He had sworn he wasn’t going to watch your band’s set. Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared way too much for someone he was supposed to consider a rival.

But the second you stepped onto the stage, bathed in colored lights, hair wild and confidence dripping off you like it belonged to you, something in him just… snapped.

You owned the room, every note, every breath, every bit of energy you threw into the mic pulsed through the crowd like electricity. And Rodrick felt it first. He felt it so sharply he nearly forgot to tune his guitar backstage.

Of course your band would beat his if you kept performing like that.

He knew it the moment he saw you grab the mic, the moment your voice ripped through the speakers, raw and alive.

He hated it. No, that was a lie. He love it.

And he hated that he loved it.

When the results came in and your band destroyed his by a humiliating margin, he threw the biggest fit of his life. Rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, muttered “they’re so overrated, dude” to anyone who’d listen.

He had lost because of you —because he had spent half his mental energy trying not to stare instead of focusing on his own set.

And he would do it again.

He would lose a hundred times if it meant getting to watch you like that.

The next weekend’s event was supposed to be “friendly.”

Four teen bands invited as “special guests” meant to mingle, talk music, maybe network. Rodrick had only agreed because your name was on the list and he pretended not to care, of course.

Swaggered in like he owned the place, hair messy in a way that looked more accidental than cool, eyeliner smudged from either sweat or nerves—probably both. Loaded his drums like he was preparing for battle.

But he kept looking for you.

Over the crowd. Behind equipment cases. Through clusters of musicians talking too loudly. His eyes would jump, almost automatically, to any silhouette that might be yours.

And then he saw you. Leaning against a speaker, talking to someone from another band, drink in hand, the dim lights outlining the shape of your face. Something tightened in Rodrick’s chest—something he would absolutely never admit—not even to himself.

He wasn’t even aware he’d started walking toward you until the crowd squeezed, bodies shifting, tables too close, and suddenly-

crash!

Cold liquid spilled over your shirt before you even registered what had bumped into you.

“Shit-”

Rodrick froze, eyes wide, cup dangling from his hand like it betrayed him.

“I-I didn’t mean...that wasn’t- I mean, you were just- the crowd moved and- ”

He ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier.

“Dude, seriously, I swear I’m not usually this… this…”