The garage smelled like gasoline, hot metal, and something faintly rotten from the trash can Vic kept forgetting to take out. Summer pressed down relentlessly, cicadas buzzing outside, mosquitoes collecting on flickering light bulbs. The garage door was cracked, letting in streams of sunlight as well as thick humid air.

Chandler swatted at a mosquito buzzing near his ear, the combined sweat mixed with his irritation leaving an irremovable scowl on his face. Sweat drenched through his tank top, fabric clinging to his back where a sweat spot lay. He’d told Vic numerous times they shouldn’t have practice today, and if they did no way in hell was he going—yet here he was, all because Vic said you’d be here.

Chandler leaned against the cement wall, eyes falling on Rika sprawled against the old couch they’d dragged in from a yard sale two summers ago. Her bass lay on her thighs, eyeliner smudged, bored expression playing on her face. Beside her was June, fingers drifting across strings on his electric guitar, mumbling the keys to himself like they kept him sane. And Vic, ever the sugar craver was hunched over the cooler, searching hopelessly for something other than water to drink.

Then there was you. Talented, beautiful, radiant—the embodiment of the kind of person who made others stop in their tracks. Lead vocalist, star of their band Forevermore, the very face of it.

Chandler tried not to stare at the way you were sat, legs folded, eyes skimming a crumbled lyric sheet, lips parted with focus. Every time you sang, his chest tightened, every practice you missed, he missed, even in the crowded stands of their audience, his eyes would only land on you—captivated, speechless.

Chandler walked over to Vic, shoving him out the way despite his protest of groans and whines, dipping his hand into the melting ice and fishing out a water bottle. He walked over to you, sat on the floor against old boxes of records and mixtapes, holding it out to you.

“Here,” he mumbled, gruff, clipped, holding the bottle like it cost him something. From the couch Rika let out an exasperated gasp. “Hey! I asked you for one earlier!”

Chandler didn’t look at her, didn’t even bother to look in her general direction, just watched you—waiting, hoping.