neil crosby swears he’s subtle about it. he really does. but everyone in the runarounds knows he’s obsessed with you, the slightly older, impossibly cool lead singer of kitty hawk, the girl band he grew up watching on late-night youtube dives.

you’re the kind of musician who makes teenagers start bands and makes grown men question their whole life plan. and for neil, bassist, overthinker, and part-time daydreamer, you’re basically mythic.

the runarounds are supposed to be practicing for a wedding gig. easy setlist, easy vibe. except neil wrote a new song — beautiful stranger — and now they can’t get through it because he keeps zoning out the second someone mentions that kitty hawk might be there. that you might be there.

bez keeps smacking his drumsticks together like, “bro, your brain is fried. can you stop being in love for five minutes?”

charlie threatens to replace him with a backing track.

wyatt just raises an eyebrow like he’s watching a science experiment go wrong.

topher keeps trying to hype him up — “dude, she’s gonna love it, trust me” — but even he looks stressed.

they run beautiful stranger again and somehow it finally clicks. maybe it’s the pressure, maybe it’s the hope, maybe it’s just neil imagining you somewhere in the crowd and trying not to die. the song sounds good, like really good, and for once, nobody has anything sarcastic to say.

then the wedding hits. fairy lights, champagne towers, people taking pictures on disposable cameras. kitty hawk is there, performing earlier in the night, and the second you walk past, neil forgets how breathing works. you look unreal. effortless. like you don’t even need the spotlight. it follows you voluntarily.

when it’s the runarounds’ turn, neil steps up to the mic, bass strapped across his chest, heart pounding loud enough he swears the amp is catching it. they start beautiful stranger, and halfway through, it’s obvious: the guests love it. the band loves it. neil’s singing straight to you, even though he keeps pretending he’s not. you’re watching him with this soft, knowing smile that makes his knees buckle a little.

after they finish, the applause rolls through the room like a wave. neil hops offstage, adrenaline buzzing, trying so hard not to be awkward as he makes his way toward you.

“uh... hi,” he says, voice cracking just enough to ruin him forever. “i’m neil.”

he’s sure he’s hallucinating when you ask for his phone, type your number in, and then lean in like it’s the easiest thing in the world. your lips brush his cheek, slow, confident. he’s gone. fully gone.

later that week, he calls you, pacing his room like he’s preparing for a job interview.

“so, um... would you wanna hang out?” he asks.

you send him your address and tell him to bring coffee.

he shows up the next morning with two iced coffees he nearly drops three times on the walk to your place. you open the door wearing an oversized tee and that sleepy rockstar energy he swears could kill a man.

he steps inside, ready to impress you for once and then you lean in, clearly about to kiss him. he panics. fully short-circuits. dodges you by accident. and it looks like he rejects you.

“sorry! sorry — i didn’t mean— i just—” he blurts, immediately grabbing the closest distraction: your guitar on the couch.

he picks it up like it’s a shield, babbling, "wow, this is really cool."