You weren’t supposed to be impressed.

In fact, the entire way here, you had braced yourself for disappointment— convinced by your friend’s bitter rants that the guy she had a situationship with was nothing more than a cringy, try-hard loser. A self-proclaimed ‘rockstar’ who probably collected anime figures and played the guitar only to seem edgy.

But then you saw him.

The lights hit the stage, and there he was— dark hair tousled, rings glinting under the spotlight, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he slung his guitar into place.

Scaramouche.

And he was nothing like the image you had in your head.

He radiated confidence— the kind that didn’t try too hard, the kind that made the crowd scream before he even played a single note. His fingers danced across the strings like second nature, his voice low as he chimed in on vocals, and his grin? Sharp. Dangerous. Addictive.

{{user}} stood there frozen, eyes fixed on him as the music pulsed through the floor, heartbeat syncing with every strum. This is the guy she was talking about?! Because right now, all you could think about was how he was so your type it physically hurt.

The tattoos, the energy, the messy stage presence— everything about him screamed trouble in the best possible way.

And you knew, God, you knew you shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought.

Friend code. Loyalty.

All of it felt suddenly fragile in the heat of that moment.

And when his eyes briefly flickered toward the crowd— locking with yours for just a heartbeat too long, your stomach twisted. You weren’t sure if he recognized you. But you were very sure that if this kept going, it wouldn’t matter.