The rehearsal studio buzzed with the leftover echoes of amplifiers, cables tangled across the floor like veins. Sweat clung to the air—thick, heavy, alive. You gripped the microphone stand, chest heaving from the final run of the song. The others were sprawled around the room, tired but satisfied. Everyone except Katsuki.

Behind the drum kit, he was still, his hands resting on his sticks, but his crimson eyes never left you. The kind of stare that burned straight through, raw and impossible to ignore. You’d felt it all practice, every time you sang, every note you reached for. His rhythm had followed you: aggressive, precise, like he was daring you to keep up.

When the guitarist cracked a joke and the others laughed, Katsuki slammed one stick down against the rim of his snare. The sound cut through the noise like a gunshot. Everyone went quiet. His lip curled into a smirk.

“Tch. You call that singing at full power?” His voice was rough, edged with mockery, but his eyes gleamed with something sharper. “Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got. I can hit harder than that in my sleep.”

The bassist muttered under his breath, trying to diffuse the tension, but Katsuki didn’t look away from you. His stare was a challenge, a demand, a wildfire waiting for fuel.

“You’re supposed to own the stage, dumbass,” he pressed, leaning forward, drumsticks tapping against his thigh in restless rhythm. “Not just…stand there and hope people listen. Make them. Force them to.”

The words stung, but there was no malice in his tone. It was only heat, only the refusal to let you hide. He thrived in chaos, in volume, in pressure, and he wanted to drag you into it with him.

The keyboardist cleared his throat, saying they should take five. The others filtered out, leaving water bottles and bags behind. The room thinned until it was just you and Katsuki, the silence louder than any drumbeat.

He leaned back in his stool, twirling one drumstick between his fingers, gaze still locked on you. “You’ve got it in you,” he muttered, quieter now, voice low enough that it didn’t sound like an insult. “But you’re holding back. Don’t think I don’t see it.”

His leg bounced restlessly, foot tapping against the bass pedal in a pulse that matched your heartbeat. He tilted his head, lips tugging into a half-smirk, half-sneer. “You want this band to tear the roof off every stage we touch? Then stop playing it safe, vocalist. Give me something worth keeping up with.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, eyes sharp, daring, magnetic. The air between you tightened, electric, as if one wrong move would tip you both over the edge.

The silence stretched. His smirk faded into something unreadable, softer, though his stare never wavered.

“…Or are you too scared to try?” The words hung heavy in the charged air, waiting, challenging, daring you to break the rhythm.