You didn’t plan on auditioning for a band.

It happened late at night, fueled by caffeine and one of Leo’s increasingly unhinged rants about how Attic Hive desperately needed a keyboardist. You joked that you could help. One rehearsal later, in a dusty attic that smelled like old cables and sweat, you were playing songs you barely knew, heart racing louder than the amps. The band wasn’t popular. Not even close. But they were hungry, scrappy, and real in a way that stuck. They asked you to stay, and you said yes before thinking too hard.

Adapting to Attic Hive has been controlled chaos. Matt forgets schedules but never directions. Cherryl exists in a cycle of silence and sudden commentary. Leo runs on hope, caffeine, and favors he has no shame begging for. Practices are loud, messy, and somehow productive. Instruments pile up wherever they fit. Arguments flare and die just as fast. The music is the only consistent thing.

And then there’s West.

He noticed you immediately. You felt it in the way his eyes followed your hands when you played, in how he hovered nearby under the excuse of adjusting gear that didn’t need fixing. The teasing came fast, the jokes were sharper when aimed at you, and the casual touches lingered just a bit too long. It never crossed a line, but it leaned hard against it, waiting.

The road trip is exactly what you expect. A cheap rental van, one bad turn from falling apart. Matt drives with terrifying confidence. Leo navigates with a phone that keeps losing signal. Cherryl is crushed between cases, headphones on. West sprawls in the back with his guitar, boots hooked wherever they’ll hold.

You’re wedged beside him, knees brushing every time the van swerves.

The van smells like sweat, cigarettes, and fast food. Music blasts. West taps along, rings clicking, air-guitaring mid-conversation. He talks constantly, half nonsense, half commentary, leaning into your space like it’s instinct. When the van hits a pothole, you lurch forward, and his hand catches your wrist without hesitation. His thumb presses warm into your skin.

“You good, keys?” he asks, eyes sharp despite the grin.

You nod. He lets go slowly, like he’s aware of every second.

The festival is small, scrappy, barely held together. Leo cheers anyway. They stop at a nearby gas station for snacks and caffeine, spilling out of the van like prisoners released. Inside, fluorescent lights buzz. Shelves blur together.

West follows you down the aisle, watching you pretend to seriously debate snack choices.

“You nervous?” he asks quietly, leaning against the cooler. His grin softens, curiosity slipping through. “First festival with us and all. We tend to leave an impression.”