He didn’t tell you he did it.

You only noticed because the stage lights hit just right, catching on the scratched-up back of his bass as he slung it off his shoulder. It was all chaos — stickers half-peeled, bits of duct tape, anarchy symbols drawn in permanent marker.

But there, etched in crooked, rough letters — like he’d done it with a key or a knife — was your name.

You found him backstage after the show, sweaty and still buzzing, laughing like the whole world was on fire and he loved the smell.

“Sid,” you said, holding out the bass, “what’s this?”

He glanced at it, smirked.

“Oh. That? Nothin’. Just…” He shrugged one shoulder, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You’re the only thing I give a damn about.”

Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just carved your name into the one thing he cared about most.

He took the bass back with a careless swing, but his fingers lingered on the carved letters like maybe, deep down, it meant everything.