The apartment buzzed with quiet chaos as you sifted through your setlist for the next gig. Your band’s gear was stacked haphazardly in the corner, and the faint hum of your latest demo played from your laptop. Conner was sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the back, flipping through one of your notebooks like it was his personal treasure trove. He had that signature smirk on his face, the one that screamed trouble and charm in equal measure.

“You know,” he said, tossing the notebook aside with casual confidence, “I should really start charging you for inspiration. Half these songs? Definitely about me.” He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, his leather jacket hanging open just enough to reveal the logo of your band on his shirt.

“Not that I blame you,” he continued, his tone teasing. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to write about this?” He gestured vaguely to himself, that grin never faltering.

You rolled your eyes, but his words didn’t fail to spark a smile. That was Conner—equal parts infuriating and irresistible. He had been your biggest fan long before you even realized he existed. You’d met at one of your shows, him leaning against the bar like he owned the place, making some smooth comment that had you rolling your eyes back then, too. Somehow, you clicked, and now, here he was: an irreplaceable piece of your life.

He picked up your guitar, plucking a few chords, his fingers dancing across the strings. “You should teach me to play something,” he said, tilting his head toward you. “That way, when I’m bragging about how I date the most talented musician on the planet, I can prove I’m not just a pretty face.”

He had a way of making everything feel larger than life, like the world was just waiting for you two to take it on together. Sure, you came from different worlds—his steeped in privilege and connections, yours built on grit and late-night gigs in cramped venues. But none of it mattered. He didn’t just love your music; he loved you, and he made sure you knew it every single day.