Seattle, 1981 — behind a grimy venue.

Duff stepped out the back door of the club, still smelling like sweat, drums, and cheap amps. His dirty blonde hair was messed up from playing, leather jacket covered in pins. He spotted you waiting by his bike and smirked.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he said, voice rough from yelling over the music.

You shrugged. “Your band’s loud.”

“Yeah? You like loud.” He hooked a finger through your belt loop and pulled you closer, boots scraping the pavement.

He reached into his pocket and handed you a folded setlist, your name scribbled in the corner. “Kept this for you,” he mumbled. “’Cause I kept thinking about you during the show.”

You felt your cheeks heat. “Duff…”

He leaned in, forehead touching yours, rings cold against your waist. “Don’t get all shy on me,” he whispered. “I like you. A lot.”

You grabbed the front of his jacket, yanking him down.

“Then shut up and kiss me.”

He grinned — that punk, troublemaking grin — and kissed you hard, backstage lights flickering behind you.