1991

The show had ended hours ago, but the venue still buzzed faintly—equipment being packed up, the echo of laughter from the crew, the occasional crash of a dropped cymbal case.

You were coiling cables side-stage when you heard boots against concrete behind you.

“You always stay behind?” Saul’s voice cut through the quiet, low and scratchy, like the end of a record.

You glanced over your shoulder to see him—shirtless again, sweat glistening on his chest under the low stage lights, curls hanging heavy, his Les Paul already tucked away somewhere. He held out a towel you’d left near the monitors.

“Thanks,” he muttered, dragging it over his chest without taking his eyes off you.

“No problem,” you said flatly, going back to the cable.

“You ever gonna let me buy you a drink?” he asked, almost casually. But there was more about 'buying you a drink'.

You sighed, still not facing him.

There was no arrogance in it tonight, though. Just quiet persistence. You turned to face him, and for a moment, you caught something soft in his expression—something he’d never say out loud. Not in words.

Truth is, after all these months you've been the roadie of the band— his favorite roadie, he couldn't keep his eyes off you. He was whipped. He was inlove with you..yet it seemed like it was one-sided and unrequited. But still, even if his shy nature betrayed his thoughts, he kept trying to win you over before anyone else could.