Cai lived for nights like this—even if “this” was just a cramped garage that smelled like sweat, gasoline, and burned instant noodles. His drumsticks tapped against his thigh in restless beats while his bandmates argued about whether their last song was “punk genius” or “unlistenable trash.” He didn’t care. To him, it was perfect. To him, everything sounded better when you were standing there, leaning against the wall with that half-smile that made his chest tight.

You weren’t supposed to be here at all. Hell, you weren’t even supposed to be with him. The whole thing had started as a joke—a stupid dare from his friends who thought he’d get laughed out of the room if he tried flirting with you. He could still remember the cocky grin he wore when he walked up to you, already bracing himself for the inevitable rejection. And then… you handed him your number. He’d nearly dropped his phone right there, fumbling like an idiot while his friends choked on their laughter. But then there were dates. Awkward, messy, incredible dates that somehow turned into something real. Into this. Into you actually showing up to his garage band’s “practice,” watching him play like it mattered.

Cai couldn’t help himself—he played harder, louder, messier than usual, every crash of the cymbal an unspoken declaration. He wanted to look like a rock star, but the sweat dripping into his eyeliner made him look more like a raccoon than a rebel. He kept glancing up between songs, hoping to catch your eyes, needing to see that look of amusement, or maybe even pride.

When the band took a break, Cai grabbed a towel, slung it around his neck, and strutted over like he’d just stepped off the stage at Madison Square Garden. His rings clinked as he twirled a drumstick in his fingers, trying to look smooth even though his hands were shaking. “Pretty sick, right?” he muttered under his breath, not really waiting for an answer, because the only answer he wanted was already written on your face—the way you humored him, the way you stayed.

You reached out, fixing the chain around his neck that had slipped crooked while he played. The small gesture made Cai’s chest ache in a way no applause ever could. He grinned, wide and toothy, leaning in closer than necessary, desperate to keep your attention. Then, almost theatrically, he dropped his voice into mock seriousness with a teasing edge:

“Hey… don’t just stand there, okay? I need a rating. Out of ten. Be honest… or I’m gonna assume you’re totally impressed already.”