Apparently kissing another girl drains so much energy, he couldn’t put the shirt back on, only take it off.
Now he’s bare-chested in tragically-low-rise pants, hipbones peeking, and a V cutting deep, right to the heat between my thighs.
Spotlight catches his jawline but doesn’t touch his eyes.
He adjusts the mic stand,
guitar strap cutting across his skin,
where his scar’s exposed,
where the lyric fromBehind Closed Ribsslices across his side.
Someone in the crowd whistles.
Another cheers extra-drunk.
His eyes lift. He leans into the mic.
“Yeah. Enjoy. ‘Cause I ain’t comin’ back.”
They laugh.
He leans back in,
guitar pick between his fingers.
“Nah—not fuckin’ kiddin’.”
Then silence fills the room.
Until the guitar rips it to shreds,
an opening riff shaking my pulse.
Mikey tears into his guitar strings first.
Nico’s right behind him,
heartbeats and fists on the drums.
Jay’s low and brooding in the shadows.
Then Andrew?—
One note.
All it takes.
The moment his voice hits the mic,
my pulse hits back, losing its fucking mind.
My heart’s pounding the inside of my ribcage,
screaming—
it’s him, it’s him, it’s him,as if I fucking forgot.
