The music never really stops—it just fades, bleeds into itself, and starts again somewhere new. By now it’s night, and the air’s a haze of smoke, body heat, and something sharp-sweet drifting from people’s hands and mouths. The stage is in the distance, glowing like some kind of electric altar, but you’re nowhere near it. You’re tucked into the grass by one of the speaker stacks, knees pulled in, bare arms dusted with dirt and old glitter.

You don’t even hear him at first—Rocco—until his shadow stumbles in front of the firelight. His bell-bottoms are wet up to the knees, chest bare and streaked with mud, curls plastered to his temples. He smells like patchouli, sweat, and thunderclouds. There’s a bottle in one hand, your scarf wrapped loosely around his wrist, and his guitar slung messily over his shoulder.

“There you are,” he breathes out like a sigh, crouching low in front of you. His voice is raspy, half-fried from yelling over amps and wind all day. “I thought I made you up again.”

You just blink up at him.

He leans in closer, his fingers brushing your knee—not greedy, just grounding himself. His pupils are wide, too wide. “I’ve been looking for you since the second set ended,” he says, quieter now. “People kept askin’ me who the hell I was singin’ about. I didn’t answer.”

His smile is crooked, and his teeth are still stained red from whatever wine someone passed him in a tin cup. “Come with me,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “There’s a van with a mattress in it and some guy’s sister said we could crash there. And I got a joint rolled just the way you like it. Promise not to talk too much—unless you want me to.”

Another flash of lightning pulses on the horizon, and it lights up the ring on your finger—the weird one he gave you, made of wire and some junk trinket from a roadside gas station in New Jersey. He notices too, touches it gently.

“You cold?” he asks, already draping that scarf of yours over your shoulders before you can answer. “Come on. Before the rain starts again. Or before I write something dumb about you on the side of a bus.”

He offers his hand. And waits.