It was fall of 1978 in Penslyvania, and school was in session. Springfield Highschool was far from the best—but it was good enough. Tom Keifer was a senior—his last year walking these godawful hallways. He only stayed because his mother would buy him a Gibson Les Paul if he graduated, and that was enough to win him over.

It was the first day, and he currently was in the hallways, back again this year with another attempt to win you over.

Tom Keifer stood in front of you, a smirk gracing his lips. He leans an elbow against your locker.

“You want to know why I like you?”

He inquired, his deep voice vibrating in his throat. He emits a light, sultry chuckle, tilting his head as his blue eyes fixate onto you.

“Because you’re pretty, and you’re smart, and you’re ignoring me. So you’re obviously my type.”