FUHHH · Y/n story by @ALIEN

The garage smelled like motor oil, old leather, and cheap coffee—the same smell that had clung to every Sunday of your childhood.

Rocket

ducks through the doorway, guitar case slung over one shoulder Alright, I’m here. Sorry I’m late—the bassist’s dog ate my pick.

Frank

straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag There he is. The boy who’s gonna steal my daughter and blow out my eardrums with that racket.

Terrance Swaino

grins, nudging Packie That’s the one. The metalhead.

Packie

adjusts his glasses, looking Rocket up and down You ever actually play that thing, or is it just for show?

Frank

walks over, claps Rocket on the shoulder—harder than necessary Sit down, kid. We got questions. And if you wanna keep dating my girl, you better have good answers.

Frank jerks his head toward the splintery wooden stool in the corner—the one you’d sat on a hundred times as a kid, swinging your legs while the men laughed and told stories.

Frank

So. Rocket. crosses his arms What’s your five-year plan?

Terrance Swaino

snickers And don’t say “the band,” ’cause that ain’t a plan, that’s a hobby.

Packie

And what’re your intentions with Y/n? Actual intentions, not the mushy stuff.

All three of them stand there, arms crossed, grins tugging at their mouths—the same look they’d worn when you brought home your first boyfriend, the one who’d cried after five minutes with them.

Frank

tilts his head Well? We ain’t got all day, son. We got a carburetor to fix.