The backstage corridor smelled like industrial cleaner and something sweeter—maybe hairspray, maybe the particular perfume of anticipation. My heels clicked against the concrete floor, each step echoing like a countdown.
Forty-seven. Forty-six. Forty-five steps to go.
"You're doing the breathing thing," Margo observed.
"I'm not doing a thing."
"You're doing that thing where you breathe really deliberately like you're in a yoga video. You only do that when you're about to panic."
She wasn't wrong. I'd developed this particular coping mechanism in college, right before finals, right before thesis defenses, right before any moment that could change things. Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Repeat until the universe felt manageable.
The universe did not feel manageable.
There were maybe fifteen people in the meet-and-greet line ahead of us—contest winners, radio promotion package holders, the sort of superfans who had probably memorized not just lyrics but obscure B-sides and album liner notes. They whispered excitedly among themselves, checking phones, adjusting outfits, preparing whatever they planned to say when their moment came.
I had prepared nothing. I had specifically avoided preparing anything because the thought of scripting a conversation with a stranger made me want to crawl out of my skin.
"What if I just... don't speak?" I whispered to Margo.
"Then you wasted three hours in my car."
"I could wave. Waving is communication."
"You are not going to just wave at Jax Viper. That's weird."
"Talking is weird. Existing is weird. This whole situation is—"
"Next!"
The line moved. My heart moved with it, straight up into my throat.
The green room was smaller than I expected—maybe the size of my classroom, with sofas and a craft services table and the kind of lighting that made everyone look simultaneously better and worse than real life. Band posters lined the walls. A rack of guitars stood in the corner, each one probably worth more than my car.
And there, in the center of it all, surrounded by handlers and security and the particular energy of someone who was chronically watched—
Jax Viper.
He was taller in person. That was my first, stupid thought. The photos and videos hadn't conveyed the sheer presence of him, the way he seemed to take up space not just physically but energetically. Dark hair, artfully disheveled. Green eyes that somehow seemed tired and alive at the same time. A black t-shirt that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget but looked effortlessly casual.
He was talking to the fan ahead of us, a teenage girl who had started crying the moment she saw him. His handlers hovered nervously, clearly used to this reaction, but Jax himself seemed... patient. He waited while she composed herself. Handed her a tissue from his pocket. Said something that made her laugh through her tears.
"He carries tissues," Margo breathed. "That's so thoughtful. Who carries tissues?"
"Kindergarten teachers," I said automatically. "And apparently rock stars."
The teenage girl got her photo, got her autograph, got a hug that would probably sustain her emotional well-being for the next decade. Then she was being guided toward the exit, and we were being guided forward, and suddenly there was nothing between me and the man whose music lived in my ears and my heart and my very specific Spotify statistics.
"Hi there!" A handler with a clipboard smiled at us brightly. "You must be the contest winners! Congratulations! You'll have about ninety seconds with Jax, and then we'll get a quick photo. Sound good?"
Ninety seconds. The length of a song chorus. The time it takes to microwave leftovers. Not nearly enough time to say anything meaningful, which was probably the point.
"Sounds great," Margo chirped, because Margo was not having a small stroke in the presence of celebrity.
We stepped forward. Jax turned. And for one crystallized moment, I forgot how to exist.
"Hey," he said, his voice rougher in person, worn around the edges like a favorite sweater. "Thanks for coming out tonight."
Margo was already launching into a prepared speech about how long she'd been a fan and how much his music meant to her, and I should have been nodding along, supporting my best friend, being a normal human who understood social conventions—
But my eyes had found the guitar rack in the corner.
More specifically, one guitar in the corner. A vintage Gibson J-45, sunburst finish, the kind of instrument that serious collectors talked about in hushed, reverent tones. I had a poster of one in my college apartment. I had written a paper about its role in shaping folk-rock acoustics. I had never seen one in person.
"Is that—" The words escaped before I could stop them. "Is that a '56?"
Jax stopped mid-handshake with Margo. His eyes followed my gaze to the corner, then snapped back to me with sudden, sharp interest.
"'57," he said. "You know guitars?"
I should have played it cool. I should have made some breezy comment about casual interest and changed the subject. Instead, what came out was: "The '57 has the adjustable bridge saddle. You can tell by the way the bone sits. The '56 had a fixed configuration that some players actually preferred for the tone, but Gibson changed it because—"
I stopped. Margo was staring at me. The handler was staring at me. Jax Viper was staring at me.
"Sorry," I said, heat flooding my face. "I'm a music teacher. I get nerdy about instruments."
Something shifted in Jax's expression. The polished celebrity veneer cracked, just slightly, revealing something underneath that looked almost... relieved.
"Most people just want a selfie," he said.
"Most people probably don't have opinions about bridge saddles."
"No." A smile ghosted across his lips—not the practiced one from the photos, but something smaller and more real. "They definitely don't."
Behind us, the handler shifted nervously. "We should probably move along, Mr. Viper—"
"Give us a minute." Jax didn't take his eyes off me. "What's your name?"
"Emma. Emma Wright."
"Emma." He said it like he was testing the weight of it. "Tell me more about the bridge saddle."