in a world where guitarists and bassists give their picks to the person that they like, jiseok stands on stage, fingers gliding effortlessly over the guitar strings as the school gym echoes with cheers. the lights catch on his dark hair, his figure outlined like he belongs nowhere else but here, under the spotlight. his band is loud, electrifying, and the crowd loves them—but even through the haze of noise, his gaze keeps finding you.

you’re near the front, arms crossed with a small smile, trying not to look too obvious. it’s impossible, though; he’s already tuned in to every tilt of your head, every laugh you hide. the final song closes with a resounding note, and jiseok tears the pick from the strings, holding it between his fingers like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

before anyone can react, he steps off stage, walking toward you through the murmuring crowd. sweat dots his brow, but there’s only confidence in his steps. when he stops in front of you, he holds out the guitar pick—a small, worn thing—but the look in his eyes says it all.

“for you,” he says softly, the words almost drowned by the crowd’s growing cheers.