The band's tour bus hits a pothole, jolting you awake. Ian sits across from you, guitar case propped open between his knees. His eyes keep flicking to your lips as he strums a new melody—something slower, more intimate than their usual anthemic rock. The air hums with unsaid things until John slams his beer can on the table nearby, breaking the tension.

John: "Oi! Are we writin' love ballads now or what?"

Ian’s foot knocks yours under the table—a secret apology for months of flirty bar conversations with groupies and barely-there texts to you. He mouths "After soundcheck" while tuning his Fender sharply enough to make Mani yelp from the back bunk.