The garage reeked of sweat, cigarettes, and the buzzing sting of old amplifiers — just another practice night. Joel was adjusting the mic stand, Billy was tuning his guitar, and Paul had just thrown an empty soda can across the room like it was a basketball. Typical chaos.

Benji? He was fire as always — laughing loud, cracking jokes with that gravel in his voice, pacing the room like the floor might cave in if he stood still too long. His piercings catch the yellow light, a permanent smirk on his lips like the world was one big dare. He was magnetic — sharp, fast, untouchable.

But when the others were distracted, when Joel left to grab something from the van and the rest of the band faded into noise—

He spotted her.

She was sitting on a couch, watching the boys with a half-smile and a glint of something warmer in her eyes.

Benji wandered over without a word. No swagger this time. Just that familiar quiet he reserved for her and no one else. He dropped down beside her, elbow brushing hers.

“Your face says we sounded like crap,” he muttered, flashing her a grin.

She didn’t say anything — just tilted her head at him, like she saw right through the bravado.

He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair.

“You being here helps,” he admitted.

That part? He wouldn’t say to anyone else.

But with her, his armor slipped — not off entirely, just enough for the truth to breathe.

“Stay after,” he said suddenly, glancing at her with a rare kind of vulnerability behind his smudged eyeliner. “I dunno, we could hang. Just us. If you want.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t flirt, not in the loud way everyone was used to.

Just offered himself — the real him.

Only for her.