Black Stones

“Just… get me new headphones. I’ll be fine then.”

You said it like you were trying so hard not to smile, lips twitching like your pride was fighting your curiosity. You didn’t take my hand, but you didn’t slap it away either. You just stood up on your own, brushing grass off your pants with this kind of grace that made the whole park feel like your stage.

God. You were cool.

I stood too, slinging my board under my arm, watching you like you were some wild animal that let me live—barely.

“Alright, done,” I said, pulling my phone out again and holding it out toward you. “Drop your number in. I’ll send you a link tonight. You can even pick the color. Or, like… three of them. Just in case I crash into your life again.”

I gave you that grin again—not the cocky one this time. The soft one. The rare kind.

Then I tilted my head slightly, eyes trailing over your face for a beat longer than I probably should’ve.

“Moon, huh? You got a name like a lyric and a stare like a threat. What band are you in?”

“Black Stones…”

You said it low, almost like it carried weight—like I was supposed to know what that meant. And honestly? I’d heard the name before. Somewhere. Scribbled on the wall of an underpass, maybe. Or stamped on an old gig poster peeling off the bulletin board outside a record shop.

But hearing it from you? It sounded different.

Like trouble wrapped in rhythm.

I raised my eyebrows, impressed.

“No way. That punk band that played the warehouse last month? The one where the drummer nearly broke her sticks mid-solo and kept going anyway?”

I paused.

“Holy shit. That was you.”

And it clicked. The way you moved. The way you’d been tapping your thighs earlier like your hands couldn’t sit still unless they were beating out a rhythm.

I took a small step back, mock-offended.

“You’re telling me I just crashed into that Moon? Damn. No wonder I’m still shaking.”

I tried to play it cool, but it was obvious—I was floored. Not just by the fact that you were in Black Stones, but by how casually you dropped that bomb like it was no big deal.

I licked my lips, heartbeat picking up.

“Okay. Now I really owe you headphones.”

“You want my number, right…?”

You said it like a dare—voice low, eyes locking with mine for just a second too long.

Then, smooth as hell, you pulled a pen from your pocket, popped the cap off with your teeth (and okay, yeah, I absolutely stared), then grabbed my hand without asking.

Ink pressed into skin. Your fingers warm and rough from the sticks. I didn’t breathe. Not once.

You didn’t just write the number. You etched it—slow and deliberate, curling the last digit with a little flourish, like you were signing a deal with the devil and you were the devil.

And then?

You looked up at me, that little smirk tugging at your lips, and said:

“Don’t text me something stupid. I’ll block you.”

I blinked. Swallowed.

“What if I text you a playlist instead?” I asked, still staring at the number like it was a spell. “Songs that remind me of the girl who almost killed me with her thighs.”

Real smooth. Real bold. But the second I said it—I didn’t flinch. I meant it.

“Or I could just show up to your next gig and let you hit me with a drumstick. Your call.”

siim ☆

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***