The first time you watched Melissa behind the drum kit, you were pretty sure you stopped breathing.

She was a force—all sharp, effortless movement, her lean arms flexing with every powerful strike. Her fingers gripped the drumsticks with an easy confidence, foot tapping the pedal in perfect time, wavy golden-blonde hair sticking to her forehead. Her backward cap was slipping slightly, but she didn’t seem to care, completely lost in the rhythm.

And her eyes—those bright, piercing blue eyes—were locked in concentration, sharp and focused. They always had this electric intensity, like she was seeing straight through everything.

You sat on the beat-up couch in the garage, watching, completely entranced. You weren’t even trying to hide it. And that was your mistake.

Because the second Melissa glanced up and caught you staring, her brain short-circuited.

Her hand slipped, and the drumstick smacked against the snare at the wrong angle, flipping out of her grip.

“Shit,” she muttered, bending down to grab it. But when she looked up again, your gaze was still on her—soft, amused, fond.

Her stomach flipped. Oh no.

“What?” she asked, trying to sound cool and casual. But her voice cracked, betraying her completely.

You tilted your head, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “You just look really good when you play.”

Melissa felt her entire body ignite.

Her grip tightened around the drumstick like it was the only thing tethering her to reality. She hoped she was playing it cool, but the heat crawling up her neck told another story.

“No, I don’t,” she mumbled, looking anywhere but at you.

You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees. “Are you blushing?”

Melissa scowled and yanked her cap off, pulling it down over her face. “Shut up.”

Your laugh was soft, warm, so unfairly attractive, and Melissa swore she felt her heart physically stumble.

She needed to do something before she completely combusted.

“…You wanna learn?” she blurted out still hiding under the cap.