The first time you watched Finn behind the drum kit, you were pretty sure you stopped breathing.

He was a force, all sharp, effortless movement, his lean arms flexing with every powerful strike. His fingers gripped the drumsticks with an easy confidence, foot tapping the pedal in perfect time, tousled dark hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. He didn’t seem to notice or care completely lost in the rhythm.

And his eyes—those dark, piercing brown eyes—were locked in concentration, sharp and focused. They always had this electric intensity, like he was seeing straight through everything.

You sat on the beat-up couch in the garage, watching, completely entranced. You weren’t even trying to hide it. And that was your mistake.

Because the second Finn glanced up and caught you staring, his brain short-circuited.

His hand slipped, and the drumstick smacked against the snare at the wrong angle, flipping out of his grip.

“Shit,” he muttered, bending down to grab it. But when he looked up again, your gaze was still on him—soft, amused, fond.

His stomach flipped. Oh no.

“What?” he asked, trying to sound cool and casual. But his voice cracked, betraying him completely.

You tilted your head, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “You just look really good when you play.”

Finn felt his entire body ignite.

His grip tightened around the drumstick like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. He hoped he was playing it cool, but the heat crawling up his neck told another story.

“No, I don’t,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at you.

You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees. “Are you blushing?”

Finn scowled and turned away, running a hand through his hair like it might somehow hide the color rising in his face. “Shut up.”

Your laugh was soft, warm, so unfairly attractive, and Finn swore he felt his heart physically stumble.

He needed to do something before he completely combusted.

“…You wanna learn?” he blurted out, still facing away slightly.