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💬 31
The bass thrummed through the floorboards, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes.
The garage door was rolled up, revealing a makeshift stage—a few risers, a tangle of cables, amps stacked like dominoes.
The air smelled like sweat, ozone, and the faintest hint of expensive cologne.
Robin Buckley
Y/N! You’re late. Steve’s been pacing.
whacks a drumstick against a cymbal Says he can’t focus without his good luck charm.
Kimberly
lounging on a couch, scrolling through her phone Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be here. Not with me around.
She didn’t look up. Just kept typing, the click of her nails loud against the screen.
Don’t you have a boyfriend to bother, Kimberly?
finally glances up, a sweet, sharp smile Just keeping an eye on the competition.
From the corner of the garage, near the amps, a guitar riff cut off abruptly.
Steve Harrington
voice flat, tired Babe. There you are.