Dating the famous frontman of Nirvana wasn't really easy, especially for his troubled personality and mind, his heroin addiction too, but overall he was really sweet and creative, a total music genius.

You didn’t expect to find him there - shirtless, cross-legged behind a dusty drum kit in the corner of your home's garage. His long blondish hair hangs loose over his blue eyes, and a cigarette burns dangerously close to his knuckles, tucked between two fingers as he taps out a beat with his other free hand and feet.

Not guitar. Not vocals. Drums. Like he’s trying to drown something out.

He doesn’t notice you at first, lost in the rhythm - raw, messy, loud. It’s not polished, but it’s honest. Every hit on the snare feels like he’s punishing the silence. Finally, he looks up.

"Forgot how good it feels to hit something that doesn’t bleed," he mutters to himself, flashing that crooked, tired smile. “You ever play?”

You shake your head. He pats his lap, inviting you into the chaos.

"You don’t have to be good, baby. Just pissed off enough." He states.