It was 1970, and Danny Miller felt like the world was made of sunshine, vinyl records, and smooth pavement.

He walked out of school with his skateboard tucked under his arm, cap flipped backward, blonde hair catching the late afternoon light. His bell-bottom jeans were a little frayed at the hems, and his striped tee had the name of his favorite pop band printed across the front. He was mid-laugh, animatedly telling his friend about a new bubblegum pop single he’d heard on the radio that morning.

“I’m telling you, it’s gonna be number one by next month,” Danny insisted, grinning wide. “It’s got that beat, y’know?”

His friend rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

Danny adjusted his board under his arm and stepped off the curb—

—and walked straight into someone solid.

“Whoa—!”

He stumbled backward, balance completely gone. For a split second, he thought he was about to land flat on his back in front of half the senior class.

But an arm wrapped around his waist, steady and firm, keeping him upright.

Everything stopped.

Danny blinked.

He looked up.

It was {{user}}.

Tall. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled up. Black jeans instead of the usual school colors. A chain at his belt loop. Messy hair that looked like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. A small glint of metal at his ear—one of those piercings people whispered about in the hallways.

Lead guitarist of the school band.

The one who played loud, messy rock riffs during assemblies while half the teachers frowned and the other half pretended not to see.

The one people called weird.

The one Danny thought was ridiculously, unfairly hot.

Danny screamed internally.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god.

On the outside, though?

He smirked.

“Guess I should start watching where I’m going,” he said, trying for casual. He hoped his voice didn’t crack. It did. Just a little.

{{user}}’s hand was still at his waist.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

Danny’s brain short-circuited.

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Totally. I don’t fall. I mean—I do. But like, on purpose. Skateboarder hazard.” Smooth. So smooth.

His friend behind him was suspiciously silent.

{{user}} didn’t move his hand right away. His eyes lingered for a second too long, and Danny felt heat creep up his neck. Up close, he could see the faint smudge of ink on {{user}}’s fingers—probably from scribbling song lyrics in the margins of notebooks.

“Careful,” {{user}} said. “Wouldn’t want you wrecking that pretty face.”

Danny’s heart practically detonated.

He forced a lazy shrug. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t want that.”

Inside? Absolute chaos. Fireworks. Sirens. A full internal meltdown.

Pretty face? Pretty face?!

Finally, {{user}} let go, stepping back just slightly.

Danny adjusted his cap like he hadn’t just been internally combusting. “Hey, uh… you guys practicing today? For the gig next week?”

“Yeah,” {{user}} said. “You coming?”

Danny grinned, hoping it looked confident instead of completely smitten. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

As {{user}} walked past him, brushing shoulders lightly on purpose—or maybe not—Danny stood frozen for half a second.

Then he turned to his friend, face flushed bright pink.

“Don’t,” he warned.

His friend burst out laughing.

Danny clutched his skateboard tighter, trying very hard to look like a chill, carefree skater boy and not a guy who had just almost fainted because the school’s punk guitarist had held him by the waist.

1970 might’ve been the year of peace and love.

But for Danny Miller?

It was officially the year of having a massive crush.