and groggy, and gave a sheepish grin as you sat up. “Damn. You caught me slacking.”

“You made it through… two pages,” she teased, picking up the book. “Impressive stamina.”

You rubbed your eyes and groaned. “I swear I meant to be productive. Guess your campus has really comfy chairs.”

“And narcoleptic energy,” she added.

You chuckled, standing up and stretching. “So. Cafeteria tour next?”

Annabeth raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re up for food court cuisine?”

“I was in a garage that smells like engine oil and bad decisions three hours ago. I think I’ll survive.”

She laughed and led the way out into the early evening light, the sky dusted in soft purples and golds. The cafeteria was buzzing when you arrived—students lined up for pizza slices, burrito bowls, fries, and the chaotic assortment of things only a college cafeteria could offer in good conscience.

As the two of you weaved through the tables, you heard your name.

“Yo!” a voice called out.

Annabeth turned just in time to spot the small group at one of the round tables near the back. A guy with dark hair and sea-green eyes gave a short wave, his tray already half-demolished. Next to him sat a girl in all black, boots kicked up on the metal bar under the table, smirking like she’d been expecting you. And then there was a soft-eyed guy with curly hair and plant stickers on his laptop.

You knew, immediately, that these were her people.

“Come meet my friends,” Annabeth said, nudging you forward.

You tried to play it cool, but your heart thumped harder with every step. There was something about seeing Annabeth in her world, surrounded by people who clearly loved her, that made you feel like the scrappy stray who wandered into someone else’s home.

“This is Percy,” she said, gesturing to the guy with the easy grin. “Thalia, who you kind of know already.”

Thalia tipped her head. “You’re louder onstage.”

You gave her a crooked smile. “Stage me is unhinged.”

“And that’s Grover,” Annabeth finished, motioning to the one with the stickers.

He smiled shyly and offered a fist bump. “You guys were amazing.”

“Thanks,” you said, sliding into the empty seat next to Annabeth, fingers tapping nervously on the edge of your tray.

Conversation flowed easily—mostly thanks to Percy and Thalia, who bickered like siblings and made it impossible not to laugh. Grover asked thoughtful questions about your band. Annabeth leaned into your side now and then, casually close, like she wasn’t even thinking about it. But you were. You were thinking about every brush of her shoulder, every glance she stole when she thought you weren’t looking.

At some point, you let yourself breathe.

You weren’t perfect. You weren’t polished. But here, in this noisy cafeteria with its too-bright lights and half-wiped tables, sitting beside the girl who always seemed two steps ahead of you, you felt like you belonged—just a little.

And that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Track 13: “Best Song Ever” — Notion

The festival was louder than you expected.

There were lights strung up like stars over every booth and walk path, laughter rising from the crowd like waves, and music thumping from every direction. The university lawn had transformed into a whole other world—bonfires in metal drums, vendors with neon signs, clubs shouting over each other for attention. You’d never seen so many polished, expensive-looking jackets in one place, and it made you want to tug your own sleeves lower, hide a little deeper under the brim of your cap.

Notion had never played a crowd this big.

Not in garages, or birthday parties, or downtown dive bars that smelled like beer and cheap cologne. You stood just off the stage as the last performance wrapped, watching the sea of students press closer. There were hundreds of them.

You could feel the weight of it in your chest. Not the good kind, either. It sat heavy like a rock, your fingers clumsy over your guitar strings during soundcheck, your voice cracking mid-harmony warmup.

Annabeth had said she’d meet you after her committee run-through, but she wasn’t here yet. You scanned the crowd like you were searching for oxygen.

“Hey,” Khira whispered, nudging your arm. “You okay?”

You looked at her and gave a tight nod. “Yeah. Just—new type of crowd.”

“You’ve done worse,” Danzel grinned. “Remember the frat gig?”

“That guy tried to kiss Nhate’s guitar,” Ivonne deadpanned.

Nhate groaned. “He licked it.”

You laughed, a little breathless, but it helped. These were your people. This was your band. This was your song .

You didn’t get more than thirty seconds of silence before she appeared—like the wind shifted and carried her into frame.

Annabeth, weaving through the side entrance with her clipboard still tucked under her arm, hair a little wind-blown, eyes immediately locking onto yours. Her lips curled in that soft, grounding way only she could pull off.

You didn’t know how she did it, how she made the whole campus blur into background noise.

She stopped just in front of you, arms folded, head tilted slightly.

“You’re nervous.”

You opened your mouth to protest, then paused. “Maybe a little.”

Annabeth smiled, eyes skimming over your features. “You’re going to be incredible. You always are.”

You tried to shrug, to laugh it off, but she stepped in a little closer, her voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “I meant it. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You’ve already got me.”

Your throat tightened just slightly.

You didn’t get the chance to answer, though, because the emcee announced your band name right then—and the crowd roared.

Annabeth winked. “Go knock ’em dead.”

So you did.

You walked onto that stage like the whole world was watching—because it was. Because she was.

The lights hit hard, the bass kicked in, and your mic stand felt steadier than it had seconds ago. You glanced over at your bandmates, each of them nodding like this was just another night. It wasn’t. But you were doing this together.

And when you started to sing, you forgot every face except one.

"I might never be your knight in shining armor
I might never be the one you take home to mama
But I can be the one… the one tonight."

The crowd screamed. You closed your eyes.

"And if you like causing trouble up in hotel rooms,
If you like having secret little rendezvous…
If you like to do the things you know that we shouldn’t do—
Baby, I’m perfect.
Baby, I'm perfect for you ."

You weren’t singing it for the crowd anymore. You weren’t even performing.

You were confessing.

And when you looked down—through the stage lights and fog—you saw her standing front and center, that damn clipboard finally gone, hands tucked into the pockets of her blazer, smiling up at you like she already knew every word.

The last note of Perfect rang through the air like an open secret—vulnerable and bold, and somehow not enough. The crowd went wild, lights flashing across eager faces, voices rising into one giant, unified cheer. Your bandmates exchanged grins, eyes blown wide with the kind of thrill you only get from knowing you owned it .

But you weren’t done.

You stepped forward again, tugging your in-ear out and pulling the wireless mic from its stand. The stage tech had handed it to you during setup and you had stared at it like it was alien tech, still amazed it worked without a cord. Now, it was a weapon in your hand—lightweight and dangerously freeing.

You raised it to your lips, grinning. “Y’all still got energy left, or are you already in love with us?”

The crowd roared, half of them chanting Notion! in a shaky rhythm.

You laughed, running your hand through your sweat-damp hair, trying to catch your breath. “Alright,” you said, gaze flicking down— right to her . She was still front and center, arms crossed loosely, but her mouth was parted now like she was trying not to smile. You leaned into the mic again.

“This next one’s for the blond girl in the front row,” you said, seeing the people in the front look around for who you were referring to, your tone was low and teasing. “She’s probably gonna kill me for saying that.”

The crowd erupted.

You saw Annabeth’s brows shoot up. You caught her reaction—just a second’s worth of something startled and pink cheeks—but it sent a jolt straight through you.

You gave her a wink, and before she could recover, you jumped .

It wasn’t a graceful landing—your boots hit the grass with a dull thud and a jolt ran up your knees, but adrenaline covered your clumsiness. You grinned through it, turning toward the screaming crowd as the first beat of Best Song Ever slammed into the speakers like thunder.

Ivonne hit the bassline hard. Danzel started the build. You didn’t miss a beat.

“Maybe it’s the way she walked,

Straight into my heart and stole it—”

You spun to your right, high-fived a guy with blue hair in the front row, pulled a girl’s hand up so she could dance on the spot with you for a second. The lawn pulsed beneath your feet, the crowd roaring the lyrics back at you.

“But she kissed me like she meant it—”

You turned on your heel and pointed the mic back toward Annabeth.

She wasn’t smiling this time. She was laughing , head tipped slightly, cheeks pink, and you caught her mouthing the lyrics right back at you.

“I said, can I take you home with me?

She said, never in your wildest dreams”

You gestured toward her like she was your favorite lyric in the set.

She shook her head slowly. But she didn’t look away.

“And we danced all night to the best song ever—”

You ran a lap across the front of the crowd before spinning and leaping back up onto the stage. Khira met your eyes and cackled behind her keyboard. The entire band leaned into the final chorus like it was their last breath.

“It was the best song ever!”

You were flying on adrenaline now, sweat clinging to your temples, your voice raw in the best kind of way. The lights kept flashing over the crowd—hands in the air, faces lit up like this was the best night of their lives. And maybe it was.

But when the bridge hit, when the drums softened and the guitar dropped out and only the melody echoed over the beat, it was just you . You and her.

"You know, I know, you know I'll remember you…"

Your voice came down softer now, more open. You scanned the sea of people until you saw her again—still there. Still watching.

But she wasn’t cheering this time. She looked quiet. Like she’d been waiting for this moment.

You stepped forward until you were standing at the edge of the stage again, mic clutched to your lips like it might ground you. You weren’t looking at anyone else.

"And I know, you know, I hope you'll remember how we danced…"

The words left your mouth like a secret only for her. For a moment, the crowd felt distant, like they were just static on the edge of something real.

You raised your free hand, gave her a little wave—a dumb, tiny thing, but it was yours .

She smiled. And this time, it wasn’t coy or smug or teasing.

It was soft. Pure. The kind of smile you wanted to write another five songs about.

For a beat too long, neither of you moved. You just stood there, and it felt like remembering something that hadn’t even ended yet.

Then the final chorus came crashing in like thunder again.

The spell snapped—but only slightly.

Because even as you turned back into the song, even as you spun around and shouted into the mic, even as you danced across the stage like nothing could touch you— you knew she was still watching . And you were still singing for her.

After the show, it was chaos.

People were coming up to you, offering drinks and selfies, asking where to stream your music. You barely heard them. You barely remembered what you said.

All you knew was that Annabeth hadn’t moved from her spot.

So when you finally stumbled down the steps at the side of the stage, hair damp with sweat, throat sore, still breathless from the high of it—she was there.

You weren’t sure how she got backstage. You didn’t care.

Because she stepped into your space like she belonged there, eyes bright, hair tousled from wind and lights, voice lost somewhere in the noise.

You couldn’t even hear her when she said, “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

But her smile made it clear enough.

You walked straight into her arms.

“I told you,” she murmured into your ear.

“You always say that,” you whispered back.

“That’s because I’m always right.”

You pulled back enough to look at her, chest rising and falling like you’d just outrun something. “I really like you, you know that?”

Her smile turned real slow. “Good.”

And then—God, then she kissed you.

It was light and stolen behind a speaker tower, with the crowd still roaring behind you and your band shouting about free food from somewhere. It was exactly what you’d been trying not to want since the night you first saw her in the crowd.

And it was worth every second of waiting.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss. It wasn’t long or desperate or movie-scored.

It was soft. Careful. A little clumsy—your nose bumped hers. But she was smiling when you pulled back, and that was all that mattered.

“Hey,” you breathed.

She blinked, a little dazed. “Hey.”

Chapter Text

Track 14: “Mean It” — Notion

The air had shifted.

It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t explosive. But after the festival—the adrenaline, the cheering crowd, that kiss that still burned on your lips like a secret promise—you’d thought things would be... simpler.

But they weren’t.

Not in the way you hoped.

Annabeth had been busy. Understandably so—finals were close, and she’d warned you about how she turned into a ghost during exam season. But it wasn’t just that. It was how she stopped texting first. How the calls became short, and your visits were filled with her laptop between you, her eyes drifting to the screen every few minutes. You didn’t want to be the clingy one. The needy one.

But the silence was starting to bite.

And you... well, you didn’t know how to ask if she still wanted this. You didn’t know how to bring it up without sounding insecure.

So you pretended everything was fine.

Until Khira called you out in the garage during a rehearsal.

“You’re off,” she said bluntly, arms crossed. “Like—vocals are fine, sure, but your vibe’s all over the place.”

You blinked. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t even made a dumb joke in thirty minutes. That’s not fine.”

Ivonne glanced up from her bass, carefully. “Something happen with Annabeth?”

You froze. The hesitation was enough of an answer.

She didn’t mean to pull away.

But now that the festival was over, she found herself doubting everything.

Because you made her feel so much. Too much. And that scared her.

You belonged to a world that felt free. Untamed. Full of spark and color. And Annabeth—Annabeth had spent her life calculating, building, planning everything three steps ahead.

She didn’t know how to not pull away when things got overwhelming.

She didn’t know if she could be enough.

You didn’t mean to cry in the middle of rehearsal.

Or well—not cry, cry. It wasn’t some dramatic sobfest. It was just… your voice cracking mid-verse. A half-choked breath between lyrics. A skip in rhythm as your hand slipped too hard against the strings. The others pretended not to notice, because they were kind like that. But you felt it. All of it. In your chest. In your throat. Under your skin.

You hadn't heard much from Annabeth since the festival.

It wasn’t that she ghosted you. She still replied. Still sent you little updates. Still gave you “good luck” texts on rehearsal mornings. But her presence— her —felt further away. Like she was holding her breath on the other side of the glass.

But it had been days. A week. Ten days.

You told yourself not to be clingy. Not to spiral.
You spiraled anyway.

So now, it’s dark. The streets are wet, and the wind bites. You’re soaked to the bone, sitting on your parked motorcycle in front of her building, helmet clutched between your hands. Your jeans are heavy from rain, and your hoodie clings to your shoulders like second skin. You probably look pathetic. But the thought of turning around never crosses your mind.

When the door opens, you don’t speak.

Annabeth’s standing there, wrapped in a gray blanket, eyes widening as they take over your dripping form. “Y/N?” she says, barely a breath.

You look up, jaw tight. “Hey.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She pulls you in by your jacket, rain be damned, and crushes you into her. The fabric of her blanket wraps around both of you. You’re cold. She’s warm. You’re trembling. She’s steady.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against your hair. “God, I’m so sorry.”

Your hands curl into the back of her sweatshirt. “You don’t get to do that. Pull away like that and pretend nothing’s changed.”

“I know. I just—” Her voice breaks. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know how to balance it all and I panicked and then I thought maybe… I thought maybe it’d be easier for you if I gave you space.”

You laugh bitterly. “Easier? I’ve been writing breakup ballads in my head for a week.”

That pulls a wet-sounding laugh out of her, and her fingers find the back of your neck. You’re still holding your helmet, but your other hand is gripping her shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

“I rode in the goddamn rain,” you whisper back.

Then she kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Gentle. A quiet apology, lips moving like they’re trying to piece something back together. But it grows—hungry and warm, teeth clashing, hands grabbing, the kind of kiss that fills every space left hollow.

You’re in her apartment now, shoes kicked off, helmet dumped on the floor. She ushers you to the bathroom, insists you wash up while she finds clothes for you.

You end up in one of her old college hoodies and some gym shorts, hair damp, heart still beating hard. She’s in the kitchen when you step out, phone in hand, arguing with a delivery guy about the address.

She sees you and smiles. Not the bright, cheeky one you usually get. This one is quieter. Sweeter. Realer.

Dinner is takeout—greasy, warm, and eaten on the couch, sitting shoulder to shoulder with the TV playing something you aren’t watching. Your knees touch. Her foot nudges yours every so often. It’s quiet, but not awkward. Just... steady.

At some point, she leans her head on your shoulder. At another, your arm winds around her. And eventually, your fingers tangle together between shared containers of noodles and spring rolls.

Much later, you’re both curled up in her bed, half-covered in blankets, the city lights spilling faint gold through the curtains. Her fingers trace shapes on your arm while your forehead rests against her collarbone.

She says, “I don’t care about perfect anymore.”

You whisper, “I never was.”

She smiles. “I like you this way.”

And you believe her.

Chapter Text

Track 15: “Lovers Rock” - TV Girl, Cover by Notion

Morning sunlight seeped through the slats of Annabeth’s blinds, warm and golden against your skin. You stirred slowly beneath her sheets, the lingering scent of her lavender shampoo and old books hanging in the air like comfort. There was an ache in your arms—not pain, but a memory. The way she had clung to you last night. The way she had kissed you like she was trying to make up for every second you spent apart.

Her side of the bed was warm but empty, and you blinked blearily, sitting up. The sight that greeted you made your chest swell, soft and full—Annabeth stood by her dresser in a worn university hoodie and a pair of shorts, hair up in a lazy bun, flipping through what looked like her notes. She didn’t notice you at first, too focused, and for a second, you just watched her.

You’d seen her composed. You’d seen her smug. You’d seen her flustered. But this? This domestic little snapshot of her in the morning, bare-faced and humming something under her breath? This was new. And you were completely wrecked by it.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

You blinked. “Caught.”

Annabeth smirked faintly, then turned to face you. “You hungry?”

“I could eat,” you said, stretching. “But not if it means getting out of bed.”

She snorted. “Good thing I ordered in.”

You watched her cross the room and plop onto the bed beside you, handing over her phone so you could browse the takeout options. Your hands brushed. It was nothing, really. But it felt like something. Everything between you two felt like something now.

Over breakfast—sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bag of takeout between you—you talked. Not heavy, not intense like the night before. You told her about your bandmates teasing you for being a mess the past week, and she admitted that Thalia had cornered her about “sulking like a kicked puppy.” It made you both laugh, cheeks flushed and heads tilted toward each other, like magnets slowly losing the will to stay apart.

By the time you had to leave, her fingers caught your wrist at the door.

“You can come back tonight, you know,” she said, voice quiet.

You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You didn’t say more. You didn’t have to. The kiss she gave you before you walked out said enough.

You didn’t expect the band to rehearse that night, but when Ivonne texted “Khira’s free. Nhate says he can get off early. You in?”, you said yes without hesitation. Annabeth had offered you her apartment again, but you wanted to bring something back to her. Music felt right.

The rehearsal felt quieter somehow, more mellow around the edges. The lights in the garage were dim, half the amps were off, and everyone moved a little slower, like they were all still riding the emotional high from the festival.

You sat on the amp instead of standing with your guitar, letting the first dreamy notes of "Lovers Rock" slip out like a secret. The beat was low and hypnotic, the kind of rhythm that felt like a slow dance in someone’s bedroom.

Ivonne threw you a look like really, this one? but went along with it. The rest of the band followed your lead, settling into the lazy rhythm, the soft swell of keys and mellow drums filling the room like warm air.

“Are you sick of me?

Would you like to be?”

The door creaked open a few seconds into the first verse, and Annabeth walked in wearing her oversized grey hoodie and that effortless confidence you could never quite pin down. She paused in the doorway, then gave a half-smile and tucked herself onto the corner couch without saying a word.

Your breath caught, but you kept playing. You didn’t look at her.

“But if you’re too drunk to drive,

And the music is right…”

You sang it softly, almost like you were whispering the words into the strings. You could feel her watching, but it didn’t make you nervous this time. If anything, it made the song feel truer, like it belonged to the moment.

“And if she grabs your hand, and drags you along

She might want a kiss before the end of this song.”

It wasn’t a song you’d ever performed before. Not in front of anyone. Not even your bandmates. But they didn’t question it now, and neither did she.

When it ended, no one clapped. No one had to.

The silence that followed was the kind that held weight—comfortable, thoughtful. Ivonne gave you a long look and a little smirk before packing up her bass. 

The amps were turned off, the lights in the garage dimmed to a soft, yellow hush. Your bandmates were already filtering out one by one, tossing their goodbyes with the lazy exhaustion of people who gave everything they had in a single set. You wiped sweat off your brow with the hem of your shirt, rolling your shoulder as you started winding up the mic cord.

“You always sing like it’s a confession,” came a voice behind you, and you turned to see Annabeth leaning against the wall, arms crossed, that signature half-smile tugging at her lips.

Your hands froze mid-wrap. “Do I?”

She pushed off the wall and walked closer, her boots echoing softly against the concrete floor. “You do,” she said simply, stopping just a few feet away. “Like you’re not sure if the song’s supposed to hurt or heal someone.”

You let out a quiet laugh, breath catching. “That’s dramatic.”

Annabeth raised an eyebrow, lips twitching like she was fighting back a grin. “So was dedicating it to me.”

You squinted at her. “That wasn’t dramatic, it was poetic.”

“Oh, right. Of course. Completely different,” she said dryly, tilting her head. “You’re the artist, after all.”

The teasing edge in her voice was familiar now, something that felt like a game only the two of you could play. And still, your heart tripped over itself under the weight of her attention.

“You didn’t hate it,” you said, voice quieter now.

She hesitated, then took one more step closer. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of her perfume—something clean and expensive and so her. “No,” she admitted. “I didn’t hate it.”

A beat passed, then another, and you swallowed hard. “So you liked it.”

“I didn’t say that,” she countered, but she was smiling—actually smiling now, no walls, no uptight posture. Just her and the night and the echo of a song still lingering between you.

You took a step forward, grinning now despite the nerves coiling in your stomach. “But you didn’t not say it.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes and bumped your shoulder lightly with hers, and that small, simple contact sparked something warmer than any applause ever could. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, but her voice was soft. Fond.

You wanted to say something back. Something clever, maybe sweet—but you were too busy staring at the way the garage light caught in her hair, how her eyes flicked briefly to your lips before darting back up like she hadn’t just done that.

So instead, you just said, “You sticking around tonight?”

She glanced toward the door, where your bandmates had long disappeared, then back at you. “Yeah. I think I will.”

And maybe that was her way of saying she liked the song too.

Chapter Text

Track 16: “Lovefool” - Notion

It started with a hug. Not the kind that lingers just a moment too long, or the kind that's careful and hesitant. It was the kind that slammed into you with years of old familiarity—arms thrown over your shoulders, loud laughter in your ear, the scent of something nostalgic and cloying sticking to your jacket before you could react.

You had no idea your ex would be at the indie bookshop café. She wasn’t supposed to be in town. That’s what she said last time you texted—months ago, out of the blue and half-drunk, like most things from your past. But there she was: bright smile, expensive nails, acting like nothing had changed.

“God, I haven’t seen you in forever, ” she said, squeezing you like she still had a claim to the past you’d already let go of. “You still singing?”

You laughed, awkward and cornered. “Still breathing, still singing.”

She leaned back to look at you, and her gaze was far too soft. “Still cute.”

You were about to answer—politely deflect, as you always did—when a shadow appeared at your side. A familiar one. Dagger-sharp and golden.

Annabeth.

You knew something was off the second you met her eyes. Her expression was neutral—but too neutral. Her arm slid around your waist in a move so jarringly out-of-character, you felt your whole body jolt at the contact.

“Hey, babe,” she said, with an edge of sweetness that could’ve melted steel. Her eyes didn’t leave your ex’s face. “Who’s this?”

You blinked. “Uh. This is… This is—”

“Her ex, ” your ex cut in. She smiled, too. The tight, polished kind that people wear when they’re staking their territory. “We used to date. But I guess you’re the new girl.”

Annabeth’s grip tightened around your waist—just slightly, but you felt it in your ribs.

“The only girl,” Annabeth said, smile widening like a silent threat. “Nice to meet you.”

You stared at her. There were so many things Annabeth wasn’t: clingy, performative, possessive. And yet here she was, pressing into your side, her voice low and smug, like she’d just won some invisible tug-of-war.

“I didn’t know you two were official,” your ex said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, we’re… not… yet—” you started, flustered.

“We are,” Annabeth interrupted, with the calm of someone lying through her teeth. “She just doesn’t like labels.”

You nearly choked on your own breath. She never acted like this. Not even when you flirted too much for your own good. Not even when Thalia teased the two of you mercilessly. This wasn’t a warning sign. It was a flare gun in the sky.

Once your ex had finally taken the hint and walked away—after one too many fake-nice comments and a strained goodbye—you turned to Annabeth, still frozen in place.

“Are you okay?” you asked, brows furrowed.

Annabeth ran a hand through her hair, finally breaking character. Her face was flushed, and she avoided your gaze.

“I don’t know what that was,” she muttered, lips twitching.

You grinned. “That was jealousy.”

“Was not.”

“You called me ‘babe.’”

She groaned, covering her face with one hand. “Don’t remind me.”

“ And you said we were dating.”

“You’re never letting this go, are you?”

You leaned in closer, just enough to bump your shoulder into hers. “Not a chance.”

That night, after you’d brought her back to your apartment—takeout containers stacked on the kitchen counter, her hoodie hung over your desk chair—you lay sprawled out on the couch together, legs tangled, a soft hum of your playlist playing in the background.

“You know,” you murmured, head resting on her shoulder, “you didn’t have to do all that earlier.”

Annabeth sighed. “I know. It was stupid.”

“No,” you said quickly. “It was… weirdly cute.”

She groaned again. “Kill me.”

You laughed, chest vibrating against hers. “You wanted to stab her with your eyes.”

“I wanted to stab you with my eyes.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the corner of her smile.

“She said I was still cute.”

“She’s right,” Annabeth said casually.

You blinked. “Huh?”

Annabeth shifted, gaze sliding sideways, and you caught the faintest hint of pink on her cheeks. “You’re cute,” she said, voice a little quieter. “She’s still not allowed to say it.”

There was a pause. The kind that settled heavy in the room.

“I wanna go somewhere,” you said suddenly. “With you.”

Annabeth blinked. “Like a date?”

“No. Like… a road trip.”

She looked at you like you’d just suggested moving to Mars. “You’re serious?”

“Why not? You’ve been breaking rules left and right lately. Might as well keep going.”

She laughed. The kind that filled your whole apartment like light. “Where would we even go?”

You shrugged. “Anywhere. Nowhere. We’ll figure it out. Just me and you and your dumb playlists and my motorcycle with a broken gas meter.”

“You’re really selling this,” she said dryly.

“I know. I’m incredible.”

There was a beat.

“Okay,” she said.

You turned to her. “Yeah?”

She nodded, slowly. “Let’s do it. Let’s run away for a while.”

And just like that—something shifted.

The girl who used to roll her eyes at the thought of chaos was now planning one with you. The girl who stood in the corner during your first gig, arms crossed and unimpressed, was now grabbing your waist in front of your ex-girlfriend like she had something to prove.

Maybe she did. Maybe you both did.

But whatever it was—jealousy, thrill, affection—turned into something sweeter, something steady.

And it all started with a hug from someone else and a storm in grey eyes.

Chapter Text

Track 17: “She Looks So Perfect” - Notion

Your apartment smells like popcorn and old guitar strings, and the playlist Khira made for the trip is playing in the background—something mellow and nostalgic. The coffee table is a disaster: folded maps, open notebooks, receipts, a dying Sharpie, and one half-eaten chocolate bar someone (definitely Ivonne) left behind. You’re still in yesterday’s hoodie, barefoot, hair a mess, sitting cross-legged on the floor, half-heartedly trying to organize who’s bringing what.

The road trip that you and Annabeth planned, had turned into a group trip after she accidentally told Thalia— who interrupted your rehearsal one day to demand an invitation, hands on her hips and all that. Annabeth spent a good ten minutes later that night being a stuttering mess as she tries to defend herself. You weren't even mad, you were just laughing at her as she throws a pillow at you, shouting about how she swore she didn't mean to spill it to Thalia.

Then the door swings open. No knock. No warning.

Annabeth walks in like she owns the place—like she’s done it a hundred times, even though it’s only been… what, a few months? She doesn’t even glance at you before dropping her tote on the couch, kicking the door shut with her heel, and heading straight for the half-empty bag of sour cream and onion chips you left on the kitchen counter.

She looks beautiful. Ridiculously so.

Grey sweatpants. A faded tee you’re 90% sure she stole from your drawer. Her hair is up in a messy bun with a pencil stuck in it like she was mid-study before deciding chips were a priority. She eats a handful like it’s a war crime to leave snacks untouched, licking the powder off her thumb before wiping it carelessly on her shorts.

You just stare.

Like, really stare.

Because this is not the same girl who first showed up to your gig in a leather jacket and lipstick that cost more than your whole month’s rent. This is the same girl—but real now. Unfiltered. Laughing as she nearly chokes on a chip because she dropped one in her lap. Letting herself just be around you.

And god, she’s beautiful.

You’re not even aware you’ve completely zoned out until she looks up, catches you staring, and squints suspiciously.

“What?” she says, a little defensive, her cheeks already tinting pink.

You blink like you just came back from a dream. “Nothing.”

Annabeth narrows her eyes. “You're looking at me like I grew a second head or something.”

You just smile, all crooked and soft, resting your chin on your hand. “I’m just… thinking.”

“About?”

You shrug. “How you used to look like the kind of girl who wouldn’t touch junk food without gloves.”

She huffs a laugh and throws a crumpled chip bag at you, missing by a mile. “Shut up.”

You grin. “I mean it. The Annabeth I met wouldn’t wipe chip dust on her shorts.”

“She still wouldn’t. That was a moment of weakness.”

“Mhm,” you hum, eyes still on her. “I like this version of you.”

Annabeth pauses mid-chew, blinking. Her cheeks go pink again. She quickly looks away, suddenly shy, like she wasn’t just casually stuffing chips in her mouth two seconds ago. She tries to play it off with a muttered, “Whatever,” but the flush won’t leave her face.

You get up, close the space between you both, and drop a gentle kiss on her cheek before pulling back and giving her a little smile. “I really do.”

She looks at you, eyes wide and unreadable, like she’s not sure what to do with the way her stomach just did a somersault.

But before she can answer, Khira calls out from the hallway, asking if the road trip snacks are already packed.

Annabeth clears her throat and turns away, back to pretending she didn’t just have a whole inner spiral about how soft your lips felt against her skin.

And you—well, you just stand there for a second, trying to ignore the weird flutter in your chest, wondering if this feeling that keeps growing has a name.

Spoiler: it does. You’re just not ready to say it out loud yet.

Annabeth disappears into the mess of your apartment like she’s always belonged there, answering Khira’s call and tossing questions over her shoulder about who’s got the first-aid kit, if anyone packed chargers, if Danzel remembered to burn the playlists onto USBs just in case. You love how she pretends not to be flustered, but you catch her biting her lip and avoiding your gaze like it’s the only thing keeping her cool.

The rest of Notion trickles in one by one like it’s tradition. Danzel brings a duffel bag full of snacks that no one approved. Nhate's arguing with Ivonne over whether or not a camping stove counts as essential . Khira's printing a backup of the route plan and scolding everyone like a slightly stressed road mom.

And in the middle of it all is Annabeth, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, handwriting neat and sharp on the whiteboard you barely ever use. She’s dividing shifts, setting budget caps, pointing at maps, asking if anyone’s car has an actual spare tire this time. You don’t think she even realizes how she’s taken over—how easily she fits in now. 

You’re leaning against the doorframe, sipping an energy drink and pretending to read your phone, but mostly watching her.

There’s this… warmth about her now. Like the walls she had back when you first met—when she sat in the front row with her arms crossed and eyebrows raised—have all melted away. She laughs freely when Nhate jokes. She teases Danzel without holding back. She leans into you when she brushes past, like it’s natural.

No one’s saying it aloud, but everyone feels it.

Notion isn’t just five people anymore. It’s five plus one girl who somehow showed up and fit like she was always meant to—( and Thalia ).

After a while, the chaos settles into soft buzz. The band heads out to grab late-night coffee and groceries, promising to be back in under an hour.

You stay behind. So does she.

You’re both sitting on the floor now, backs resting against the couch, a mess of maps and receipts still scattered between you. Her leg brushes yours every few seconds, but neither of you moves. The silence is comfortable—filled with shuffling paper and that low playlist in the background.

Annabeth sighs and leans her head back. “I’m gonna fall asleep before we even get on the road.”

You glance at her and smile. “You can sleep in the car. I’ll drive.”

She cracks an eye open. “You? You’ll crash us into a tree trying to change the song.”

You fake offense. “Hey, I’m an excellent multitasker.”

“Mhm,” she hums, unconvinced.

Then there’s a quiet beat. One where you just look at her. The fading light makes her hair look golden, like fire. She’s blinking slowly, lips parted a little, totally unguarded.

You reach out, just gently brush a curl away from her eyes. She stills at the touch, soft intake of breath betraying the way her heart probably stuttered just now. Yours does too.

“What?” she asks, voice barely a whisper.

You shake your head. “Nothing. You’ve got map ink on your cheek.”

Lie.

You both know it is, but she doesn’t call you out. She just gives you this tiny, sleepy smile—the kind that reaches her eyes—and leans her head on your shoulder.

“I can’t wait for this trip,” she says.

You rest your cheek against her hair. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me neither.”

Chapter Text

Track 18: “How Deep Is Your Love” - Bee Gees, Cover by Notion

The engine hums low beneath your hand as you adjust the volume knob, the air thick with the scent of gas station snacks and the faint, lingering smell of sunscreen and fabric softener from the laundry Annabeth did at your place last night. You’ve been driving for nearly two hours now, and the road stretches endlessly ahead—striped in gold and warmth, the kind that only early afternoon sun can paint.

Nhate’s riding shotgun with his legs kicked up on the dashboard, chewing on licorice like it’s his last meal. The rest of the band is squeezed in the back—Thalia in her oversized hoodie already falling asleep against the window, Khira mumbling over her carefully curated playlist, and Danzel with a drumstick in hand, tapping rhythms against his thigh like the world might collapse if he stops.

And then there’s her. Annabeth.

Right in the middle seat of the back row, pressed between Thalia and Khira. Her head’s tipped back, curls falling loose and golden across the collar of your hoodie—because yeah, she’s wearing yours today. The sleeves fall past her hands, and one is curled under her cheek while the other picks lazily at a chip bag nestled in her lap. She looks… out of place in the most perfect way. Like she doesn’t belong in the grime and chaos of your world, but still—somehow—wants to be in it anyway.

You peek at her through the rearview mirror more than you probably should.

She doesn’t notice at first. Too busy watching the trees blur past the window and mouthing lyrics to whatever song Khira just queued up. But when the soft, nostalgic hum of the Bee Gees floats in—“How deep is your love, how deep is your love…”—you feel her glance up. Like the lyrics mean something she won’t say out loud.

You catch her eye in the mirror. And she smiles. Not a full one—just the corners of her mouth tugging upward, lazy and soft and devastating. You look away before your grin can give you away.

“Where are we even going again?” she asks eventually, shifting so one bare knee tucks beneath her, hoodie sliding up just enough to expose the soft skin of her thigh. You try not to look.

You lie a little. “Somewhere with a lake and a porch and probably no Wi-Fi.”

“That’s the least reassuring thing you could’ve said,” she says, but there’s laughter in her voice now. She tosses a chip at the back of your head. It misses. You toss one back. Yours lands in her hair.

Thalia groans. “Are we going to have to put up with this the entire trip?”

“Only if you survive it,” you smirk, glancing at her through the mirror.

Annabeth reaches into her hoodie pocket and pulls out a granola bar. She tears it open with her teeth and offers you half by holding it in your direction, wrist resting on your shoulder from behind. You take it without thinking. And for a split second, her fingertips brush your collarbone. You swear she lingers there.

The song plays on.

“And you come to me on a summer breeze, keep me warm in your love, then you softly leave…”

You don’t know what it is about the Bee Gees, but something about the sound of that chorus makes your chest feel tight. Like the kind of ache that isn’t pain. The kind that says this moment means something. That you’ll remember the way her hair lit up in the sun, how she sang along under her breath without caring who heard, how she looked so happy just being in the backseat of your beat-up car with your weird, loud band.

She feels you looking again.

You don’t say anything, but you can tell she knows. Her smile falters for just a second—not because she’s uncomfortable, but because she’s trying to figure out what this feeling is too. She runs her hand through her curls. Then she glances out the window like it might explain something.

You don’t know how long you drive like that, both of you stealing glances, pretending you don’t notice how everyone else has fallen asleep or pulled out their phones. You don’t know what city you’re passing through. You don’t even know what time it is anymore.

You only know this: the music playing, the sun warming her skin, the stupid, low-stakes arguments over road trip snacks and who gets the aux next—it all feels like more than just a trip.

It feels like falling. Quietly. Thoroughly.

And when the song loops again, and her head tips to the side, and she says your name softly just to get your attention—you swear your heart stutters.

“Thanks for letting me come,” she murmurs.

You want to tell her that you’d let her come anywhere, always, forever. That she could take the front seat of your car and your life if she wanted. But instead, you just shoot her a grin and say, “You’re the one holding the budget money. You kind of had to.”

She laughs.

And you memorize it. You take a picture of that sound and that moment and how damn beautiful she looks in your hoodie, sitting in your world like it fits her now.

And you think—if love is real, maybe this is the beginning of it.

Chapter Text

Track 20: “I Wanna Be Yours” - Notion

The cabin floor creaks beneath you as you stir, the early morning light bleeding in through the windows in hazy gold stripes. For a second, you’re not entirely sure where you are. There’s the familiar scent of old wood and fresh air, the quiet hum of birds somewhere outside, and a weight pressed lightly against your arm. It’s soft. Warm.

Then it hits you.

Annabeth.

She’s curled beside you on the floor, still fast asleep, her head nestled against your shoulder and one hand loosely fisted in the fabric of your hoodie. Your hoodie. She’s wearing it again.

It was the day after you arrived at the cabin. It was past 8:00 pm when the seven of you stumbled out of the car, back hurting from the long journey and sleep evident on all your faces. When you settled in, it was almost midnight— the battle of who got top bunks and bottom bunks was already solved by Annabeth volunteering to sleep on the floor. Without hesitating, you raised your hand too. They all looked at you weirdly but you didn’t care, you just gave them a lopsided grin as you pretended to busy yourself by clearing out the space on the floor for you and Annabeth to sleep on.

You smile, gently, as you settle back into the makeshift pillow beneath your head. Her face is relaxed in sleep, lips parted ever so slightly, golden strands escaping from her messy bun. You think you’ve seen a hundred versions of her since you met—sharp and sarcastic, focused and fierce, soft and sleepy like now. This one might be your favorite.

The cabin door creaks softly, and Khira appears like a cartoon raccoon sneaking into the kitchen at midnight, holding two mugs of coffee. She halts when she spots the two of you on the floor and slowly, slowly raises a brow and a mug in greeting. You suppress a laugh, lifting a finger to your lips. She grins and disappears again without a word.

Annabeth stirs not long after, stretching slowly, her palm brushing against your side as she yawns. Her grey eyes blink open, disoriented for a second, before landing on you. A small, sleepy smile curls at her mouth.

“Morning,” you say, voice scratchy from sleep.

She hums. “We didn’t move.”

“Nope.”

There’s no apology in your tone, and none in hers when she whispers, “Good.”

The lake is quiet in the morning. Still. You’re both sitting on the end of the dock now, mugs in hand, toes dipped into the cool water. A playlist hums somewhere from inside the cabin, slow and nostalgic. It’s the kind of moment you’d write a song about.

You glance over at her. She’s still in your hoodie, sleeves bunched up to her forearms. Her legs are pulled up close to her chest and she’s got that serene, unreadable expression on her face again—half in her thoughts, half in the present.

“You always look this peaceful?” you ask quietly.

She doesn’t look at you. “Only around lakes. And dumb singers who hog the blanket.”

You scoff, nudging her thigh with yours. “I didn’t hog it. You just got cold and crawled over.”

She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “You make it sound like I snuggled into you.”

“You did.”

“You’re delusional.”

You’re still grinning as she lightly kicks water at you, laughing when you yelp and nearly spill your coffee.

This is what happiness feels like. Not loud, not dramatic. Just… soft.

Later that day, after breakfast and rounds of band games and sun-soaked lounging, you’re back on the porch, leaning against the railing as Annabeth talks to Danzel about how beautiful the lake looks at dusk.

But you don’t really hear them.

You’re watching the way the sun paints her hair gold, the way she laughs easily now, her cheeks pink from the breeze, the hoodie’s drawstrings bouncing against her chest. She’s not trying right now. She’s just existing. And it hits you, hard, how much you like her.

She catches your staring, smirks, and says something you miss entirely.

“Hello?” she says, waving a hand in front of your face.

You blink. “What?”

“I said, are you okay?”

You clear your throat, shrugging. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “About what?”

You hesitate. Then, “About you. In my hoodie. And how you look like you belong here.”

Her cheeks flush immediately and she tosses a nearby chip bag at your chest. “Shut up.”

You laugh as you catch it, tossing it back. “What? You do.”

She’s still pink when she mutters, “You’re annoying,” and ducks into the cabin, but not before you catch the shyest little smile tugging at her lips.

That night, you’re both lying under the stars again—this time on the roof of the cabin with a blanket thrown under you and the night buzzing with the sounds of cicadas and water lapping the dock.

You watch the sky and talk about everything and nothing. She tells you about her childhood summers and the books she’s never finished. You tell her about your first time performing, how you nearly puked from nerves. She doesn’t laugh at you. She smiles, says, “That’s brave,” and makes your chest ache a little.

At some point, your hands find each other.

She doesn’t pull away.

“I like it here,” she says, quietly.

“Yeah?”

“With you.”

You roll your head to face her. “Me too.”

She doesn’t say anything else. She just lets her head tip sideways until her temple rests lightly against your shoulder.

You stay like that until the stars blur from how long you’ve been staring, until your eyes fall heavy and your fingers are still laced in hers.

And somewhere between midnight and morning, you realize: it feels like falling in love.

Even if you don’t have the words for it yet.

Chapter Text

Track 20: "Fly Love" - Notion

You wake to the faint sound of birdsong and the soft rustle of trees brushing against the window. The lake house is still, the warmth of Annabeth’s body curled against your side, her hand loosely resting over your ribs beneath the covers. The sky beyond the sheer curtain is painted in early hues of dawn—pale pinks, smoky blues—and for once, you don’t feel like rushing to fill the quiet.

But something tugs at you. A kind of stillness, an ache in your chest that wants to stretch out into the calm. You slip out from under the covers, careful not to wake her, and pull on your hoodie over your sleep shirt. Your note is scribbled quickly—went to steal the lake—and left beside her glasses on the nightstand.

You walk barefoot down the deck stairs, the wood cool beneath your feet, and step into the waiting canoe like it’s second nature. The paddle cuts gently into the glassy surface of the water, each stroke pulling you deeper into the still morning, into a space where only the soft lapping of water and the scent of pine fill your senses.

It’s quiet out here in a way you didn’t know you needed. You breathe. You think about her. About the way you wanted to say I love you to her last night like it was the easiest truth in the world. About how it settled into your bones, warm and steady, like it was begging to come out.

You whisper it, to the water, to no one.

“I love you.”

By the time you return, the sun has risen enough to stretch gold across the surface of the lake. The house is awake—barely. You catch Ivonne sitting on the porch with a blanket around her shoulders, nodding in approval when she sees you. Back inside, Khira’s scolding Nhate about stealing her phone charger, and Danzel is halfway through a bag of cereal with no milk in sight.

Annabeth finds you not long after, still in your hoodie, damp curls tucked into the collar, your thermos of lake-cold coffee in hand. She’s holding the note you left.

“You stole the lake?”

You grin. “Couldn’t let it get away.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s blushing, and when her fingers brush yours in passing, you know she’s still thinking about last night too.

The day passes in soft, sun-drenched rhythms. You and Annabeth fold towels on the porch together. Someone puts on Fleetwood Mac. A game of cards breaks out near the fireplace and ends in shouting and laughter. Danzel tries to teach everyone how to flip pancakes using nothing but the pan and bravado. It ends in disaster. You’re almost grateful—your stomach has been in knots all day, but now, here, surrounded by music and messy hair and sunlight, it starts to loosen.

As golden hour fades into dusk, someone lights a bonfire near the shore. It’s the kind of fire that crackles with contentment—smoke curling into the air, shadows dancing across sun-kissed faces. Your band huddles together, legs tangled in mismatched blankets. You sit next to Annabeth, shoulders pressed together, her fingers threading through yours beneath the fabric.

There’s no pressure to speak. Just soft embers and half-lidded stares. Someone brings out a guitar, strums lazily. Nobody sings this time. Just listens.

After a while, people begin to drift back to the house in ones and twos, heavy with sleep and warmth. You and Annabeth stay behind. She doesn’t speak at first, just watches the flames shrink into glowing coals. When she finally stands, she offers you her hand.

“Walk with me?”

You nod, following her along the path by the lake, the moonlight glinting on the surface like scattered coins. The night is cool, quiet. You walk slowly, letting the silence wrap around you like a second skin.

And then—without warning, without thinking—you stop.

She turns to you, brows raised.

“I love you,” you say, and it feels like the words have been waiting at the edge of your mouth since you first met her. You don’t take them back.

There’s a beat. Then two.

Annabeth smiles, eyes soft and shining. She steps into your space like it’s gravity pulling her there and leans in, pressing her forehead to yours. The moment was gentle, sure, and there were no other words needed aside from those that the both of you utter.

“I love you too,” she murmurs.

And that’s it. No fireworks. No confetti.

Just two girls beneath a quiet sky, finally on the same page.

The drive back is quieter than the one there.

Not in a bad way—just the kind of silence that happens when your body’s tired but your heart is full. The windows are cracked open, letting in a warm breeze that smells like pine and road dust. Someone’s mixtape is still playing through the car speakers, older love songs floating in and out like memories.

Annabeth is asleep in the passenger seat, curled slightly toward you with her cheek resting against her fist. The sunlight catches on her lashes and the little strands of blonde escaping her messy ponytail. You glance at her every few seconds, like you can’t help it. Like you still can’t believe she’s yours, even after everything.

She stirs just before the city comes into view. Blinks groggily, looks around, then at you.

“Home?” she mumbles.

You nod, smiling softly. “Almost.”

She hums. Then, without thinking, she reaches over and takes your hand, lacing your fingers together.

You squeeze once. She squeezes back.

And just like that, the trip ends. But nothing really feels over.

It feels like something’s only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Track 21: “Jealous” - Notion

It’s been a week since the lake.

You thought the air would lose that softness—that it would burn off under city smokes and deadlines and cheap coffee. But somehow, it hasn’t. Something’s settled between you and Annabeth. Not a label. Not a vow. Just a warmth that threads through all your moments now. It’s in the way she looks at you longer when she thinks you aren’t paying attention, and the way her fingers always seem to brush against yours even when they don’t have to.

There’s no declaration yet. No promises.
But you feel it.

Still, you’ve never been the type to sit in feelings too long. You dive headfirst into what you do understand—work, music, chaos.

Your band’s back in your dusty rehearsal space. An old converted garage downtown, with strings of half-dead fairy lights clinging to the ceiling beams and sticker-covered amps buzzing in the background. It smells like guitar polish, takeout, and half-sweated-out dreams.

Nhate’s fiddling with his pedalboard. Ivonne is sitting cross-legged on the floor restringing her bass like it’s an offering to the gods. Danzel was slumped on the ground, tapping out beats on the side of his thigh while humming the harmony line of a song you're trying to finalize. 

And Annabeth? She's here too—again.

She’s curled up on your secondhand couch, tablet balanced on her knees, wearing your band hoodie like it’s always been hers. Her hair’s tied up messily, a little frizzy from the humidity, and her legs are tucked under her, one sock sliding halfway down her ankle. She’s been coming to rehearsals more often. She doesn’t say much—mostly reads or types—but every now and then, you’ll catch her looking up to smile at something someone says. Or at you. Especially at you.

It’s domestic in a way you never expected to share with her.

You’re in the middle of trying out a reworked bridge—one you’ve argued about with Nhate for two days straight—when there’s a knock.

Three solid raps against the garage door. Sharp. Intentional. Not like delivery or neighbors. Everyone pauses. Nhate glances up from his pedals. “You expecting anyone?”

You shake your head, confused. “We didn’t order anything.”

The door creaks open.

A woman steps in like she owns the place—tall, polished, and cool as hell. She’s wearing a tailored navy blazer over a silk blouse tucked into high-waisted pants, and her heels click softly against the concrete. Her lipstick’s a deep, confident shade of wine. Her dark curls are pulled back in a low, elegant ponytail that swishes as she scans the room.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she says smoothly, already smiling. “You must be Notion.”

You blink. “Uh… yeah?”

She extends a hand to you first, not to the group. “I’m Mabel Jennings. I work with The Lotus Records —I’m head of artist scouting.”

Ivonne nearly chokes on her own spit. “Wait. The Lotus ? As in, The Lotus Records?!”

Nhate’s mouth falls open. “Is this a prank? Because if it is, I will cry.”

Mabel laughs lightly, her smile warm and graceful. “Not a prank. I caught your set at the festival. You were electric.” Then, looking directly at you : “Especially you.”

You freeze for a beat. Her compliment hits in the middle of your chest, unexpected and disarming. You recover just in time to shake her hand, mumbling a dazed, “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she says, letting her fingers brush your arm as she pulls away. “Your voice cuts through noise. And you’ve got that presence people look for. Like you know you belong on stage.”

Annabeth shifts on the couch.

She doesn’t say anything, but you notice. Her eyes are no longer on her tablet. She’s sitting straighter. Still. Quiet. Watching.

You, meanwhile, are trying not to black out from the combination of starstruck adrenaline and Mabel’s unwavering attention.

“I’ve been following your band for a while,” Mabel continues. “After the festival, I knew I needed to come see you in your element.”

She steps further into the room, trailing her fingers lightly over the mic stand near you. “You write, too, right?”

“We all do,” Danzel chimes in. “We collaborate a lot.”

Mabel nods, but her eyes don’t leave you. “That’s good. But every band has its anchor. Its flame. Someone who brings the spark.” Her smile deepens, subtle but clear. “You’re that for Notion. It’s obvious.”

You feel your ears burn. “I… I mean, we’re all important.”

“Of course.” Mabel turns to the others briefly. “It’s a talented group. But talent’s only half of it. Charisma, vision—those are rare.”

She turns back to you again and smiles. “You’ve got it.”

The others are already flipping out—Ivonne is clapping, Nhate’s asking if she’s serious about representation, and Danzel’s pacing in excitement. No one seems to pick up on the way Mabel keeps drifting closer to you, the subtle touch on your arm again, the slightly-too-long glances. Everyone’s too focused on the dream laid at their feet.

Except for Annabeth.

You glance over.

She hasn’t moved, but there’s something different about her now. Her jaw’s a little tighter. Her arms folded. She looks… almost distant. But you know her well enough to see it for what it is—she’s not distant. She’s watching . And underneath the calm exterior, she’s probably already mapped out Mabel Jennings’ entire résumé, phone number, and tax record.

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

Because right now, the band is buzzing with energy, asking a hundred questions about contracts, next steps, what kind of support The Lotus Records offers. And Mabel answers every single one smoothly, while her gaze always seems to drift back to you.

By the time she hands you her card and says she’ll be in touch soon, your hands are still shaking.

When she leaves, the room explodes.

“This is it!” Danzel shouts. “We’re gonna make it, dude!”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Nhate groans, holding his face. “A real label. Oh my god.”

Ivonne grabs your shoulders and shakes you. “ This is happening! ”

You try to match their energy—you want to—but your eyes flick toward the couch where Annabeth’s still sitting. She meets your gaze, finally.

She doesn’t smile.

Just lifts an eyebrow and says, coolly, “She seemed… nice.”

There’s something in her voice. Something clipped. Something unreadable. You open your mouth, but she’s already standing, brushing her hands on her jeans.

“I’ll see you later,” she says softly. “Let me know how the meeting goes.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

And your heart’s beating a little too fast—but this time, it’s not from excitement.

Chapter Text

Track 22: "Love Me Harder" - Notion

You’d already talked about Mabel.
More than once.

It was quiet the first time—after the initial visit, after the cards and the calls and the official sit-down with Notion at The Lotus Records' sleek, intimidating downtown building. After the champagne toast and the contract draft and the moment Danzel cried in the elevator.

You had curled up on Annabeth’s couch that night, her hoodie still draped around your shoulders, her hand tracing circles on your thigh. She didn’t say it outright, but you caught the hesitations. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t watching. The way she said Mabel’s name like it tasted wrong in her mouth.

You’d said it simply.
“I know she’s weird sometimes. But it doesn’t matter.”

And when Annabeth stayed silent—her thumb stalling in place—you added, “Even if someone throws themselves at me, it’s not gonna change anything. You’re the one I want. Not her. Not anyone else.”

That had seemed to ease something in her. She didn’t smile exactly, but she’d pressed her mouth to your cheek and whispered, “You better mean that.”

You told her, “Always.”

You still do.

But today, you find yourself chewing your inner cheek raw.

It’s another meeting. One of many, now. The group’s been coming in twice a week for planning—photo shoots, image strategies, sound mixing, vocal coach schedules, venue ideas. You’re deep in industry territory now, past the fantasy, on the cusp of something that might just take off.

And while the rest of the band is eating it up—Nhate’s excited about a new effects setup, Ivonne’s stoked for an upcoming collab, and Danzel’s been geeking out over your producer’s resume—you’re… managing.

Managing the excitement.

Managing the pressure.

Managing Mabel Jennings.

She’s always professional with the others. Warm but distant. Occasionally cracking jokes, never lingering too long in anyone’s space.
But when it’s you?

It’s different. And you’ve noticed.

Like now, standing in the small studio lounge where she’s cornered you after a quick run-through of your latest track.

“You’ve really stepped up your control,” she says, voice velvety and low. “Especially in that second verse. There’s this grit in your tone now—it’s addictive.”

You shift slightly, inching your arm back from where her fingers are grazing too close to your elbow. “Thanks. Been working on it.”

“I can tell,” she says, and her gaze flicks down your body like a slow scan before flicking back up to meet your eyes. “I’d love to see what else you’re capable of.”

It’s not subtle.

And this time, you’re not even flattered—you’re just tired. But you don’t flinch. Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t say what you want to say, because this woman still holds weight over your future. Over your band’s future. And you’ll be damned if your friends suffer for something you could’ve just tolerated.

So you smile—tight-lipped and forced. “We’re all working hard. Everyone’s leveling up.”

She hums thoughtfully but doesn’t back off.

And that’s when the door clicks open.

You turn your head—too fast, too hopeful.

Annabeth.

She stands there in her jeans and navy windbreaker, hair tied in a low bun, fingers still wrapped around the strap of her backpack. She wasn’t supposed to come today—she said she had a study session—but here she is.

And she freezes for half a second when she sees the scene: Mabel close enough to be a shadow, her hand brushing your arm, her lips mid-compliment.

You see the change instantly.

Her gaze flattens. Cold. Sharp. Calculating.

But she smiles anyway. Of course she does. Annabeth Chase doesn’t throw scenes in public. She doesn’t cause chaos unless she’s already calculated the damage. And right now, her eyes say one thing: Get away from her.

You clear your throat and step back just a little. “Hey. Thought you couldn’t come today.”

Annabeth’s smile is razor-thin. “Wrapped up early.”

Mabel turns with a slow, unbothered grace, but you feel the tension under her practiced posture. “Annabeth,” she greets. “Didn’t know we had a guest.”

“I’m not a guest,” Annabeth says evenly. “I’m her girlfriend.”

The room stills.

Your breath catches. It’s not a secret—but it hasn’t exactly been public either. Especially not here, in this polished, label-controlled ecosystem.

Mabel raises a brow, her lips twitching like she’s hiding amusement. “Well then. Guess I’m late to the memo.”

“I doubt that,” Annabeth replies, still smiling. “But now it’s official.”

You nearly choke on your spit.

Mabel lets out a slow laugh and steps away, finally, finally giving you space. “Noted. Congratulations.”

She excuses herself with a clipped nod and disappears toward the meeting room, leaving behind a room five degrees colder and way too silent.

You look at Annabeth.

She raises her eyebrows. “Too far?”

You sigh, running a hand down your face. “No. Just... sudden.”

“I meant it,” she says, stepping closer. Her hand finds yours instinctively. “She’s a shark. I’m not gonna let her circle you without showing teeth.”

You squeeze her hand back. “I didn’t want to make waves.”

“I don’t care about waves,” she mutters. “I care about you.”

You look at her, eyes softening. “You think I don’t?”

Her voice drops, quieter now. “I trust you. I just don’t like watching people treat you like you’re theirs to play with.”

You step closer. “I’m yours.”

She looks at you—like you just said something holy—and kisses you right there in the hallway.

No fanfare. No dramatic speech. Just two people holding each other in the eye of something that could be love or lightning, or both.

You pull away just as the others re-enter, oblivious to the undercurrent that just passed between the three of you.

You smile at Annabeth.

She smirks. “Guess I’m your official watchdog now.”

You grin. “More like the hottest woman guard to ever exist.”

And with her hand in yours, you walk back into the meeting. Ready. Steady. Yourselves again.

Chapter Text

Track 23: "Lose You To Love Me" - Notion

It wasn’t a fight.
There were no sharp words, no cold shoulders, no door slamming on the way out.

Just too many hours under florescent studio lights, too many rehearsals that ran late, too many interviews that stretched long into the evening.
Too many nights Annabeth curled up alone on your bed, scrolling through your missed texts, rereading them like they might warm her skin.

You hadn’t meant to neglect her.

It just… happened. You were building something, for the band, for all of you. And she said she understood.

You thought she did.

But tonight, she doesn’t feel very understanding.
She feels like dancing. Like noise. Like something else to drown out the empty feeling in her chest.

So she goes out. Just for a while.

And she doesn’t even dress to impress. Just her favorite jeans, a soft grey hoodie, the one you always tug off her shoulders when you’re feeling extra clingy. Hair up. Minimal makeup. She’s not looking for trouble.

But trouble finds her anyway.

Her mistake isn’t leaving.
Her mistake is the third tequila shot. And maybe the fourth.

She doesn’t even remember when Lorraine Fleming started talking to her. Just that she had sharp eyes and a dark blazer and talked with her hands too much, the kind of woman who doesn’t wait for permission to get close. The kind that smells like vetiver and expensive regret.

Annabeth’s head is spinning by the time she realizes how close Lorraine’s hand is to her thigh. She shakes her head and mumbles, “I have a girlfriend.”

Lorraine just laughs and leans closer.

And that’s exactly when you find them.

You’d been texting Annabeth for over an hour with no reply, which wasn’t like her. You’d wrapped up the last-minute rehearsal for an acoustic showcase and tried calling twice before deciding to check the places you knew she might be.
She wasn’t at your apartment.
Wasn’t with Thalia.
But you knew about the bar near campus she’d mentioned once—small, quiet, usually empty enough to think in.

So you show up, hoodie damp from the light drizzle outside, hands in your pockets, thinking maybe she just wanted some time.

And then you see her.

Corner booth.
Lorraine leaning too close.
Annabeth’s hand pressed against the wall like she’s trying to push herself back into it, jaw tight, her face flushed in a way that has nothing to do with wanting.

You don’t even think.

You just move.

Your boots slam into the hardwood like gunshots, and Lorraine doesn’t even get to finish whatever smug line she was whispering before your fist cracks against her jaw with a clean, brutal force.

Annabeth gasps.
The bar goes still.

Lorraine stumbles back, hand flying to her face. “Jesus Christ!”

Your chest heaves.
Your knuckles burn.
You don’t take your eyes off her.

You step in front of Annabeth, your voice low and shaking with rage. “She said she has a girlfriend. The fuck didn’t you understand about that?”

Lorraine sneers, licking blood off her lip. “She didn’t seem that committed.”

Annabeth flinches behind you.
You nearly lunge again, but Annabeth’s hand grabs your arm.

“Stop,” she breathes. “Please.”

You let out a shaky breath and stare down Lorraine one last time before grabbing Annabeth’s hand and dragging her out of the bar.

The night air hits hard. Cold. Bitter.

She stumbles behind you, dizzy and slightly swaying. “Wait—wait, Y/N—”

But you don’t stop. Not until you’re at the corner under the streetlamp, your jaw tight, your heart beating too fast, and something broken churning in your throat.

Annabeth finally catches up and grabs your wrist. “Y/N, just listen—”

You turn, eyes glassy and hurt. “Was I dumb enough to trust you the way I wanted you to trust me?”

Her mouth parts like she’s been slapped.

“I gave you everything,” you whisper. “I told you I’d never let anyone change how I feel about you. I told you, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she says, voice soft, desperate. “I swear. I didn’t touch her. She wouldn’t back off—”

“And you didn’t leave.” Your voice breaks at the end. “You let her stay that close. You let her think she had a chance.”

Annabeth blinks fast, the tears catching in her lashes. “I was lonely.”

You swallow. Hard. “So you flirted with someone else?”

“I didn’t flirt.” Her voice cracks. “I was drunk. I was sad. I missed you.”

You go quiet.

And she steps forward, her hand brushing yours like she’s afraid you’ll pull away again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I didn’t think you’d show up and—”

“But I did show up,” you whisper. “I always will.”

She nods, tears slipping free. “I know.”

You take a step back, because if you stay too close you might forgive her too easily.

She looks like she wants to fall apart.

And you’re not sure yet if you want to catch her.

Chapter Text

Track 24: "Dancing With Your Ghost" - Notion

You thought it would hurt more.

The first few days, at least. You expected to fall apart dramatically, to cry into your guitar strings and turn your pillowcase into saltwater mush. But it wasn’t like that—not exactly. What hurt more was the stillness. The quiet.

It was brushing your teeth and realizing you hadn’t heard Annabeth’s voice that day. It was making toast and remembering she liked hers slightly burnt. It was the way the space beside you on your bed felt too big., your phone too silent, your life too dull..

It was the things she left behind. Her hair tie on your wrist, or her lipstick on the back pocket of your favorite jeans.

And yet, you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Back in your childhood bedroom, the walls still lined with old band posters and drawings your little brother had made for you before you left for the city, you kept writing. Songs. Chords. Lyrics that blurred together into something that tasted like grief and forgiveness at once. You sent the demos to the band like clockwork—every other night, every other breath. Ivonne sent heart reacts and voice memos filled with ideas. Danzel said he missed your stupid jokes. Khira added soft piano overlays that made your voice sound warmer than it felt.

You couldn’t tell if that helped or made things worse.

Across the city, Annabeth was just as quiet.

She still went to class. Still took notes in her carefully color-coded planner. Still raised her hand and spoke in clipped, confident tones when professors asked for feedback. But the moment she stepped out of a room, her shoulders curled inward.

She stopped wearing lipstick. Wore your hoodie too often. Let her hair fall messier than usual. Her friends noticed. Percy gave her side-eyes during lunch. Thalia offered to take her to a party that weekend. Annabeth declined.

Grover asked once, “You talked to her yet?” and she had only shaken her head.

She’d picked up her phone a hundred times. She’d typed and deleted messages until her thumbs ached. She listened to your band’s demos on repeat, catching the subtle shift in your voice that told her something still lingered—love, maybe. Anger, probably. But she didn’t know how to fix it.

So she waited.

You were slicing apples when your mom asked.

Her voice was gentle, not nosy. She sat curled up on the couch, blanket around her shoulders, a little weaker than you remembered her being when you were a teenager. But her eyes still glimmered with that same sharp softness.

“Do you have anyone special, sweetheart?” she asked, taking the glass of water you handed her.

You looked at her. You really looked.

And you thought of Annabeth in your apartment. Eating chips with her fingers. Wiping them on your blanket. Laughing like she belonged. And then you remembered the bar. Her voice quiet in the middle of chaos. Someone else's hand too close. You remembered the weight in your chest and the words you couldn’t say.

“There was someone,” you said, quietly.

Your mom didn’t ask for more.

She just smiled, thin and knowing, and whispered:

“If it’s real, it won’t be scared of falling apart.”

You didn’t say anything else.

It was late. Nearly midnight. You were on the balcony of your family home, staring at the soft blink of stars through thin clouds, when your phone buzzed.

Ivonne: Dude. Big news. We’ve got our first official performance booked under Lotus Records. It’s happening. You coming back or what?

The message glowed at you like a dare. A challenge. A question that had no right answer yet.

You stared at it.

You didn’t text back.

Not yet.

That night, you lay in your childhood bed, listening to the quiet again. And you wondered if Annabeth was staring at the same moon, thinking of you, the same way you still—always—thought of her.

Chapter Text

Track 25: "Falling" - Y/N L/N of Notion

The city felt louder when you came back.

Not because it actually was—though the taxis still honked and the sidewalks still buzzed with impatient footsteps—but because you'd grown used to the quiet. The quiet of your hometown. Of caring for your mom, sharing breakfast with your little brother, eating dinner without the sound of instruments echoing from thin apartment walls.

Now, every sound jolted your senses. Every light felt too bright. Every memory too close.

Your key clicked into the lock of your apartment, and it took you three full seconds before you finally pushed the door open. It smelled like dust and fabric softener. A hoodie of Annabeth’s still hung over the back of the couch. There was a note from Khira on the fridge in big pink letters: “Welcome home, rockstar.”

You didn’t know what home even meant anymore. But you unpacked. You showered. And then you grabbed your guitar.

You didn’t even rest for just a minute. You just played.

Not for the band. Not for anyone else. Just for you.

The next morning, you showed up at rehearsal with your guitar slung over your back and your hair still wet from the shower. Ivonne met you at the door with wide arms and nearly crushed you with the hug. Danzel whooped when he saw you. Khira nearly teared up.

Nhate clapped you on the back and just said, “Took you long enough.”

You were home again. Kind of.

Mabel Jennings made an appearance halfway through your run of “Perfect,” stepping in with her red lipstick and sleek heels and clipboard. Her eyes lit up when she saw you, and she walked straight past everyone else to say, “You’re glowing. Home looked good on you.”

You forced a smile and thanked her. She didn’t touch your arm this time, but the way she looked at you—like you were the most interesting problem she couldn’t wait to solve—still made your stomach churn.

But you didn’t say anything. Not because you wanted her attention. But because you knew what was at stake. For you. For Notion.

Besides, Ivonne was watching. She didn’t say a word, but you saw the flicker of something in her expression. Like she’d finally picked up on the undercurrent you kept brushing off.

You didn’t have the energy to explain.

Two nights before the performance, you stood outside the venue with your helmet tucked under your arm. It was the same stage where you'd once jumped down into the crowd just to wink at a girl you couldn’t stop thinking about.

You hadn’t talked to her in weeks.

But here, now, under the streetlights and facing the stage that launched the moment you fell into something bigger than a crush—you thought about her. The weight of her. The silence. The promise you made to her.

“Even if other women throw themselves at me… it’s always you.”

You’d said that. You’d meant it.

You still did.

Notion had never performed in a stadium before.

This wasn’t a small bar gig, or a music festival tent where you had to scream over nearby sets and mic feedback. This was the real deal — lights, cameras, stylists, in-ears, security, and a hundred thousand fans screaming for you .

And you should’ve felt untouchable. Unstoppable.

But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Not when they wired the mic to your shirt collar. Not when they added the final touches of glitter under your eyes. Not when Khira reached over to fix a crooked button on your leather jacket with a whisper of “You good?”

You nodded.

You were fine.

You had to be.

Because tonight, you weren’t just Y/N L/N, girl with a beat-up guitar and a reckless smile .

You were Notion’s frontwoman. You were the voice. The one people had shown up for. The one she had shown up for.

You caught a glimpse of her right before the lights dimmed.

Annabeth Chase, front row, standing so still she looked carved in marble. Her face unreadable, mouth pressed tight, eyes burning right through you. You looked away before it wrecked you.

The crowd roared.

The show began.

Opening: Perfect

The stage lit in blue. The crowd surged.

You stepped forward, wrapped both hands around your mic, and started slow:

“I might never be your knight in shining armor
I might never be the one you take home to mother…”

They screamed at the first familiar notes, and your voice dropped lower with a smile.

“But I can be the one. Be the one tonight.”

You found your way through the first chorus, a little rough with nerves, but by the second one, the crowd was singing with you. You made eye contact with a girl in the fourth row who had your lyrics scrawled across a posterboard. You winked.

At the final “But I can be the one,” the band dropped the beat together — sharp, clean, like the thousands of rehearsals it took to get here.

You grinned.

“Let’s go!” you shouted. And the lights exploded into gold.

When the song ended, the stadium shook.

You wiped sweat off your brow and stepped back toward the mic.

“Not gonna lie, we almost threw up before this,” you laughed, and the crowd hollered.

“But you guys? You make it easy. You make it feel like we belong here.” You looked at your bandmates. “We’re Notion, and this is just the beginning.”

You didn’t give the crowd time to breathe.

Nhate ripped into the opening chords and you jumped with the beat, voice rising into a controlled rasp:

“I wanna follow where she goes
I think about her and she knows it…”

This was one of your favorites. It felt like being seventeen again, sneaking out to see someone you couldn’t stop thinking about, consequences be damned.

The audience screamed the chorus back at you as you threw your whole body into the rhythm, whipping your head back on the beat drop, grinning like a maniac.

You turned, back-to-back with Ivonne, both of you stomping in time to the bridge.

Everything burned — your lungs, your legs, your throat — and it was perfect.

You slowed it down, but not too much.

When the lights cooled to violet, you slipped into the mic again, softer this time.

“You should take it as a compliment
That I got drunk and made fun of the way you talk…”

You gave it a playful tone, a little lilt, the kind that made the front row blush and sway. You stole glances at Annabeth during the line you’ve ruined my life by not being mine . You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe to hurt. Maybe to remember.

Maybe just to feel.

The chorus hit sweet. Dreamy. And the crowd was moving like waves.

When the first dreamy note of Sway started, everything got softer.

You stood still. Center stage. Fingers wrapped tight around your mic.

You closed your eyes and let your voice lower:

“Don’t stray, don’t ever go away…”

You had written this one the morning after you told Annabeth you loved her, with the night sky still lingering on your skin.

It was a promise, this song. A whispered wish. A wish that love wouldn’t run, wouldn’t fade, wouldn’t change.

And now… it played like a ghost. Like something slipping through your fingers.

The crowd swayed gently, quietly. It felt like the whole stadium held its breath.

You stepped back after the last note, catching your breath.

“This next half of the show’s gonna be all energy,” you said, smiling through the ache in your throat. “But before that… I just wanna say thank you. To everyone who gave a damn when we were just five broke idiots screaming in an empty garage.”

Laughter. Cheers.

“I’m one of those idiots. And I wrote every one of these songs thinking nobody would hear them but us. So this?” You looked around. “This is insane.”

You glanced toward Annabeth.

You didn’t look for too long.

This next one was for missing people.

You didn’t say who. You didn’t have to.

The crowd felt it as soon as the first line left your mouth:

“And I remember all those crazy things you said

You left them runnin’ through my head”

Your voice broke a little on “But right now, I wish you were here.”

And Annabeth was. Right there. But it still felt like you were singing into a void.

Sixth Song: She Looks So Perfect

You turned to Nhate as he hit the riff. You looked over the crowd, your smile almost shy.

“I wrote this,” you said into the mic, “the night I told someone I loved her.”

A pause.

“Under the stars.”

A louder scream.

You strummed in:

“They say we’re too young now to amount to anything else

But look around, we work too hard for this just to give up now.”

This one was fast. Fun. Euphoric. You danced a little too hard, got breathless mid-second verse, and laughed through it.

You loved this one. Because it came from the kind of memory you never forget. One where you didn’t care what would happen next, because she was beside you, glowing under the moonlight.

You didn’t give the crowd a second.

The band dove into this one — all stomps, drum crashes, and grit. You let your voice growl on the chorus, leaning into the mic with fire.

You pointed at the crowd. Jumped off the stage stairs again. Got the stadium chanting the lyrics with you like a battle cry.

One way or another, they felt you.

You ran past Annabeth again.

You didn’t look.

The stadium burst with energy.

“And we danced all night to the best song ever…”

The whole place was a frenzy. Lights. Screams. Arms in the air.

You jumped with your bandmates, ending the chorus shoulder-to-shoulder. It felt like flying. It felt like a final breath.

And then the lights dimmed.

The final chord of “Best Song Ever” echoed into the night, and the stadium screamed your name.

It should’ve been the end.

You stood there, sweat-drenched and breathless, eyes scanning the crowd, soaking it in—the screams, the lights, the noise. The success. Your bandmates clapped you on the back, beaming as they headed backstage, but you stayed rooted where you were.

The crowd kept chanting: “One more song! One more song!”

And then—

You stepped forward.

The lights faded into a single soft golden glow. The crowd went quiet almost instantly, sensing something had changed.

You took the mic, but didn’t speak at first. Just looked down at the stage floor for a moment. Then up. Then straight ahead.

At her.

Annabeth.

Her blonde hair glowed under the lights. She looked like a stranger tonight, and also like the only person you’d ever written a song about.

Your voice came out quiet. Raw.

“This is the last song of the night. I wrote it for someone I never thought I’d lose. Someone I loved quietly. Fiercely. All at once.”

A pause.

“She used to say I looked invincible on stage. But that was never true. This is the most afraid I’ve ever been.””

Another breath. This one shakier.

“This one’s called Falling. ”

The crowd stirred, some gasps, some cheers, but mostly silence again as the piano came in, gentle and solemn. The chords felt like rain tapping against glass.

You sang:

“I’m in my bed
And you’re not here
And there’s no one to blame but the drink in my wandering hands…”

Your voice cracked by the second line.

You didn’t hide it.

“What am I now?
What if I’m someone I don’t want around?”

Your eyes never left her. You didn’t cry. But your voice carried everything.

“I’m falling again, I’m falling again, I’m falling…”

The crowd wasn’t loud anymore.

It was still.

Frozen in the weight of what you were giving them.

The verses played like memories—sunset walks, her hoodie on your shoulders, late night confessions under stars. The chorus hit like the moment she slipped through your fingers.

“And I get the feeling that you’ll never need me again…”

Annabeth’s lips parted.

She blinked hard. One tear slipped down her cheek, then another. Her hands were clenched into fists now, nails digging into her palms.

You sang the last line like it was a whisper only meant for her.

“I’m falling again, I’m falling again, I’m falling…”

Silence.

The stage lights dimmed.

You stood still, chest rising and falling as the final chord lingered in the air.

Annabeth raised her head. Her lips trembled.

And then she mouthed it.

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t nod. You didn’t smile.

You just lowered the mic.

And walked off stage.

Chapter Text

Track 26: "Those Eyes" - Notion

The afterparty was roaring somewhere in the heart of the city.

Notion’s first major concert under The Lotus Records had gone down in a blaze of lights and sound, with a sold-out stadium still buzzing hours later. Industry people were already talking. Mabel Jennings had offered another champagne toast. The band was still on cloud nine, tangled in hugs and noise and validation.

But you didn’t go.

You slipped out the back entrance.

Your heart had been too full of other things — of grey eyes, of quiet apologies mouthed into golden light.

Of her.

You sat on the hood of your motorcycle, helmet resting by your side. The parking lot was mostly empty now, save for a few stragglers and a car you didn’t recognize pulling in from the street.

Your phone buzzed again. Three missed calls.

You didn’t check who they were from. You already knew.

So you stayed.

And waited.

You didn’t know what you were waiting for.

Until you did.

Because then you saw her.

Annabeth.

She stepped out of that same unfamiliar car, still in the outfit she wore to the show — her cardigan half-off her shoulders, her hair falling out of its ponytail, eyes puffy but set with purpose.

You stood.

Neither of you said anything at first.

She walked closer, slow like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to.

And when she stopped a few feet in front of you, you tilted your head.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I did,” she said softly. “I really did.”

There was something raw in her voice. Something clean. Like she’d been crying in the car and decided not to fix her face before seeing you.

Good. You didn’t want perfect.

You wanted her.

“You looked beautiful on stage,” she said, almost too quiet to hear. “Like yourself. Like you again.”

Your throat burned. “I didn’t feel like myself.”

“I know,” she said, eyes softening. “Me neither.”

You looked down at the cracked pavement. The wind tugged at your jacket.

She took a step closer.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered. “I was stupid. And lonely. And… scared.”

You swallowed.

“Of what?”

“Of loving someone so loud that I forget how to be quiet,” she said. “Of needing you in every version of my future.”

That broke you.

The kind of breaking that didn’t shatter. The kind that cracked something open.

You looked at her. Really looked.

“Then don’t forget,” you whispered. “Just love me loud. That’s all I’ve ever done for you.”

She reached for your hand. You let her. You let her interlace her fingers with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you still—” she started.

“Yes,” you said, too fast. “Yes, I still love you.”

And when she kissed you, it wasn’t like the first time in the field. It wasn’t like any time before.

It was everything after.

It was coming home.

The next morning, you woke up next to her in your tiny apartment — limbs tangled, hair messy, hearts steady.

You cooked breakfast with her head on your shoulder. She made fun of your eggs being too salty. You called her a brat. She kissed your cheek.

Later, she sat on the floor of your bedroom while you strummed new chords, her sketchbook open beside her, your foot against her thigh like you couldn’t not touch her.

There was no plan. No timeline.

But there was you .

And her.

And everything that came next.

Chapter Text

Track 27: "You & I" - Notio

One year later.

You woke up to sunshine and the smell of coffee.

Annabeth had beat you to it — again. You could hear the low clink of a spoon against ceramic, the soft shuffle of her socks on the hardwood, and the muted sound of a Bee Gees song playing from your living room speaker. Her playlist. You always teased her for being an old soul, but now you couldn’t get through a morning without hearing How Deep Is Your Love at least once.

Your voice was scratchy when you called out, “What time is it?”

Her voice, way too cheerful, floated back. “Almost nine. You’ve got an interview at ten, remember?”

You groaned into your pillow, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway. You sat up slowly, stretching, the warm light spilling across your bed and catching on the band poster still taped up on the wall. Notion’s name was everywhere now. You weren’t supposed to keep the fan-made poster — it was wrinkled, it was crooked — but you couldn’t bring yourself to take it down.

There was something beautiful about remembering where you started.

You finally got up, padding to the kitchen in your hoodie and last night’s joggers. Annabeth stood by the counter, her hair in a messy bun, an oversized Notion tee (she bought it off a suspicious website) barely covering her thighs. She was pouring you coffee into the same chipped mug you’d had since college.

She looked over her shoulder at you with that smile. The one she didn’t give anyone else.

“Mornin’, Rockstar.”

You stepped behind her and wrapped your arms around her waist, pressing your nose into the crook of her neck. She giggled, leaning back into you.

“I had a dream,” you mumbled.

“Oh yeah?”

“You and me. Married. Two kids. One of them started a band. The other wanted to become an architect. Wonder where she got that idea.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Sounds like a good dream.”

You kissed the spot below her ear. “Yeah. It was.”

You’d moved into a small apartment near the label office six months ago. Still humble. Still loud. The walls were covered in Polaroids and messy art prints. Guitars leaned against every other corner. The fridge was cluttered with tour tickets, magnets from cities you’d played in, and sticky notes with things like call your mom or kiss me before you leave scrawled in her handwriting.

Notion was thriving.

After that first performance under The Lotus Records, the rest had followed like a dream you forgot to wake up from. TV appearances. Award nominations. Late-night writing sessions that ended in takeout and tears and breakthroughs. You still toured with your bandmates, still lost your voice screaming into packed venues, still wrote songs in the notes app at 2 a.m.

But now, you always had someone to come home to.

Annabeth came on the road with you sometimes.

Not always. Sometimes school or work kept her in the city, and you’d leave her with a kiss and a promise to FaceTime every night. But when she did come along — when she sat on the edge of a green room couch, scribbling in her sketchbook while you rehearsed with Khira, Ivonne, Nhate and Danzel — the world made a little more sense.

Once, in Berlin, she stood side-stage in a long coat and her fingers freezing inside her pockets, watching you sing a new ballad you hadn’t let anyone hear yet. After the show, she whispered, “Was that about me?”

And you had said, very honestly, “They all are.”

You still had bad days.

Fights. Moments of self-doubt. Pressure that made your chest feel tight.

There were nights when your anxiety came knocking louder than the stadium crowds. When your hands shook before interviews. When someone online twisted your words or picked your art apart and you almost believed them.

But she was there.

And you were there for her, too.

When she had bad days at work, or worried she wasn’t doing enough with her life, you reminded her who she was. The girl who could out-strategize gods. The girl who once stood in a field of stars and kissed you like the world was ending.

One rainy Sunday afternoon, you were curled up together on the couch.

She was reading. You were sketching out new chords. The hum of the city bled through the open window. And out of nowhere, she looked up and said:

“Do you think we’ll be like this in ten years?”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“This. Us. Still here. Still soft. Still choosing each other.”

You didn’t even have to think.

“Yeah,” you said. “Ten years. Twenty. Longer, if you’ll have me.”

She smiled — slow, warm, heart-in-her-throat kind of smile.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Then I’ll choose you. For all of it.”

And you did.

For the quiet mornings.

For the nights on stage.

For every song you’d ever write.

You chose her.

And she chose you.

Every version of you — loud, scared, brave, clumsy, brilliant, complicated.

All of you.