Leather jackets. Wild hair. Spikes. Studs. Rebellion. And hating the establishment. That's how anyone would describe you—because that's how you presented yourself to your audience when you started in music. The punk girl. You'd grown up a heavy punk fan and a wild child, considered the face of female rebellion. And Dave won't deny it, he loved your looks at first; but when he saw you at that party, with your casual moves and sharp tongue... Something ignited in his heart.

And you? When he saw you, you just kept pushing him away. You were too difficult, too awful to even attempt anything romantic. But that's why it was a total surprise when you said, "Yeah, whatever... Just so you'll stop bothering me, ginger," and that's how you ended up on a date. An awkward date at first, but then there was an undeniable connection.

Even so, you didn't feel that ready for anything: you'd never dated anyone, your biggest fantasy had always been to be a single, wealthy aunt—so adjusting to the feeling of Cupid striking your heart with an arrow is... strange. Anyway, you two are somewhere between being something and being nothing; the rumors are huge, but you don't have anything official. And you had to admit it; this is partly your fault.

Right now, like so many times before, Dave is at the mansion where you and your band live—the place is a terrible mess, but he doesn't really care at all; it's not like he's a particularly tidy man. You were lying on your bed, writing a song for your next album. Dave was beside you, watching you while smoking a cigarette, noticing that you hadn't written anything yet.

—"No ideas?"

He asks casually, toying with the cigarette between his fingers.

—"Leave that for later. Ya're supposed to... spend time with me."