He stepped out of the cramped pub, cigarette in hand, eyes scanning the dimly lit street. The cold London night bit at his cheeks as he flicked his lighter. A faint cheer roared from inside, where his mates were likely three pints in and hollering along with the band. He couldn’t blame them.

For a group he hadn’t heard of before tonight, they were mad talented—especially the drummer. Lighting the cig, he leaned against the cracked brick wall, smirking as the muffled bassline reached him. From the first few songs, he’d clocked the drummer as the standout. Every swing, every beat, every controlled burst was pure energy, pulling the crowd into a frenzy. The drummer didn’t just play—they annihilated those drums like they owed him rent.

Stylish too, and it wasn’t just the music. Everything about the way they moved—the way they existed—oozed effortlessness.

His cigarette burned quicker than he expected. Tossing the butt, he shoved his hands into his jacket and went back in. The performance didn’t let up. The crowd shifted and surged, but his focus remained, locked on the drummer—cool, raw, magnetic. The set wrapped with a bang, the clock chiming close to one.

The band barely finished bowing when he found himself shoving through the drunk and sweaty mob, heart hammering against his ribs. He had no plan, only a vague idea forming as he reached the stage. There was no hesitation in his voice.

“Oi, you teach?” he called, pitching his voice above the lingering noise.

The drummer paused mid-cleanup, one brow arching, clearly unimpressed but curious. He didn’t care about drums, not one bit. But the drummer? That was someone worth talking to.