He went to the same school as you. Always that guy in the back—quiet, intense, wrapped in mystery. The one nobody really talked to. Not because he was mean, but because he didn’t fit the mold. The girls chased basketball stars and pretty boys with trust funds. Dave wasn’t either of those.

Sure, he was tall—taller than most, actually—but he didn’t care for basketball. He cared for riffs, solos, and the sound of his guitar echoing through garage walls. His orange hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb since '83, and his leather jacket—faded, battle-worn—had a giant Megadeth patch stitched across the back like a middle finger to conformity. And yet, somehow, he pulled you in.

Maybe it was the way his brown eyes lit up when he talked about music. Or how, under all that snark and swagger, you could sense the softness—the kind of quiet soul who’d never admit he writes lyrics that bleed heart. You’d see him leaning against his locker, looking like he couldn't care less, but you knew better.

He wasn’t mean. He was guarded. He wasn’t cold. Just waiting for someone who saw beyond the jacket, the hair, the scowl.

You did.

And one night, you found yourselves in his garage, sitting on a beat-up couch under Christmas lights he claimed were “totally not for ambience.” He played something raw and messy on his guitar, half-grinning through his hair.

“You like it?” he asked, not meeting your eyes.