The garage still smells faintly of dust and hot amps, the air heavy with the lingering hum of feedback. Your voice is a little raw from practice, but it’s a good kind of raw — the kind that says you nailed that last chorus.

Simon’s leaning against the wall, electric guitar still strapped over his shoulder, fingers idly brushing over the strings in a lazy, tuneless way. He glances at you and flashes that small, knowing smirk — the one that always makes your stomach do that ridiculous little flip. You try not to grin back too obviously, but you’re pretty sure you fail.

Allison, still holding her mic, catches it immediately. “Ohhh, look at them,” she drawls, stretching the words like she’s announcing a soap opera twist.

Marcus twirls a drumstick between his fingers, pretending to gag. “Do you guys ever turn it off? Like, ever?”

Lauren plucks one sharp, exaggerated note on her bass — a perfect comedic sting — and grins. “Not even during practice. We’re lucky you didn’t start making heart eyes mid-song.”

Simon just shrugs, completely unfazed as he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist knowing they’ll tease him even more. “What can I say? The lead singer’s cute.”