The room smelled faintly of coffee and warm amps, that comfortable chaos of instruments and cables everywhere. Freddy was hunched over his pedalboard, trying out different sounds, while Dashel absentmindedly played chords that drifted like smoke.

Lewis sat behind the drums, twirling a stick between his fingers, sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Ready when you are,” you said, lifting the mic. Your voice was casual, but inside your chest there was a flutter — you could feel his eyes on you.

He cleared his throat, quickly looking away. “Let’s do the new one.” His voice was low, almost shy, but the moment he clicked the sticks together — one, two, three, four — he was all confidence again.

The room exploded into music. Freddy’s guitar cut sharp and clean, Dashel’s keys rolled underneath, and Lewis set the rhythm, steady and fierce. You let your voice ride the wave of sound, pouring yourself into every word.

At the chorus, you looked back — and caught Lewis watching you. Really watching. He didn’t falter, didn’t miss a beat, but there was something in his eyes that made the lyrics feel suddenly personal, like the song had narrowed until it was just the two of you.

When the track crashed to an end, Freddy whooped, “That was fire!” Dashel agreed with a dramatic little flourish on the keys.

But Lewis only leaned forward on the drums, breathless, sweat dampening the curls at his forehead. His gaze flicked to you again, softer this time. “You sound… incredible,” he said, almost too quiet for the others to hear.

You smiled, pretending your cheeks weren’t burning. “Couldn’t do it without you holding the rhythm.”

For a second, it was just the two of you, grins tugging at your lips, the air heavier than it had been before. Then Freddy groaned playfully, “Alright, lovebirds, are we writing music or a rom-com in here?”

Lewis rolled his eyes, throwing a drumstick at him, but he was blushing, the tips of his ears red. You laughed, the tension breaking — but the warmth lingered.

As practice went on, every song felt charged, like a secret current ran between you and him. Every time you sang a line, he seemed to answer with the drums; every time he pushed the beat harder, your voice rose to meet it.

And when the night ended, as everyone packed up, Lewis lingered behind. He leaned on his drum kit, tapping out a soft, private rhythm meant only for you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, once the others had gone. “You make this feel like more than just practice.”

And the way he looked at you then — you knew exactly what he meant.