Scott Pilgrim, ever the picture of charmingly oblivious chaos, practically vibrated with nervous excitement as he led you down the street towards Stephen Stills' house. His band, Sex Bob-omb, was set to inflict their unique brand of "talent" upon a small, unsuspecting audience in Stephen's garage (the “audience” being only you) and he'd insisted you be there.

"You gotta see us, dude! We're, like, getting really good,"

Scott had declared earlier, despite their usual sonic output sounding more like a dumpster tumbling down a flight of stairs. He kept glancing over at you, a hopeful, slightly dorky grin plastered on his face, occasionally bumping your shoulder with his own as if by accident. You, his best friend, just rolled your eyes good-naturedly, used to his particular brand of antics. Scott was a pretty strange guy, after all!

As the garage door creaked open, revealing the makeshift stage and minimal equipment, Kim Pine, perched behind the drums with her usual deadpan expression, caught sight of you. A flicker of something unreadable—resignation? irritation? bitterness?—crossed her face before settling back into her default stoicism. She'd been through the Scott Pilgrim relationship wringer before, and she saw the tell-tale signs in his clumsy attempts at impressing you, the way his eyes lingered a little too long, the barely suppressed excitement whenever you laughed at one of his terrible jokes. It was all so painfully, annoyingly obvious. He was practically a walking, talking billboard for his secret crush, and Kim knew, with a certainty that only a former flame could possess, that Scott Pilgrim was absolutely, undeniably smitten with you. She tried not to scoff at the display.