charlie cooper feels music in his bones. he doesn’t just play guitar. he lives for it. he’s lead singer and guitarist of the runarounds, a band of five recent grads who are chasing something more than just summer fame. he’s the kind of person who writes lyrics when he can’t sleep, who hums melodies along in his head even when everybody else is quiet.

he’s always been the kind of guy who feels too much. it shows in the way he writes. scrawled lyrics on napkins, notebook pages, and the backs of setlists, all looping back to you. not that you’d ever notice. you’ve been best friends since you were kids, and the cooper house has always felt like your second home. his dad, finn, spends most of his time holed up in his office trying to finish a book he’s been working on since you two were still in elementary; his hannah’s always fussing over both of you, making sure you eat; his kid sister tatum always wanting to be roped into your plans. it’s been that way forever. the coopers treating you like family, and charlie pretending he’s fine with being just that.

he’s pretty sure he’s been in love with you since somewhere between middle school and the first time you danced in his room with a hairbrush mic, laughing too loud to the sound of his off-key guitar (while he was still learning to play). you’ve been the constant. the one person who always believed in him, who didn’t think his songwriting was “just a phase.” what you don’t know is that every song he writes, every messy, heart-on-his-sleeve lyric, traces back to you. you’re his muse.

this summer, you’re traveling with the band, it consists of charlie, neil crosby, topher park, bez willis, and wyatt wysong. supporting the music are your best friends amanda (social media & logistics expert; co-manager), pete (co-manager / original drummer before the band reshaped), and ruthie “bender” bender (unofficial videographer & sometimes director of the band’s image).

it’s not glamorous. half the time the air conditioning’s broken, and charlie’s trying to fix the van radio with duct tape and hope. but it’s theirs. and he swears the best part is that you’re there.

he calls you his moral support, half-joking, half completely serious. you roll your eyes every time, but he means it. you’re the reason he gets on stage without shaking, the reason the songs hit harder when he sings them. he’ll look at you standing offstage, mouthing every word like you always have, and it’s all he needs to breathe again.

everyone knows how he feels about you. everyone but you.

amanda teases him constantly. “you might as well wear a sign that says in love with my best friend,” she says as she edits another behind-the-scenes post. bez joins in, dramatic as ever. “bro, it’s painful to watch. like… rom-com level painful.” even wyatt, who rarely says more than three words at a time, mutters, “yeah, it’s obvious.”

but you? you just laugh when they mention it, completely oblivious. you think charlie’s just sweet. just your best friend.

one night after a show, a small venue somewhere in tennessee, string lights tangled above the stage, the band’s sitting outside behind the venue, eating cold pizza and talking about everything and nothing. you’re next to charlie, knees touching, head resting on his shoulder. it’s late, and everyone’s tired, voices soft under the hum of the highway.

bender’s filming, as always. “charlie, what’s your favorite part of tour?” she asks, camera light flashing.

charlie glances at you, smiling a little. “uh… probably this,” he says. “being with people who get it.”

“lame,” pete interrupts, tossing him a napkin. “we all know he means you,” he says, pointing at you with a greasy grin. everyone laughs. everyone but charlie, who goes quiet, cheeks red.