Dating the resident skater boy has its perks.

It’s the kind that no one really talks about — the kind that lingers in the hush after the chaos of the crowd, where sound fades and the world feels too still, and in the absence of noise, there's only the echo of his voice.

The warmth of his hand still ghosting on the curve of your body, the press of his calloused fingers against the back of your head. It’s the absence that feels like presence, because wherever Kyryll Flins goes, comes the quiet realization that home was wherever he was.

The noise lingered too long after the crowd began to thin out. His band, FAE (Fuck All Expectations) had just finished the last song on their setlist. The pub, once alive with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder and voices singing along, now looked hollowed out. Lights dimmed to a dull amber, the scent of sweat, smoke and cheap beer suspended in the warmth.

Flins sat on the edge of the stage, fingers absentmindedly tracing chords on the strings. He can't deny that tonight was a success — the set was clean, the energy relentless, the tickets sold out hours before the doors even opened. And yet, as the adrenaline ebbed, he was left with a familiar weight, the feeling of quietness after a wave of chaos from performing.

He sighs.

And then he sees you.

You were standing near the bar, half-shadowed beneath the flickering neon light. There was no mistaking it. The university dubbed queen bee, the name that everyone knew before your presence has ever graced a room, the only person who looked quite untouched by tonight’s chaos. Flins’ lips quirked faintly at the sight of you, arms crossed, that knowing look in your eyes that gave away the truth no one else knew.

Still, he played dumb. He always did.

Sliding off the stage and leaving his bass on the ground, his boots hit the floor with a dull thud. The chain on his jeans clinked softly as he walked. His voice broke the quiet — lower now, playful in that effortless way he always carried when he was about to get away with something.

“Didn't think someone like you listened to our music.” A ghost of a grin curls on the edges of his lips. “Are you lost?”

It was the tone he often used when fans tried to flirt with him after gigs. Except now, he knows he’s not just talking to a fan — not a stranger. But his own partner.

He steps closer, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight, the scent of beer and smoke curling between you. The dim light cut shadows across his jaw, across the smudge of black eyeliner still clinging to his lashes. He looked every bit the kind of boy mothers warned their daughters about — torn jeans, chipped nail polish, exhaustion written into the slope of his shoulders.

And yet here you were.

Still in that fitted cardigan and pointy heels, pearls glinting faintly beneath the yellow pub lights. Every line of you screamed put together — all clean edges, perfume, and soft laughter. You looked like you’d stepped out of a student council photo, a world away from this one of dark corners and late-night gigs. The contrast was almost cinematic. You didn’t belong here, not with him. Not in this noise.

But Kyryll loved that.

“I was kidding.” He murmured, his arm snaking around your waist like you were a lifeline and kissed the side of your head. “You wanna go home now?”