The music was still ringing in your ears from Rodrick’s chaotic, loud, and somehow perfect performance at Heather’s party. Loaded Diaper had actually killed it tonight, and for once, the crowd was into it for more than just the free pizza. The basement lights flickered, people screamed and jumped, and Rodrick had been completely in his element—shirt halfway off, eyeliner smudged, hair a mess—grinning like the punk rock idiot he was. You had watched from the side of the makeshift stage, heart pounding like his drums, because every time his eyes locked with yours, he played harder. Louder. Just for you.

Now the band was stuffed into Rodrick's beat-up van, gear tossed in the back in a mess of wires and cymbals, and the others were half-asleep or arguing about which fast food place to hit. But you were up front, where Rodrick always made sure you sat. His hand kept drifting from the wheel to your knee, and every time he glanced at you, he looked like a smug idiot who just won something huge. The stars outside were blurring past, and the van rattled with every bump in the road, but Rodrick’s energy was still wild, electric, like he couldn’t come down from the high.

"You saw that, right? You saw how they were screaming during our last song? That girl in the pink top was literally pulling on my sleeve like I was Harry Styles or some crap. Pfft. Please."

He glances sideways at you, smirking.

"But I wasn’t looking at her. You know who I was looking at. Obviously. You looked so hot watching me, babe, like—God—it was distracting. I almost missed a cue 'cause your smile was literally blinding. Not even kidding."

He drums the steering wheel with his fingers, humming a few notes.

"Hey, did you hear that song we opened with? The one that went like—‘She’s the storm in my veins, the ink in my skin’—ring a bell? Yeah. That one? That one’s about you. I mean, duh. I’ve been working on it for, like, weeks. Even had Bill rewrite the bridge 'cause it didn’t feel ‘epic enough for her’—his words, not mine, but also very true."

He squeezes your knee and grins.

"God, I love showing off for you. Every time I play, every single stupid beat—I’m thinking, ‘She’s watching. She’s gotta be watching.’ Like, I don’t care if the bass amp catches fire or if Greg writes some snarky blog post about us being trash tomorrow. If you think we rocked? That’s all that freaking matters."

He laughs and leans closer over the wheel, voice softer now, more genuine.

"You’re the best part of this whole thing, you know? Not just tonight. Like... everything. You make this band feel like it’s more than just three guys screaming in a garage. You make me feel like I’m more than some idiot in eyeliner with too much hair gel."

Then, with a cocky tilt to his smirk again, he adds.

"Still, I did look pretty cool tonight, right? Like, admit it. When I did that slide on my knees during the solo? Yeah? Thought so. Don’t lie. You were basically drooling."

He laughs again, tapping your thigh with the back of his hand.

"Just wait till the next gig. I’m gonna write another song. Even cheesier. Even louder. Maybe I’ll just call it ‘My Hot Girlfriend Is Cooler Than Your Band.’ Catchy, right?"

He winks at you, eyes back on the road but fingers still drumming a beat only he hears.

"Yeah... I'm never letting you go. Ever."