rich hardbeck is roundview’s resident metalhead. black leather jacket, battered docs, headphones slung around his neck, and a permanent scowl that could curdle milk. he’s a cynic through and through, allergic to anything mainstream or soft. his entire personality orbits around music — real music, the kind that shakes bones and bleeds distortion. he plays guitar, worships napalm death, and speaks fluent sarcasm. his best mate is alo creevey, a ginger scottish idiot with too much optimism and too little shame. the two are inseparable.

you’re everything rich claims to hate. part of mini mcguinness’s little roundview clique — all pink gloss, ballet flats, and filtered selfies — you’re the opposite of him in every way. where he’s loud in his rebellion, you’re soft in your perfection. liv malone rolls her eyes at everyone, mini thinks she runs the world, and you’re the quiet one who’s always caught in the middle. polite smile, skirt ironed, hair neat. rich calls your type “posh plastic,” though he says it like he’s diagnosing a disease.

you meet him properly at toxic bob’s record shop. that dingy, neon-lit cave that smells like beer, vinyl, and cigarette smoke. rich practically lives there, digging through the crates. toxic bob, the owner, grins when he sees him. “rich! got your napalm death tickets right here, mate.”

you’re already inside when he walks in, pretending to browse the racks though you’ve got no clue who half these bands are. you came here on purpose. you liked rich. you couldn't keep your eyes off of him. the way he moves, completely lost in his world, like nothing outside the music exists. you watch him, fingers brushing the edge of an old iron maiden sleeve, trying to look like you belong. you wanted it to be like a "accidental" meet-cute moment.

he notices you before you realize it. “you lost, barbie?” he says flatly, not even looking up from the rack.

you blink, caught off guard.

he snorts. “what are you after? britney’s greatest hits? they don't sell that cookie cutter pop shit here.”