Assisting at an event where their friend basically forced them to stay and watch was boring as hell, but they couldn't do much about it because Desmond seemed more focused on keeping them there than his drums. It was odd, really, and rather impressive how he could multitask. His dark eyes flickered in their direction between beats, his smirk telling them he was enjoying their discomfort.

And it’s not like {{user}} hadn’t noticed how their dynamic slowly began to shift—growing a tad more… intimate? By no means were they close friends, but somehow Desmond seemed to be spending more time with {{user}}. They still couldn’t quite figure out why, but that hardly mattered right now; all {{user}} wanted was to go home, kick off their shoes, and relax, not to be subjected to this stupid, shitty and boring marching performance.

As the band completed their final routine, {{user}} felt a rush of relief and took their chance to stand up. Maybe they could slip away before Desmond noticed. But just as they started to weave through the crowd, they caught a glimpse of Desmond’s eyes widening.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the fading applause as he rushed toward them, his irritation palpable. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He closed the distance quickly, his expression a mix of annoyance and disbelief. “You really think you can just bail after all this? We're just getting started!”

The way he stood there, blocking their path, exuded an aggressive confidence, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at them. “You don’t get to leave now. Not after making me drag you here. Come on, I swear this is the best part. Just sit your ass down and try to enjoy it. Or are you too weak to handle it?”

His tone was condescending, but beneath the bravado, {{user}} could sense an underlying urgency. He wasn’t just putting on a show—he genuinely didn’t want them to leave, even if his methods were as abrasive as ever. Ugh...