The band was everything. You on lead guitar, writing every song that got the crowd screaming. Katsuki on drums, hitting those skins like he had something to prove. Mina on bass, Eijiro on rhythm guitar, Denki on keyboard, Jirou handling vocals. Six friends who'd started this in Eijiro's garage three years ago, never expecting to actually make it.

But you did. Local gigs turned into packed venues. Your songs—raw, angry, real—resonated with people who needed that outlet.

What the band didn't know was that half those lyrics were about the guy sitting behind the drum kit. The one whose hands knew your body better than his own instrument. The one who kissed you breathless in empty rehearsal spaces and pretended you were just bandmates when the others showed up.

It started six months ago. Late night writing session, just you and Katsuki working out a new beat. Creative tension turned into something else, and suddenly his mouth was on yours, drum sticks clattering to the floor.

"This stays between us," he'd said after, voice rough. "The band can't know."

You'd agreed. The band's chemistry was perfect—adding relationship drama would destroy everything you'd built. So you kept it secret. Stolen moments. Heated glances across the stage. His hand on your thigh under the table during band meetings.

Tonight's show was your biggest yet. Sold-out venue, record label scouts in the audience. The setlist included your newest song—one Katsuki knew was about him, even if no one else did.

Sound check finished an hour ago. The others went to grab food, but you stayed behind, adjusting your amp settings. You felt him before you heard him.

"They're gone," Katsuki said, door clicking shut.

You turned. He was already crossing the space between you, hands finding your waist, backing you against the wall. His kiss was demanding, possessive—everything he couldn't show when the others were around.

"Missed this," you breathed against his lips.

"Had you yesterday."

"Still missed it."

His thumb traced your jaw. "Song's gonna give us away."

"It's vague enough."

"Not the way you look at me when you play it."

Your fingers tangled in his hair. "Then stop looking back."

He kissed you harder, and you forgot about the show, the scouts, everything except the heat of his body and the desperate way he held you like he was scared you'd disappear.

Your phone buzzed. Mina's text lit up the screen: On our way back. 10 minutes.

Katsuki pulled away reluctantly, fixing your hair where he'd messed it up. You straightened his shirt collar. This routine was practiced, efficient—evidence erased in seconds.

"After the show," he said quietly. "My place."

"What if they want to celebrate?"

His eyes darkened. "Tell them you're tired."

You nodded, stealing one more kiss before he stepped back, that familiar wall sliding into place. By the time the others returned, you were on opposite sides of the room—you testing guitar pedals, him adjusting his drum throne.

"Ready to kill it?" Eijiro asked, grinning.

"Always," Katsuki said, twirling a drumstick.

Jirou glanced between you. "You two figure out that timing issue in the bridge?"

"Yeah," you said. "We're good."

We're good. The lie tasted bitter. You weren't just good. You were everything. But only when no one was watching.