The garage door slammed open so hard the cymbals rang out.

“EDDIE MUNSON!”

You stood there furious, pointing toward the trailer like you were about to drag him out by the collar.

“Why does our sink look like it’s hosting a science experiment?”

The guys went quiet. Gareth looked up from behind the drums — and that was it. He’d never seen you before, not properly. You weren’t soft or shy. You were sharp. Fiery. Eddie’s sister, yeah — but nothing like him. You were controlled chaos, and Gareth was staring like he’d just found religion.

“…Who’s that?” you asked, catching him looking.

Eddie barely glanced over. “Gareth. Drums. Don’t corrupt him.”

Your eyes moved over him slowly. He felt it everywhere.

“Hi.”

His throat went dry. “H–hi.”

Voice crack. Brutal.

You left after threatening Eddie with cleaning duty, but Gareth didn’t recover. From that day on, he started orbiting you shamelessly.

He wasn’t subtle. He’d sit closer than necessary. Stand a little too near in the kitchen. Find excuses to brush past you in the narrow hallway of the trailer. And when his arm grazed yours? He didn’t pull away fast.

One evening you were leaning over the counter, arguing with Eddie about something stupid, and Gareth stepped up beside you. Close. One hand braced on the counter near your hip.

“You always yell like that?” he asked softly, almost amused.

“Only when someone deserves it,” you shot back.

His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

You turned to look at him fully, caught off guard.

He didn’t look embarrassed this time. Nervous, yes. Red, definitely. But he held your gaze.

“You don’t like that?” he asked, voice lower. Not pushing. Testing.

You crossed your arms. “You’re bold for Eddie’s friend.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Maybe I like living dangerously.”

Eddie groaned from across the room. “I can hear you.”

Gareth didn’t break eye contact. “Good.”

That night, you ended up sitting on the couch while the guys took a break. Gareth dropped down beside you — thigh pressing firmly against yours. Not accidental. Intentional. Warm. Solid.

You went still. He noticed.

“Relax,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer. “I’m not doing anything you don’t want.”

His fingers brushed lightly over your knee. Slow. Questioning.

“You can tell me to stop,” he added, eyes searching yours.

His breath shifted. Just slightly.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “You being this close is messing with my head.”

His hand slid a little higher on your thigh, just enough to feel deliberate. His thumb traced a slow line through the denim.