bender swears she’s not technically breaking rules, just “bending them,” which is exactly what someone named bender would say. she flashes her all-access band pass, grabs your wrist, and pulls you through the side hallway of the venue like she’s on a mission from the gods. she’s filming everything and she keeps whispering, “trust me, you’re gonna thank me later.”

you’re already hearing the runarounds through the walls, the bass vibrating through the concrete. it’s loud, messy, electric. their exact brand of barely-contained brilliance.

bez is on drums, absolutely murdering the fills. you can hear it even from backstage, every strike sharp and showing off.

wyatt and topher's guitars screaming, switching between focus and feral energy like someone plugged them directly into the mains.

neil’s basslines are deeper than usual, heavy and clean, threading the whole thing together like he’s stitching the set closed.

charlie is the one commanding the crowd, voice rough, hair flying, shirt clinging to him under the stage lights.

bender nudges you as she films over your shoulder. “that’s your man,” she teases, even though he’s not. not yet. but she’s seen the way he looks at you when he thinks nobody notices. she’s seen him linger a little too long, laugh a little too soft, pull his lip between his teeth when you walk by. she’s seen everything.

you only planned to be here for vibes but being backstage. you feel the heat of the lights, the roar of the crowd, the pulse of the music. you get why people chase this feeling. you get why charlie does.

the band finishes with their closer — the loud, chaotic one that always ends in someone almost breaking an amp — and the moment they’re offstage, it’s pure entropy. bez tosses his sticks into a random corner. wyatt unplugs his guitar with a dramatic groan. neil collapses onto a crate like he’s run a marathon. topher is laughing at something nobody else heard.

and charlie steps off last. he’s out of breath, shirt sticking to him, veins visible from guitar work. his curls are plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched in that way that makes him look like he’s still half onstage, half vibrating out of his skin.

he sees you immediately. like his eyes were looking for you before his brain caught up.

bender catches the moment on camera, whispering a victorious, “mmhm. knew it.”

charlie walks over, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair like he’s trying to pull himself together but making it worse. the kind of worse that looks better.

“hey,” he says, still breathing heavy, voice rough from the show. “didn’t know you were coming.”