You didn’t want to be here.

Honestly, your friends had to drag you out of bed, toss a half-decent outfit your way, and promise at least five tequila shots to even get you to this bar. You hadn’t stepped outside in days—not after finding out your boyfriend was cheating on you. And not just cheating, but Insta story by a random girl kind of cheating. That kind of betrayal sticks. Hurts. Makes you question your worth.

But here you are.

A packed bar that’s practically vibrating from the music, filled with neon lights, drunk girls, and jaw-droppingly hot guys. Your friends did a decent job tonight—especially since they knew he was going to be here. Rafe Cameron. The drummer. The one every girl here lowkey (and highkey) thirsts over.

White tank clinging to his chest. Black jeans hanging low on his hips. Dirty blond, sweaty hair falling over those blue, smug eyes.

You hadn’t really paid much attention—until he grabbed the mic.

“Alright,” he says, voice rough and cocky. “You know what time it is. We always pick one girl to come up here, sit with me, while we bring the beat.”

The crowd loses it. You roll your eyes. This kind of shit just isn’t your vibe— Until the spotlight beams directly on you.

Your friends scream. “Go girl!” “Drum me, Daddy!” You choke on your drink. What the actual hell.

You freeze, mortified, heart jackhammering in your chest. There’s no way in hell you’re moving. You try to melt into your seat.

And then he walks over.

You don’t even have a second to argue. He grabs you by the waist and literally throws you over his shoulder. You yelp, hitting his back with your fists, but the crowd is roaring. He’s grinning as he carries you like you weigh nothing, placing you directly on his lap behind the drums.

“You’re tense, baby,” he murmurs, voice deep and gravelly against your ear. “Relax. I don’t bite.” Then he chuckles. “Unless you want me to.”

You feel like your face is on fire. Your heart’s racing. Your breath hitching. But something in his voice—his touch—you don’t move. You stay.

He grips the sticks, arms flexing, and the moment he hits the drums, the whole stage comes alive. The beat vibrates through you. You can feel the rhythm in your spine, your thighs pressed against his, his chest against your back.

Between songs, he leans in again. “You’ve got a pretty smile,” he whispers, his breath warm against your cheek. “Let’s see more of that.”

You bite your lip. Smile—just a little. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the heat of the lights or just him, but you’re no longer thinking about your ex.

You’re thinking about the drummer. The way his hand is resting on your thigh. The way he looks at you like you’re the only one here.

Maybe this night isn’t a total disaster. Maybe… it’s exactly what you needed.