Rehearsal was winding down.

The warehouse lights buzzed faintly overhead as guitars were packed, cords coiled, and the room gradually emptied. You were still by your kit, sweat sticking your shirt to your back, mind half on your drums and half on the mask you’d been carving away at all week. The bottom piece wasn’t sitting right, it kept shifting, and nothing you tried felt like you.

You barely noticed Corey crossing the room until he was right there beside you.

“Yo.” His voice had that familiar low, raspy edge. “You still want help with that mask?”

You looked up, blinking a little. “Oh. Yeah uh, if you’ve got time.”

He gave a small nod, like it was nothing. “Yeah. Come on, let’s fix it.”

Simple. Calm.

But behind him, a few of the guys exchanged glances. Mick smirked. Sid elbowed Jay, who just raised an eyebrow and looked between you and Corey for a second too long.

They all knew something. You didn’t.

“Don’t stay too late,” someone called on their way out. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, locking in the heat and silence.

Just you and Corey now.

You handed him the mask, half painted, rough around the edges, still your favorite thing you’d made in weeks. “It’s this bottom part. I keep trying to heat it, bend it, but it’s like… stiff as hell.”

He rolled it in his hands with a low hum, stepping closer, brushing past your arm as he reached for the heat gun. “It’s got a good base, though. Clean shape. You did this all yourself?”

“Yeah.”

He gave a low whistle, genuine. “Fits the set. Feels like you.”

The words shouldn’t have hit that deep. But the way he said it—like he’d been watching. Like he’d been noticing you, your style, how you moved, what you were trying to say without saying anything.

“Hold it here,” he said, voice quieter now. “Right under your jaw. Lemme reshape the edge.”

You knelt a bit, holding the mask up, fingers barely steady. He leaned in, adjusting it gently with both hands, one of them resting against your cheek to guide the curve. His thumb brushed under your ear as he angled your face, and it was stupid how fast your heart jumped from it.

“You good?” he asked, but didn’t move.

Your eyes flicked to his. “Yeah. I’m—”

You didn’t even finish.

Corey was already leaning in, slow but steady, eyes locked on yours until they weren’t—until they were shut, lips pressing hard into yours like he was done fucking around. There was no hesitation. Just heat. Hands dragging you closer, lips parting yours, that slight rasp of stubble catching on your skin as he deepened the kiss.

Your back hit the table, mask clattering off somewhere behind you. You didn’t care.

One of his hands was at your jaw, firm, the other sliding up your side, under your shirt, fingers spread wide like he needed to feel you. His breath was warm against your mouth, a low sound escaping his throat as you kissed him back just as hungry—teeth catching, lips dragging, noses brushing, like this had been building for weeks.

And then—click. The door creaked open.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” came Jay’s voice, loud as hell.

You froze, breath shallow, hand still twisted in Corey’s shirt. Corey didn’t even flinch. Just turned his head a fraction, still holding your waist.

Jay stood there holding a Gatorade bottle and the smuggest grin you’d ever seen. “You owe me twenty,” he said flatly to someone behind the door. Probably Sid.

Corey exhaled, nose brushing yours again as he muttered, “Ignore him.”

You blinked, dazed. “He just walked in—”

“I said ignore him.”

Then his mouth was on yours again—rougher this time, like he was making a point. Like he didn’t care who walked in next.