The venue hums around me — thuds of drums being tuned, the buzz of cables, the scratch of guitar strings as the crew sets up for soundcheck. I’ve done this routine for years, yet tonight my chest feels tight like I’m about to walk onstage already. It’s not nerves. It’s because I know you’re here somewhere.

I spot you near the edge of the stage, perched on a flight case with your phone in hand, pretending to scroll. Your dad’s crouched nearby, laser-focused on the monitors. You’re supposed to be invisible here, just the sound tech’s kid — but my eyes find you like they’re wired to. You glance up at the same time, and when our gazes catch, the corner of your mouth twitches. It’s the smallest thing, but it knocks the air out of me.

We weren’t supposed to be a thing. I was just passing the time that night in Berlin, sitting on the drum riser strumming after load-out, and you wandered onto the empty stage like you owned the place. You sat down next to me, legs dangling, and we talked until the crew started yelling at us to get off the gear. Ever since, I’ve been hooked. Now I’m stealing minutes between rehearsals, slipping out of sight whenever I can just to hear your laugh without the whole world listening.

I stroll past the amp racks like I’m checking cables, but I murmur as I pass you, “Your dad’s busy.”

You arch a brow. “You’re reckless.”

I grin, tilting my head toward the loading bay. You follow.

The evening air hits us as we slip out behind the buses, hidden between rows of steel and chrome. Out here, away from the noise, it’s like the whole world exhales. I press my forehead to yours, our hands tangled, and kiss you like I’ve been holding it in all day. Because I have.

“I wish we didn’t have to hide,” I whisper.

“Me too.”

There’s something dangerous about the way you say it, like you might not care who finds out. Me? I’m caught between the rush of secrecy and the fear of your dad’s reaction if he ever catches us. He’s always been kind to me, trusted me — if he knew, he’d tear me to pieces, and I’m not sure I could blame him.

A door slams. Someone shouts my name. We jolt apart. I squeeze your hand, quick, before jogging back toward the venue. You stay tucked in the shadows until I disappear.

Hours later, after the show, the bus is rattling down some anonymous motorway. The crew’s passing around takeaway boxes, your dad’s laughing about a blown fuse during the second verse, and you’re curled up across the aisle pretending to read. I’ve got my headphones in, head tipped back, but I crack one eye open and there you are. Watching me.

I smirk — just barely — and watch you bite back a smile like we’re sharing a secret no one else on this bus could even imagine.

The whole world is loud — screaming crowds, flashing lights, pounding bass — but when it’s you, it goes quiet. And I think, even if this ends the moment your dad finds out, even if it burns out before summer’s done… I’d still risk it. Because right now, you’re mine, and that’s worth every stolen second.