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The humidity of the night air dissolved the moment Amber stepped into the venue. Her heart pounded—quick, anxious, electric. Inside, voices tangled over one another, a constant thrum of excitement charging the air like static before a storm.
Spiritbox—one of her favorite bands, the one she’d only known through her headphones—was mere minutes from taking the stage.
Her mom’s sacrifice lingered in the back of her mind: a two-hour drive through the city hellscape just to drop her off, hotel keys jingling as she waved goodbye. Amber would have to make it up to her later. She’d come alone, as she didn’t have friends who like this music, but she was here nonetheless.
And nothing else mattered.
Standing just over five feet tall, Amber felt like a flower planted among monoliths. Brawny men moved around her like mobile walls, and women in scuffed boots and pierced brows loomed about like goddesses. Everyone seemed dressed for war– patched jackets, ink-stained skin, and black on black on black.
Her outfit—delicate, whimsical—clashed gloriously with the scene. A butterfly-patterned skirt billowed around her ankles as she weaved between bodies. Her black mesh tank clung like spider silk, and her accessories—a chaotic tangle of gemstones, resin charms, and silver rings—tinkled faintly as she walked. A dark braid framed either side of her face, bangs resting just above her dark eyes.
She brushed past a cracked denim vest, the patches rough against her bare arm—a sharp contrast to the fabric that floated around her legs like wind-blown petals. But nobody batted an eye. If there was one rule here, it was unspoken: come as you are, as long as you’re here for the music.
Amber smiled faintly. She belonged, even if it didn’t seem like it.
After some tight maneuvering through the rowdy space, she found a spot a few rows behind the barricade. Close enough to see the sweat glisten on guitar strings, but far enough to avoid the worst of the pit. Her stomach fluttered, a nervous hum rising and falling in time with the chatter around her.
---
In what felt like the blink of an eye, the opener wrapped. Lights dimmed.
Then the room fell into electric darkness.
A howl erupted from the crowd—something ancient and full of teeth. Amber’s chest rattled with it. A swelling hum of distortion began to rise from the speakers, crawling under her skin. Then—light. Color. Noise.
Spiritbox took the stage.
The first notes of Fata Morgana cracked through the venue like a whip, and the crowd surged forward like a tide. Amber was swept into motion without thinking, legs bouncing, arms rising. It wasn’t just music—it was rapture.
The vocals hit—Courtney’s screams shattering through the mix—and Amber opened her mouth and met her with that very same energy.
From two rows behind, Samara’s head snapped up.
What the fuck?
When she first spotted the girl—petite, floaty, whimsical—Samara didn’t really pay any mind to her. But now?
Now the girl was screaming. Like, actually screaming. Full-throated, raw, from-the-gut screams that echoed Courtney’s cadence with uncanny conviction.
Samara found herself watching.
The girl’s skirt twirled like smoke around her thighs, her arms raised in ecstatic surrender, her head tossed back in trance. Her jewelry clinked faintly in time with her movement. And her voice—god, that voice—cut through the mix like it had always belonged on stage.
Samara blinked.
She’s gorgeous.
Not just pretty. Not just interesting. There was something wild about her—something magical in the way softness and intensity coexisted in one body.
The next song crashed in—Black Rainbow—and chaos erupted.
Bodies lifted overhead, arms flailed in rhythm, and someone in a banana costume crowd-surfed across the room. Amber ducked and laughed, bright and real.
Samara smiled before she realized she had.
She tried to focus on the band, on the energy, on the pit that had always been her sanctuary—but her eyes kept drifting back to the girl. The way she danced like the music lived inside her. The joy in her expression. The sweat, the glitter, the unrelenting rhythm.
Samara stayed close. Not touching. Just... near.
As Perfect Soul roared through the venue, Amber sang every ethereal lyric with the desperation of someone trying to survive by sound alone. Her energy was relentless, untamed. Then Jaded came and went. And finally—
The Void.
Courtney stepped up to the mic, grinning wickedly.
“Orlando… I wanna see you bounce!”
Amber was airborne before the words finished leaving the speaker.
Skirt flying. Braids swinging. Smile like wildfire.
Samara’s chest twisted.
And then she moved on impulse. One body forward. Then another. Suddenly, she was close. So close.
She could smell strawberries—Amber's perfume, maybe. She could see the light sheen of sweat on her cheekbones. The way the soft curve of her back moved with the music.
She leaned down, her voice barely a breath near Amber’s ear.
“Hey. You wanna dance?”
Amber turned, startled—and then her eyes locked onto Samara’s.
She was tall. Shoulders wide under a black sweater vest. Baggy black jeans that hung just right. Toned arms inked with sprawling tattoos, every line winding like vines across brown skin. Her hair—dark, soft, thick—framed her strong features in a cloudlike manner. She looked like gravity personified. Like something ancient and rooted.
Amber flushed. Hard.
This can’t be real.
But still, the corner of her mouth curled upward.
“Sure,” she said.
---
They danced.
Not choreographed. Not cute. Something primal. Jumping, swaying, shifting in sync. Amber screamed another chorus through parted lips, her voice raspy, joyous. Samara couldn’t bear to tear her eyes away.
They were pulled together by invisible threads. Something shared. Something real.
In the quiet before the next track, they leaned in.
“I’m Amber,” she said, voice breathless.
“Samara,” came the reply—warm, a little dazed. She pushed her hair from her face, breathing hard from the adrenaline.
A few songs later, the lights shifted.
The familiar intro of Circle With Me trickled in like smoke.
Courtney’s voice floated above the crowd:
“If there's no heat when I escalate
the fire is cold...”
After a beat, Samara leaned down once more, the near foot height difference making it easy to whisper:
“Can I hold your waist?”
Right as the crowd chanted—
“THIS COULD ALL BE YOURS!”
Amber’s breath caught.
Am I dreaming?
Her head spun, heart racing with something dangerously close to thrill. She didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
Samara’s hands moved gently—cautionary—to Amber’s waist. Amber leaned back, just slightly, her head resting below Samara’s chin. Their movements slowed. Grew deliberate.
The crowd, the noise, the lights—all of it faded.
The music no longer surrounded them. It held them.
They swayed, caught in the rhythm, the melody wrapping around them like a living thing. A presence.
Amber’s skirt flowed like water as their hips moved together. Samara’s grip tightened just slightly.
Neither of them spoke.
As Ride the Wave built to its crescendo, their dancing slowed, turned intimate. Amber’s head rested on Samara’s shoulder. Her breath was warm against her neck. Her fingers traced gentle circles along Samara’s arm.
Neither of them wanted the song to end.
When it finally did, the crowd exhaled all at once.
Samara pulled back just enough to meet Amber’s eyes. Her heart still pounded like a kick drum.
“Do you want a drink?” she asked softly, hand rubbing her neck.
Amber’s face flushed with something sweet and sharp and alive.
“Yeah,” she said. “Coke sounds good”
They made their way through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, brushing arms as the post-show haze settled in. The bar glowed dimly in the back corner of the venue. Samara ordered two Cokes. Their fingers brushed during the hand-off. It sparked something neither of them could ignore.
They stepped outside.
The air was cooler now. The city lights cast a dull glow on the sidewalk, mixing with the lingering vibration of bass that still thudded faintly through the building’s walls.
Amber inhaled deeply.
“That was... unreal,” she murmured.
Samara grinned. “Yeah. They don't play around.”
Amber laughed, a soft chime of sound.
Samara turned to her, studying the way she looked under the streetlights. “So,” she asked, “first show?”
Amber blushed, suddenly shy. “Yeah. My mom dropped me off. We’re staying nearby.”
Samara’s eyebrows lifted. “She sounds chill.”
Amber smiled. “She is. I’m really glad I came.”
There was a pause.
Then: phones out. Laughter. Lightness. Numbers exchanged.
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
Amber sat cross-legged on her bed, her room dimly lit. Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Wait.
She opened the message.
“hey, it’s samara. what’s up?”
Amber stared at her screen, heart racing.
She typed fast.
“Wait, I promise I’m not a creep… I noticed ur area code. Do you live in Panthera County???”
A beat.
Then a reply.
“yeah lol”
Holy shit.
This was real.
She grinned, thumbs flying across the screen.
“I’m like 30 minutes from you!! We seriously should hang out soon.”