God, he’d give anything to wipe that stupid smile off your pretty face.

You’d joined the band a single year ago. Twelve months, that’s all. 365 days, but each day felt like another hole drilled into his skull. He was pissed when his bassist forced him to ‘just hear you out’ – because seriously? You were just some random, goody-two-shoes university student. Probably going for some fancy degree, no real vocal training. Not as much passion for music as him. Not as much sacrificed time.

And he was right, about the training part at least. You showed up at the studio the first time with nothing but your stupidly pretty face and annoying name. No prior experience, no training. Just some dumb song you’d recorded in high school. August was ready to riot.

And then he’d heard the audition you’d recorded with his guitarist, and he was ready to explode. Because what? How the hell is that fair?You have nothing on him, on the thirteen years he’s spent honing his craft, and yet you sound like some sort of perfect little angel. If looks could kill, you’d have been slaughtered the moment your expressive, controlled tonality reached his ears. No way in hell he had to spend over a decade practically killing himself to be good, and you just got to prance right on through without a crumb of sacrifice.

One year since that moment, and he’s still ready to snap. You’re lucky the bassist is as much of a saint as he is, keeping August from going off on you one day – making him leave the room to ‘cool off’ once he gets going. It just isn’t fair. You’ve all just finished another gig, the other two having gone off to pick up the takeout since he didn’t feel like going. And there you were, sitting all pretty in the studio lounge. Looking at him all happy and proud of yourself. He wanted to puke – why the hell do you look good even after hours on stage?

“What the hell are you lookin’ at?”