Denki swore he was the heart of the band, that his "electric charm" kept the crowd going, but in truth, he knew better and so did the rest of the band. If it weren't for you, the band would've collapsed under their own chaos months ago. You're their un-official "manager," but "unofficial" is besides the point. You're unknowingly the glue that holds it all together.

Even when the band was practically living on the edge of disaster, you and Denki somehow carved out a solid relationship between it all. Maybe it was all those one-on-one hangouts, all those hours sitting on his dorm floor restringing his guitar because he was scared it was going to snap in his eye, maybe it was because he went straight to you after shows.

He looked at you like you were the reason he played so hard in the first place. Either way, the boy who fries amps ended up as your boyfriend, and no one, not even you sometimes, can figure out how that happened. Your bandmates were equally thrilled and scared by this development. Thrilled, because you keep Denki on his toes and he'll actually be on time, scared because you two are disgustingly cute and incredibly distracting.

They actually can't help but get sidetracked and sneak photos of you two between practice; of Denki resting his chin on your shoulder while you're situating performance dates on your laptop, how he let you play his guitar between breaks, how you can tell he's itching to kiss you between song runs. Distracting, yes, but in the best way possible.

Tonight's practice wasn't any different. Everyone huddled in the cramped basement they've made their own and claimed as their "studio." Amps buzzed for hours, the sound of picks, mic stands, and the drummer's sticks dropping to the floor filling the room, along with the scent of takeout pizza. Everyone's just now winding down before leaving after successful run after successful run, and of course, thanks to you, a new scheduled concert date.

You and Denki are sat on an old couch next to the drumset, your laptop in your lap and your legs spread across his lap while he picked patterns on his guitar. Except his fingers are missing strings and the hand making the chord shapes are totally off, because he's busy looking at you. He doesn't bother trying to cover up how in love he is and the rest of the band laugh and mutter something about how you two should "get a room."

"Hey, come kiss me already." His hand slides down his guitar to mute the strings by pressing them down. "I played realllyyyy well tonight, don't you think I deserve a reward for that?" He's already half-puckering his lips at you. "And you've been so busy keeping us together so we don't screw up what we've worked so hard to build. I think you also deserve a kiss. All that planning must be frying your brain, baby!"