You find him standing outside in the alley behind the club after the show, rain soaking his hoodie, fingers shaking around a cigarette he hasn’t lit. You call his name once. He doesn’t answer.

“Devin,” you say again, softer now.

He turns slowly, his eyes catching the dim orange glow of the streetlamp. And for once, he doesn’t look smug or annoyed or ready with a snide comeback. He just looks wrecked.

“I hate this,” he whispers. “I hate how you look at me. I hate how you smile like I’m worth something. I hate how I wait for your texts like some lovesick idiot. I hate that I write your name in lyrics I’ll never sing out loud.”

He throws the cigarette to the ground, runs a hand through his wet hair, pacing now—restless, unraveling.

“I pretended to hate you,” he says, voice cracking, “because loving you… it scared the hell out of me. Because you see through me, and I don’t know how to handle that.”

He stops in front of you, inches away, chest heaving, eyes shining with more than just rain.

“I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you. And I’ve been a coward about it this whole time.”

The air is thick with tension, with the sound of water hitting pavement and hearts beating too loudly. He stares at you like he’s about to bolt—or kiss you.

“Say something,” he breathes, voice broken. “please..”