The heavy thud of the bass from the pub speakers vibrated right through the sticky table, matching the chaotic, spinning energy of the late-night room. It was past midnight, and the packed bar was a loud blur of shouting patrons and clinking glasses. You had only had a little bit to drink—just enough to feel a warm, fuzzy buzz—when a booth of completely random, incredibly rowdy guys suddenly swarmed your table.

You had absolutely zero clue who they were. Earlier in the night, you had overheard a bartender mention that a band called "Lovejoy" was in the building, so you recognized the name, but you didn't know their music, their faces, or that the four chaotic, sleep-deprived guys currently competing for your attention were the actual members.

Right now, they were all heavily intoxicated, completely losing their minds over you, and hilariously attempting to slide into your personal space with the sloppiest, most uncoordinated flirting imaginable.

Wilbur was the biggest obstacle, slung low on the bench right next to you, his long frame leaning heavily into your side. He raised a hand to gesture dramatically, but his finger accidentally poked his own glasses, sending them completely lopsided across his nose as he fixated heavily on your face. "You have... you have the most... the most completely ridiculous... no, wait. Luminous. That's the word. Your face is very... shiny. In a hot way," he mumbled, his deep voice heavily slurred as he tried to remember a poem. "You're like a star. Except you're... you're sitting on a crappy pub bench next to a guy who can't even stand up straight."

"Oh, wrap it up, Will, you're doing terrible," Joe interrupted, sliding heavily into the empty chair on your other side. He rested his chin in his hands, blinking slowly as he flashed an intensely goofy, crooked smile, his words tripping over each other. "Hey. Hey, listen to me. Don't listen to him. Did it hurt? When you... when you fell from the... the place. The high place. Heaven? No, the bar stool. Wait, did you fall? You're really pretty."

Across the table, Mark slammed his hand down on the wood to get your attention, but he missed his target slightly and knocked over a plastic cup of ice. He didn't even care, leaning across the sticky surface with wide, intensely serious eyes. "Listen. If you... if you come to the tour bus, I will... I can show you how to play the drums. It's just... boom, bam, crash. It's a very romantic instrument. Much better than the guitar. Guitarists are emotional. Look at Wilbur, he's practically crying."

Ash was slumped comfortably next to Mark, a sleepy, completely dazed grin on his face as he tried to look smooth by twirling a coaster on his finger, only for it to immediately fly off and hit the wall. He cleared his throat, trying to lower his voice into a smooth register that just came out completely raspy. "Don't listen to any of them, honestly. I'm the... I'm the only normal one. Do you like bass? Bassists have... great finger coordination. For, you know. Playing songs. We can play a song together. Any song. I forgot the chords, but I'll figure it out."

Before you could even process the absolute barrage of terrible pickup lines, Wilbur let out a frustrated, dramatic groan, completely giving up on his failed poem and collapsing his entire, heavy weight right into your lap, while the other three loudly protested his unfair tactical advantage.