“My name is Jagger Arch.”

A murmur and a few giggles went through the crowd at this. Everyone knew who he was, but his humility was appreciated.

“I’ve been working on a couple of new songs,” he said, his voice smooth and deep, “I hope you don’t mind if I play them for you now.”

Nobody said a word. It was almost like they were holding their breaths, not wanting to break the spell that Jag had cast around the room.

Guy sidled up beside me. “We get to hear the new Atomic Storm songs before they’ve even been recorded,” he said. “How cool is that?”

“You knew about this?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said easily. “Jag asked me earlier if he could do this. I thought Ash would be singing though.”

I nodded. I would’ve thought so too. Jag, from what I knew of Atomic Storm, was the lead guitarist, but it was Ash who sang all the vocals. But Ash was still sitting in the same spot, a girl perched on his lap. He was watching Jag with the same expectation as everyone else.

And then Jag started playing.

It was quieter, softer than their other songs. The melody was incredibly sweet, almost poignant. His head was bent down, his face smooth and unreadable as he watched his fingers move over the guitar strings.

Then he lifted his head and sang.

I’d heard Jag speak a thousand times. I was incredibly familiar with his voice, how he could sound furious, demanding, guilty, sorry, and joking. But I’d never heard him sing. Listening to his voice, at the lyrics which flowed from his lips, I wondered why he wasn’t the lead singer of Atomic Storm.

It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and the words he sang were haunting. He closed his eyes as he sang, which gave me the chance to look at him, watch him, and take all of him in without him noticing. His black t-shirt fit snugly over his broad shoulders and expansive chest, his denim jeans hung low on his hips, and his firm, muscled legs were splayed out in front of him, the guitar on his lap. I watched the way his fingers moved effortlessly over the strings of the guitar like they were doing their own kind of dance.

And I studied his face.

He’d lost himself in the music, in the words he sang and the melody he created. I could tell by the expression on his face. He wasn’t here, in a crowded country pub—he was somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away. I knew that look and I knew that feeling. It was how I felt when I painted.

We were the same, Jagger and I. We were both artists who were passionate about what we created. It struck me, straight in the middle of my chest, how alike we were. It was the first time I saw something between us that bound us together other than the ridiculous psychic signs. Until that moment, I’d seen only the differences, the different worlds we came from, our different lifestyles, our different attitudes, our different futures.

But we had this.

I focused on the words and was struck by how tender they were. I followed along and felt myself stirred by the lyrics. A girl. A hope. A longing. Being pulled apart. But trying to find their way back together. He was telling a story.

When the song ended, there was a silence in the audience who knew they’d just witnessed something amazing. Then someone clapped from the back and soon everyone joined in, a raucous applause taking hold throughout the pub. I joined in too, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Thank you,” Jag said. The smile on his face told how gratefully he accepted their applause. “I’m glad you like it. I’ve been feeling particularly inspired lately.” And his eyes found mine.