060

The next ten minutes stretch out like an eternity.

The current band is good, talented even, but you can barely focus. Their music is tight, their lead singer has range, their guitarist knows his shit, but it’s all background noise to the nervous hum in your chest, the anticipation thrumming beneath your skin like a live wire.

Joe returns from the bar, sliding a cold beer into your hand, along with a shot of whiskey. "For your nerves," he murmurs, raising his own drink before clinking it lightly against yours. You don’t hesitate. You throw the shot back in one go, the burn spreading through your chest as you suck in a breath. Greg lets out a low whistle. "Jesus. Alright, lightweight, maybe pace yourself, huh?"

"I’m fine," you mutter, setting the empty shot glass on a nearby table before gripping the beer with both hands, holding it like a lifeline.

The guys stick close.

They weren’t lying when they said they’d stay with you. Even when fans approach, cautiously at first, asking for autographs, nervous but excited to be standing so close to members of Vanguard, they handle it with polite smiles, signing whatever’s thrust into their hands. But their eyes never stop scanning the crowd.

And when it’s just the five of you again, their faces harden.

"Fucking low," Salva mutters under his breath, shaking his head, "Stealing a fucking song".

"That’s the dirtiest shit you can pull in this business," Joe agrees, taking a sip of his beer before exhaling sharply, "They’re done after this. Even if they somehow win tonight, nobody’s gonna respect them. Nobody’s gonna work with them."

You stare down at your drink, the foam swirling at the top. "How do you know?"

Greg scoffs, "Because this shit doesn’t fly, Sammie. You don’t do that to another artist."

You glance up at them, hesitant. The question’s been gnawing at you ever since Rick first called them out on stage. "But how do you know?" Your voice is small, uncertain, "How do you know I didn’t steal it first?"

They all go quiet for a second. Then, Greg exhales, shaking his head, "Because we felt it."

Salva nods. "The way you sang it. The way you played it."

Joe tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "That song was personal to you. We could hear it. Your voice wavered. You got lost in it, even when you were hungover as shit."

"You meant every fucking word," Matt adds simply. "And they didn’t."

You swallow hard. Because that? That almost makes you cry again. They believe you. No hesitation. No doubts. They just know.

"Hey," Greg nudges you, lowering his voice. "You okay?"

You nod quickly, blinking a few times, focusing on the weight of the beer in your hands, "Yeah. Yeah, I’m good."

They don’t look convinced, but they don’t push. Instead, they watch. They scan the crowd, eyes darting toward the backstage doors, searching for any sign of them.

Lauren, Amy, Joanna. Your old band.

But they’re staying out of sight. Too embarrassed. Too ashamed.

Good.

You exhale slowly, gripping the beer, counting down the seconds in your head.

The next ten minutes feel like hours.

But then, finally, the set is over. The last song rings out through the venue, the final chords fading into a wave of applause. The crowd has recovered from the tension earlier, hot and ready, anticipation thrumming through them. The band bows. The jury delivers their comments.

Then it’s time.

The moderator steps back onto the stage, voice booming through the speakers, hyping the crowd up again. "Alright, you maniacs, you ready for the next one?"

The audience roars.

"Then let’s fucking hear it for…"

The screen above the stage flickers.

The words appear in bold, jagged letters.

C O R R O D E D  C O F F I N

And the venue erupts.

The moment they step onto that stage, everything else fades.

Gareth, Jeff, Grant, and Eddie move like they belong there, like this is home, like the stage was built for them. The lights catch on Eddie’s rings as he adjusts his guitar strap, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And you? You can’t look away.

Around you, the guys start up first, Joe and Salva whooping, Greg and Matt throwing up their hands, cheering them on loudly.

And when Vanguard hypes someone up, the crowd follows.

It spreads like wildfire.

Excitement builds in waves, the noise swelling. You can’t help it, you laugh, joining in, clapping, whistling, feeling the energy shift in the venue. Eddie hears it. He sees it. That crooked little smirk of his grows as he glances your way, just for a second. Seeing you surrounded by them. Seeing you safe, held up by four dudes that somehow grew a soft sport for you.

And from the judges’ table, Rick sees him. He puts it together instantly. Recognition flickers across his face, and then something else. Curiosity. He leans back in his chair, arms crossing, eyes narrowing slightly. He’s interested now.

On stage, Corroded Coffin settles into place.

Eddie swings his guitar around, fingers brushing the strings, testing them out, adjusting, grounding himself. Grant steps forward, gripping the mic, that signature cocky grin already in place. He scans the crowd, lets the tension sit for a moment, makes them wait for it. Then, he shouts.

"ARE YOU FUCKIN’ READY?"

The crowd erupts.

The first band of the night to hype them up before even playing a note. The venue shakes with the force of their energy, a wave of excitement crashing against the walls. Rick bites down a laugh, shaking his head slightly.

"Jesus Christ," Joe mutters, amused. "They haven’t even played yet," Salva huffs, watching as Grant grins, basking in it, letting the tension build even more.

Then, they start.

And they rip that fucking venue apart.

From the first note, the first hit of the drums, the first wail of Eddie’s guitar, it’s over. The sound is massive, thick, explosive. Guitars snarling, bass thundering, drums pounding hard.

Eddie fucking shreds. It’s not just playing. It’s mastery. It’s years and years of pouring himself into this instrument, every note precise but wild, controlled but fucking feral. His fingers fly, his body moves with it, like he feels every vibration in his bones.

Grant’s voice is sharp, rough-edged, commanding. The crowd doesn’t just listen, they move. They feel it. By the second verse, they’re losing their minds. By the chorus, they’re screaming along.

And Rick Vaughn? He’s sitting forward now. Eyes locked on the stage. And he’s listening.

At first, Vanguard was just cheering them on for you. They saw how wrecked you were earlier, saw how Eddie had held you together, and that was enough reason to root for them.

But now? Now, they’re actually impressed.

"Holy shit", Salva mutters under his breath, watching Eddie’s fingers fly across the fretboard.

Matt, guitarist himself, pulls a face like he just took a shot of the smoothest whiskey. "This boy’s great", he says, nodding along.

"EDDIE, MY MAN!", Greg shouts when he tears into another riff, his voice carrying over the music.

Eddie, smug as ever, throws a glance their way, still playing, barely holding back a grin. You laugh. You can’t help it, bathe in this energy, in the way the entire venue is blown away, in how the judges at the table are nodding, writing things down, interested. Your heart pounds with pride. With love. You sing along to every word, every lyric you’ve heard a thousand times before. This is his music. You’ve watched him write these songs, work through the melodies, build them from nothing. You know how much this means to him.

And fuck, he looks so good up there. Playing like he was born to.

And then, during the second song, he finds you. Looks right at you. And you burn. Your breath catches. You bite your lip, letting him see exactly what he does to you.

Eddie’s eyes darken instantly. His grip on the guitar tightens. And then, the smirk.That smug, knowing, cocky as fuck little smirk. He winks. Like a challenge. Like a promise.

The guys around you immediately lose it.

"Ohhhh, shit", Greg whistles, nudging your arm.

Matt groans, covering his eyes, "This feels private".

Salva and Joe snicker.

You laugh even louder, grinning, not taking your eyes off Eddie for a second.

There is nothing, nothing, hotter on this planet than Eddie Munson playing his fucking guitar. Nothing hotter than the way he leans into his mic, adding gritty, raspy back vocals, sometimes taking the lead, that voice of his deep and rough and full of pure fucking power. Nothing hotter than the way he moves, fingers dancing over the strings, sweat beading on his forehead, pouring himself into the music. Nothing hotter than the way he exchanges glances with his band, grinning at the crowd, owning every second of this.

Grant sings his heart out, voice raw with emotion, commanding the stage like he was born for it. Gareth is pounding on the drums, his sticks almost breaking under the force. Jeff? He’s handling his bass like a fucking legend. And Eddie - Eddie is shredding. This is the best they’ve ever played. The air is electric.

Corroded Coffin has the entire venue in the palm of their hands, the crowd dying for them. Girls are staring at them, at Eddie, specifically. Rick is smirking now, nodding along, watching with genuine interest.Vanguard is with you, completely caught up in the moment, headbanging, making jokes, whistling, hyping them up even more, feeding the energy in the room. And Eddie, Eddie fucking Munson, is so great, so hot, so in his element, you’re losing your mind.

They're the best. There’s no doubt.

And as they push through their set, song after song, it only gets better.

The last notes of their current song ring through the venue, stretching out, fading into silence, but it’s not over. Not yet. The crowd can feel it. They cheer, they shout, ready for more.

But instead of sliding into the next song, the band stops. Looks at the judges. At each other. And then at you. All of them.

You freeze.

Your pulse spikes as Eddie steps forward, grabs the mic. A breath. A smirk. And then, his voice. "So, how we doin' tonight?"

The crowd erupts.

He's grinning, laughing, sweaty and so fucking happy.

Your stomach twists. What is he doing?

Eddie nods, wiping sweat from his brow, then gestures toward the judges' table. "Y’know, the crowd’s lovin’ it," he says, grinning, "but judging by all the nodding going on over here, I think our judges might be too."

The audience laughs. So do the judges, even Rick, raising an intrigued brow.

Eddie continues. He talks about what a great night it’s been, how many good bands have played tonight. But then, his grin fades. "But y’know", he states, pacing the stage, shaking his head, voice dropping just slightly, enough to make the crowd listen, "there’s one thing that’s been really bothering me."

You stop breathing.

No.

No, no, no.

"We had a band up here earlier tonight," Eddie says, tone light, but there’s venom underneath. "Cherry Burn. You guys remember them?"

The crowd cheers, though a few scattered boos are mixed in.

"Yeah?" Eddie nods. "Yeah, me too. And I remember that first song they played".

The room spins.

You’re frozen.

Eddie calls them out, right here, in front of everyone. The crowd is going wild, shouting, cheering, some of them booing at the mention of Cherry Burn.

The judges are staring, caught somewhere between confusion and intrigue. And Rick, Rick Vaughn is watching Eddie like he just grew a second head.

But your boyfriend's completely fearless. Standing there, sweaty and breathless, hands gripping the mic like he was born to hold it, wrapping the entire venue around his goddamn finger. "You guys heard that song earlier, yeah" he calls, pacing across the stage, letting the noise build, "Biggest potential, right?"

More cheers, a few voices yelling in agreement.

"Well", Eddie says, voice sharp as a blade, "wouldn’t it be a fucking shame if that song didn’t actually belong to them, mh?"

The crowd gasps. You gasp.

Oh my God.

Rick sits forward now, lips parting slightly, eyes fixed on Eddie.

The moderator is trying to interject, hands raised, urging them to get back on track, "Alright, let’s not get off course here, let’s get to the next-"

Eddie doesn’t stop. "They butchered it", he continues, shaking his head, "They butchered a song they didn’t write. I know how it’s supposed to sound. I know who fucking lived it".  He turns to the crowd, eyes burning. "So what do you say?", he grins, panting lightly, sweat dripping down his temple, "You wanna hear it in the right fucking voice?"

The roar that erupts nearly knocks you off your feet. The entire venue shakes with it.

You’re trembling.

What the fuck is he doing?

Eddie turns back, eyes locking right onto you. The rest of the band is nodding. Grant is grinning. Gareth, Jeff. They’re all in on this.

And then Eddie says it.

"The band’s decided to give up some of our minutes", he tells the crowd, voice steady, unshakable, "To the one person who should actually be performing it".

His eyes soften. Like he’s talking only to you. "Sam, baby".

You suck in a sharp breath.

"Get up here".

You shake your head.

No.

No, no, no.

Greg and Matt are already on you.

"Go", Greg urges, hands gripping your shoulders, pushing you to the stage.

Matt is nodding, "Do it!"

Your heart slams against your ribs.

Whatever reckless move this is, they could get kicked out of the lineup for it.

This could go so wrong.

But then, Matt grabs your face. "Don’t let this go to waste, Sammie", he says, pleads, "Fucking play your song. Now".

You gulp, stare at him.

Before you even realize what’s happening, Greg lifts you. His hands are firm on your waist, steady, strong, pushing you up.Eddie is already there, already reaching, already taking you from him,. hauling you up.

You’re on stage.

The heat of the lights hits your skin, the weight of thousands of eyes crashing into you. The crowd is screaming. The judges are stunned.

Your hands are shaking. Your chest heaves. You staring at Eddie like he just threw you into the deep end of the ocean with no warning. You shake your head, eyes wild.

No.

You can’t. You’re not ready.

But he already takes off his guitar, throwing the warm strap over your shoulders.

You have no plan, no rehearsal.

The weight of Eddie’s guitar settles against your body, heavier than you expected. Your hands shake as they hover over the strings. Your heart hammers against your ribs, your breath tight, uneven, locked in your chest. This is too much. This is insane.

You can’t. You’re not ready.

Your body feels frozen, locked in place as your mind races, overwhelmed, drowning in the roar of the crowd, in the magnitude of this moment.

Eddie feels it. He sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way your fingers tremble, the way you almost step back. But he’s not letting you go. Not this time. He steps closer, grabs your hand, pulls you in until all you can see, all you can feel, is him. The world blurs. It’s just you and him, on a stage, under the lights, at the moment of reckoning. He cups your face, his hands warm, steady, grounding you. His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot against your lips as he whispers,"Take it back, baby".

Your breath hitches.

"It’s your song". His grip tightens just slightly, thumb brushing your cheek, voice rough with urgency. "Fucking play it".

You shake your head, lips parting, unable to form words, and that's when he kisses you. Hard.

The world snaps back into focus.

The crowd erupts, screaming, chanting, cheering. The sound vibrates through your chest, shaking your bones, rattling your skull. You stumble back slightly as Eddie pulls away, dazed, breathless, but he’s still there, his eyes locked onto yours, burning, pushing, demanding. "PLAY IT!"

And suddenly - your name. Chanted.Shouted. Screamed.

You blink rapidly, snapping your head to the crowd, seeing them with you. Vanguard is right there, at the very front, leading the charge. Greg. Matt. Joe. Salva. They’re screaming your name, infecting the crowd, making the entire fucking venue chant for you.

Your eyes fly over the crowd. That's when you see them. Lauren. Amy. Joanna. Standing in the shadows of the backstage entrance, watching. Staring. Frozen in pure shock. And something inside you clicks.

Everything falls into place.

You turn to the band. Grant grins at you. Jeff and Gareth nod. Eddie stays close, eyes still on you, hands hovering like he’s ready to catch you, ready to hold you up if you need it.

You look back at them. At her. At Lauren.

And with a slow, deliberate movement, you lift your hand. Flip them off.

The crowd explodes. Laughter, cheers, whistles.

Eddie beams, practically feral with delight as he moves to the back, grabbing another guitar a stagehand shoves to him. He plugs it in without hesitation.

You glance back at his band. How they settle. Prepare. Watch you. Gareth taps his drumsticks together, steady, sharp. Jeff nods along, adjusting his bass strap. Grant watches you, waiting, fingers hovering over a mic. You frown. And that’s when it hits you.

They planned this. Somehow.

You can see it now, the way they’d exchanged glances earlier, the hushed words, the small nods. You're not playing alone. You're with them.

A slow, dangerous smile curls at your lips.

You grab the mic, hearing Eddie's voice roaring through the air again as he strums his guitar, hyping up the crowd even more. "ARE YOU FUCKING READY FOR THE REAL VERSION OF LOSING GRIP?"

The crowd ignites, voices surging through the venue like a wildfire.

He grins, throwing his fist in the air. "MAKE SOME NOISE FOR MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!" he shouts, his voice raw, powerful. "LET’S GO!"

The crowd loses it. The band starts to count you in. You take a deep breath, strum the first chord.

A single note rings through the venue, slicing through the noise, cutting the air.Silence follows. Dead, electric, charged.You close your eyes. Your fingers move over Eddie's guitar. Filling the air with sound. Until your voice follows.

"Are you aware of what you made me feel?"

It comes out shaky at first. A tremor in your breath, in your throat, in the way your hands tighten around the guitar.

"Right now, I feel invisible to you, like I'm not real"

Your voice steadies. Your fingers find their place. The adrenaline hits.

"Didn't you see me reaching out to find you? Why'd you turn away?"

The crowd leans in. The lights blur.

The band waits, holding back, letting you take the lead, letting you set the tone.

"Here's what I have to say- "

Gareth taps the drums. The rhythm kicks in. Jeff joins with a deep, growling bassline.Eddie’s guitar bleeds in behind yours, a perfect, subtle harmony, staying low, letting you shine.

You let go.

Your voice rises, clear, raw, furious.

"I was left to cry there! Waiting outside there! Grinning with a lost stare! That's when I decided..."

The band slams in. A wall of sound crashes into the crowd, bass and drums thunderous, guitars roaring, and your voice is all of it. Pain. Betrayal. Rage.

"WHY SHOULD I CARE?"

The crowd screams with you.

"‘CAUSE YOU WEREN'T THERE WHEN I WAS SCARED! I WAS SO ALONE!"

Your entire body shakes, high on adrenaline, on emotion, on the sheer, unstoppable force of this moment. Eddie watches you like you’ve just set fire to the world. Grant steps in for the harmonies, voice blending into yours, adding depth, making the sound huge. But it’s you. It’s your song. It’s your moment.

"YOU, YOU NEED TO LISTEN!"

Your voice breaks. Just slightly. And you feel it, the weight of the words, the reality of them, the years of screaming into the void. The father who never came. The family that never stayed.

"I’M STARTING TO TRIP, I’M LOSING MY GRIP"

You wipe a tear from your cheek as it falls.

"AND I’M IN THIS THING ALONE!"

The crowd erupts. Chants, fists in the air, people jumping, feeling it with you.And you give it all to them. Your voice soars, raw, unfiltered, spilling every emotion, every ounce of pain, every scream you never got to let out before.

Eddie is playing like he was born to do this.Eyes locked on you. Fingers flying over the strings, every note precise, every chord like a fucking battle cry.

The bridge hits. Everything falls away.Just your voice. Just you.

"Crying out loud, I'm crying out loud…"

You breathe.

"Open your eyes… open up wide"

Everything slams back in. The final chorus explodes, the band going hard, the crowd losing their fucking minds. You pour every last ounce of yourself into it, pushing, screaming, belting until your lungs burn.

Until you have nothing left.

And when you finally hit the last note, the entire venue erupts. The loudest cheers of the night. The biggest fucking reaction.Eddie throws his head back, howling in triumph. Gareth and Jeff pound on their instruments, Grant pumps his fists in the air.

You’re shaking. Breathless. And alive.

You did it. You took it back.

The venue is shaking.

The crowd is still screaming, chanting your name, Corroded Coffin’s name, demanding more, demanding an encore. It’s a riot, a fucking revolution happening right in front of your eyes.

You’re standing in the middle of it all, breathless, hands still shaking, lungs burning from the performance you just gave.

You did it. You fucking did it.

The band is ecstatic, Gareth practically throws his drumsticks in the air, Jeff is grinning so hard his face might split, and Grant is hyping up the crowd, fist in the air, soaking in every second of the chaos that just unfolded.

And Eddie runs to you. He grabs you, arms tight, breath ragged, and kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Full of everything.

The crowd loses it.

People whistle, whoop, and the guys from Vanguard are losing their shit, Matt jumping up and down like an excited kid, Greg shouting something you can’t even hear over the roaring applause.

Eddie lifts you off the ground, arms locked around your waist, still cheering, still grinning like a madman as he peppers kisses all over your face, laughing, yelling. "THAT’S MY FUCKING GIRL!"

More cheers. More screaming.

You don’t even know if you’re laughing or crying at this point, it’s all too much, too big, too real.

The moderator steps in. He looks flustered, uncertain, gripping his mic tightly as he tries to regain control of the absolute chaos unfolding in front of him. "Alright, alright! Jesus Christ, what the hell just happened?" he half-laughs, running a hand through his hair. He shakes his head, clearly stunned, looking back at the panel of judges, then at the crowd, which is still going insane. "This has never happened before", he says, raising his hands, trying to calm the audience, "I- honestly, I don’t even know if this is allowed".

The crowd boos. Loudly.

Eddie grips you tighter, lips still ghosting over your cheek, your temple, his hand cradling the back of your head like he needs to keep touching you, like he needs you to know - He doesn’t care about the consequences.

You look up at him, eyes widen, your stomach dropping as realization hits. They could actually get disqualified for that. That reckless move. "Eds", you breathe, panic creeping in, "I-"

But he cuts you off. His hands find your face again, thumbs soft against your cheeks, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. "It’s okay".

Your throat tightens, "But-"

"This had to be done". He says it so simply, so calmly, as if it’s not a huge fucking deal, as if he didn’t just potentially sacrifice everything for this moment, for you. He smiles. That warm, honest smile. "I’d do it again".

Your vision blurs. You want to say something, but he lifts his eyes, looking over at the judges. You turn, too, still breathless, still reeling, locking eyes with Rick.

He shrugs, doesn't know whether this is acceptable or not.

The other judges are still in shock, still processing what just happened. Some of them are exchanging glances, whispering, debating.

After what feels like an eternity, they slowly lean into their mics, four pairs of eyes looking at you, Eddie, his band that now stepped next to you.

The whole room goes quiet. The tension shifts, the energy pulsing, your heart is racing in your chest.

Please don't disqualify them.

The silence is suffocating. The weight of it presses down on your chest as the judges exchange glances, their microphones picking up quiet murmurs.

The energy in the venue is shifting, tension crackling in the air like static before a storm.

You hold your breath, gripping Eddie’s wrist where his hand still rests against your face. His pulse is steady beneath your fingers, but his jaw is tight, his body tense.

Kenny Jones is the first to lean in. His voice is clipped, sharp. "Look. There’s no denying that was a hell of a performance. Corroded Coffin brought everything tonight. The rawness, the energy, the talent - it’s all there."

A pause.

His gaze hardens. "But let’s be real. What just happened? That was reckless. Unprofessional. You don’t pull a stunt like that in the middle of a competition and expect there to be no consequences."

A few murmurs from the crowd, a couple of boos, but he ignores them.

"Rules exist for a reason. If we let this slide, what’s stopping every other band from turning this into complete chaos?"

Nancy Stone is next, her arms crossed. "I agree," she says, her tone measured but unimpressed. "As much as I hate to say it, that was over the line. The song was phenomenal, one of the strongest originals we’ve heard tonight, but the competition is about more than just talent. Discipline. Professionalism. You can’t just do whatever the hell you want because it feels right." She glances at you and Eddie, lips pressing into a thin line. "Disqualification should be on the table."

Mark Mendoza sighs, rubbing his chin. "Damn shame, too," he mutters, "Because if I’m being honest? That was one of the best performances I’ve seen in years. Not just tonight. Years. The kind of shit people remember. But Kenny and Nancy are right, rules are rules. If we’re setting a precedent, this isn’t a good one."

Your stomach drops.

Eddie tenses beside you, but his expression doesn’t change. He was expecting this. You weren’t sure you were.

Then, from somewhere in the audience. "They should be kicked out!"

Lauren.

Her voice slices through the quiet like a knife, sharp and venomous.

The crowd shifts, heads snapping in her direction. The band stiffens. Your nails dig into your palm.

"Oh, for someone who stole a fucking song, you’re really brave for still being here!"

It comes from somewhere in the back. A male voice, angry, cutting.

The crowd erupts. Shouts, murmurs, gasps.

Lauren’s face twists in fury, her mouth opening to fire back, but someone else cuts her off.

"Shut the fuck up!" Louder this time. Someone in the front row.

The words smack into her like a slap, silencing her instantly. A wave of satisfaction washes through you as she stiffens, turning red, arms folded so tightly across her chest it looks like she might explode.

The judges hesitate. A beat passes. Two.

And then Rick leans in. He exhales long and slow, shaking his head slightly, fingers tapping against the mic. His expression is unreadable. "Well. That was something," he starts, voice even. His gaze flickers to the band, to you, to Eddie. He doesn’t acknowledge your history. Doesn’t tip his hand. "I’m not gonna sugarcoat it, this was stupid. Risking everything for a song. A moment. A… young love, apparently." He raises a brow. "Really fucking reckless."

The silence stretches.

"But man..." He shakes his head again, rubbing his temple. "What a fucking banger."

The tension cracks. A few scattered cheers. Some laughter.

Rick sits back, lets it settle, then leans in again. "Sam, this was outstanding. Corroded Coffin, you guys played your asses off tonight. And normally, I’d say rules are rules." He pauses, then smirks. "But I’ve got a better idea." He lifts the mic, eyes sweeping the still-buzzing venue. "I say we let the crowd decide."

The room detonates.

The loudest cheers yet. Deafening. Stomping, screaming, people chanting.

"COFFIN! COFFIN! COFFIN!"

Your name, too. Your name roaring through the venue, mixing with the band’s, voices layered, rising, drowning out everything else.

Rick just sits back, grinning. "Well. Guess that settles that."

The judges lean in again, heads close, voices low but urgent. Rick is gesturing as he speaks, pointing at you more than once, his expression unreadable. The others look unconvinced. Kenny is shaking his head, Nancy’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and Mark still looks like he’s chewing on his own words. But Rick just keeps going, steady, deliberate, hammering whatever argument he’s making into them.

You can’t hear a word. You don’t know what he’s saying. But then,  his eyes flick to yours. And for a second, just a second, something passes between you. A knowing look. A small smirk. 

You hold your breath. 

Then, all four judges straighten in their seats. Rick leans in, tapping his mic.   "Alright."

The venue holds still. The tension, the expectation, the crowd practically vibrating with anticipation. 

"You’re still in." 

The roar that follows shakes the entire damn room. People are jumping, fists in the air, screaming themselves hoarse.

The band is losing their minds, Gareth lets out a victorious yell, Grant grabs Jeff and shakes him like an excited dog, Eddie throws his head back, laughing, hands on his knees like he needs a second to believe this is real. You feel lightheaded. Distant. This moment is too big, too loud, too real. 

Rick waits for it to settle, only slightly, before smirking and adding, "And now, get the fuck off my stage before we change our minds." 

Laughter. Cheers. More applause. 

Eddie grabs your hand. Tight. Solid. "Come on, Rockstar," he murmurs, voice barely audible over the chaos, his grin wild, triumphant, "Let’s go celebrate."

And with that, Corroded Coffin storms off the stage.

You're stumbling off the stage, ears still ringing, legs barely working as the adrenaline surges through your veins. Everything feels unreal, like you just stepped out of your own body, like the past ten minutes were something out of a fever dream. The hallway is a blur. Other bands watch as you pass, some sneering, some scoffing, pissed as hell. You hear it, muttered curses, bitter comments about how you shouldn't even be here, how that was bullshit. But then, there are the others. The ones who clap your back, who smirk, who nod in respect. Because they know.They heard what just happened. They know talent when they fucking see it.

The heavy backdoor slams open, and the cold night air crashes into your lungs like a wave. You barely register it, barely process the way your breath clouds in the night, because behind you, Gareth, Jeff, and Grant are losing their goddamn minds.

"Are you fucking kidding me!?" Gareth all but screams, practically vibrating where he stands, gripping his head like he still can't believe it. "That was insane!"

"Did you see them?" Grant is laughing, breathless, bouncing on his heels. "The crowd? The fucking judges?! That was the biggest reaction of the night!"

Jeff is just grinning, hands on his knees, shaking his head. "Holy shit," he mutters. "We killed that."

You stand there, still shaking, still breathless, still reeling.

Because...what the fuck just happened?

"Wait".

You stop, pressing a hand to your forehead, trying to breathe, to understand. "How... how did you know the song?" You look between them, eyes wide, "How did you know the chords? The lyrics? Eddie was the only one who ever heard it before, I mean... What? How?"

They glance at each other, then at Eddie. He stands a little apart, hands on his hips, sweaty curls wild around his face, watching you carefully.

Gareth exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, "Uh, yeah, so. About that".

Jeff clears his throat, "Eddie, uh… kind of begged us to let you play. Like, a week ago".

You blink. "What?"

"After you got kicked out. He stole your notes". Grant shrugs, looking at Eddie, "Showed them to us. Made us play through it".

Your stomach flips. You turn to Eddie. "You what?"

Eddie doesn’t even look ashamed. If anything, he’s fighting a smirk.

Gareth sighs, "He knew how big of a potential it had. How big it could be. Asked us to give you some time of our slot, to let you play it. Play it with you".

Jeff nods, "And yeah, we liked it. Loved it, even. But we didn’t agree to it. We had our own thing going. We were scared of being kicked out".

"We argued", Grant admits, "A lot. But we won out. He got overruled".

"But then", Gareth continues, his voice quieter, "we saw what those bitches did. We saw how they stole it". He looks at you. "And we saw what it did to you".

Your breath catches.

"Yeah, and we somehow care about you... So, we changed our minds", Jeff shrugs, smiling a little, "Scrapped our last song. Gave you the time instead."

It hits you like a freight train.

Tears burn behind your eyes before you can stop them. The weight of what they did, what Eddie did, what they all did, crushes you. You make a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, then throw yourself at them. "You guys-"

"Oh god, no-"

It’s too late. You wrap your arms around all three of them, practically crushing them in a hug, sniffling into Gareth’s shoulder. They tense, so uncomfortable, but you don’t care."Thank you", you gasp, clinging to them, "I love you guys so much".

"Jesus Christ-"

"Oh my god, get her off"

"She’s crying?"

Eddie’s laughing behind you. Full-bodied, amused as hell. One of them gives you a very awkward pat on the back.

"Oh god," Gareth groans, "Please stop"

"This is a lot," Jeff mutters, stiff as a board, "So many emotions. So many... tears."

"And snot", Grant adds, "Jesus Christ, dude, is that- oh my god, it’s wet"

Your arms tighten around them. "Shut the fuck up and let me love you!" you sob, burying your face deeper into Gareth’s shoulder, who actually yelps.

"Ed!" he hisses over your head, "Get your girl, man, she’s leaking on me".

"She’s all yours, man," Jeff grumbles, making no effort to escape your death grip but also making it very clear that he hates it, "I did not sign up for this when we let her use our set time".

"We let her?" Grant scoffs, "More like Eddie made us, and now we’re paying the price".

"Munson!" Gareth calls again, more desperate this time, "Take her, please".

But your boyfriend's still laughing his ass off. He’s just standing there, watching, hands on his hips, grinning so hard he looks like he’s enjoying every second of this.

You finally pull away, sniffling, wiping your wet face and chuckling as they all immediately take a step back, lifting their hands, shaking off your love and tears. "I love you, guys", you smirk, and they all roll their eyes, faces blushing lightly. You turn to Eddie, who's still watching amusedly. You step toward him, cupping his face, his skin hot, slick with sweat. His lashes flutter, his grin lopsided, as he leans into your touch. "You’re so stupid",. you whisper.

He grins. "Yeah?"

You nod, pulling him closer, "So reckless".

"Mmm, yeah".

"Why did you do that?" Your voice cracks, "You were the best tonight. You could've lost everything. You could’ve-"

Eddie’s expression softens. His hands come up, wrapping around your wrists, holding you against him. His thumbs brush against your skin. His eyes - god, his eyes - hold so much warmth, so much love, so much certainty. "Because your song needed to be heard", he murmurs, "Baby, you needed to be heard".

That’s it.

You’re kissing him before you even realize it. Pressing your lips to his, still tasting sweat, still tasting adrenaline, still feeling the electricity in his veins. He’s soft and warm and so fucking real, and you can’t stop, can’t breathe, can’t think, because he did this. For you.

Behind you, the band groans.

Gareth is officially depressed, "If someone could just love me a fraction of how much Eddie loves her, that’d be great."

Grant sighs,  "Should’ve seen him, man. Begging us to give her some minutes. Like, on his knees, practically."

Jeff snorts, "What a softie."

"Yeah, look at him now," Gareth grumbles. "Completely gone."

Eddie pulls back from your lips, glares. They shut up.

You snort. And then you kiss him again.And again. And again, because this was the biggest proof of love you’ve ever been given. Soft at first. Gentle. Pure, overwhelming gratitude. But then he groans, and his grip tightens, and suddenly it’s hotter, deeper, and your body is melting into him like you’ll never be close enough.

"Jesus Christ," Grant mutters. "They’re like fucking rabbits".

"Can't keep your hands off her even now, dude? We’re supposed to be celebrating", Gareth groans, pulling a disgusted face at you two kissing each other again, your hands cradling his face, his sliding on your ass. "Seriously, didn’t you two bang like two hours ago? Wasn’t that enough?"

They all groan again, Grant sighs dramatically, "How sad is it that we know that?"

You and Eddie laugh into the kiss, breathless and giddy and so fucking gone. The cold air cools your sweat-slicked skin, but Eddie’s hands are everywhere, and suddenly you're being swirled around, being pressed against the warehouse’s brick wall, his mouth hotter, his grip tighter, his body closer.

"NOPE, I’M OUT!", Gareth calls, and they all scatter. Gagging. Groaning. Making the most disgusted sounds as they stomp away, mumbling about how they can’t fucking take it anymore.

You laugh into Eddie’s mouth, breathless, dizzy, so fucking happy. "You scared them off," you giggle, nipping at his lip.

"Good," he murmurs, pressing closer, his hands sliding over your waist, gripping your hips, the brick rough against your back as he kisses you harder, "Now I can have you to myself".

And fuck, you’re getting lost in it.

His lips. His hands. His body.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I love you more," he breathes.

You kiss him again. You can’t stop, because you love him so fucking much it hurts, and his hands are under your shirt, his fingers are teasing at your skin, his knee is between your legs, pressing just right. The tiniest moan slips out of your mouth. His hands slide up your sides, gripping your waist, fingers digging in, as if he can’t decide whether to hold you or devour you whole. His lips are feverish, insistent, teeth nipping, tongue hot, pulling sounds from you that are way too dangerous for where you are. You gasp against his mouth as he grinds into you, slow and filthy, the rough brick of the warehouse pressing into your back, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s touching you like this, kissing you like this, like you’re the only thing that fucking matters. "Fuck," he groans, voice wrecked, panting against your lips, "you’re gonna kill me."

"Later," you promise, gripping the back of his neck, fingers threading into sweaty curls, "I’m gonna fucking take you apart".

His breath catches, and you feel him shudder beneath your hands, "Jesus fucking-"

You kiss him harder. Deeper. Dirtier. His hands slide lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and then you’re lifted, legs wrapping around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders, his chest solid and burning hot beneath your palms. "Baby," he chokes, "you can’t-"

"I want you so fucking bad," you whisper against his jaw, and his head drops back for a second.

"You’re trying to kill me," he rasps, dragging his lips down your neck, your collarbones, your chest, hot breath fanning over the Corroded Coffin shirt you’re still wearing.

You smirk, tugging lightly at his curls. "You were so fucking hot up there, Munson. Had me dripping before I even touched the stage."

He growls. His teeth graze your collarbone, his grip on your thighs tightens. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans, "you need to stop before I forget we’re outside. You’re fucking trouble, woman".

"Yeah?" you tease, running your fingers through the sweaty strands at the nape of his neck, "Then why do you love me so much?"

"Because," he breathes, tilting his head back to meet your gaze, his pupils blown wide with pure, unfiltered adoration, "you love me just as much."

You grin and kiss him again, harder, desperate, dizzy with it. His hands roam, exploring, squeezing, touching everywhere he can, your waist, your hips, your thighs and ass, while his mouth moves down, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, nipping at your collarbones, his teeth scraping against your skin. "Fuck, Eds," you breathe, arching into him as his lips hover over the top of your breasts again.

He grins against your skin, tugging at the fabric with his teeth. "My shirt looks so fucking good on you," he murmurs, voice thick and low, "but I’d rather see you without it."

You laugh, flustered, pressing your forehead against his, trying to ground yourself despite the way his hands are gripping you so right, the way his body is slotting so perfectly against yours. "You looked so fucking hot on that stage," you whisper, rolling your hips against him just enough to make him groan, "I wanted you so bad the second you started to play."

Eddie swears under his breath, his hands tightening on your thighs as he grinds up into you. "Fucking hell, babe, you have to stop," he mutters, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "You’re making this real fucking difficult."

"Am I?" you tease, dragging your lips along his jaw, whispering every filthy thing you want to do to him later. You lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice all low and syrupy, just for him. "Because, later...", you whisper, "when we’re alone, I’m gonna get you on that bed, strip you down, and take my time with you."

Eddie shudders, his grip tightening on you. "Fuck".

"Gonna kiss every inch of you," you continue, dragging your nails lightly down his back, wrapping your legs tighter around him, "gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna make you lose your mind, baby."

His breath stutters, his grip tightening on your thighs, "Shit, sweetheart…"

You smirk, pressing a slow, teasing kiss just below his jaw. "Think I’ll get on my knees first," you murmur, "suck you off so good you’ll be begging me to let you cum. But I won’t. Not yet."

"Jesus fucking Christ-"

"No," you purr, nibbling at his earlobe, "you don’t get to cum until you’re inside me. Until I’m riding you so slow, so deep, you can’t do anything but feel me."

Eddie whimpers. Actually fucking whimpers.

"And then," you go on, wicked and soft and so, so in control, "when I’ve teased you enough, when you can’t take it anymore, I’ll let you have me. However you want. As hard as you want. Until you ruin me, Eds".

"I....fuck," Eddie rasps, voice wrecked, "We need to leave. Now".

"Nope," you hum, way too pleased with yourself, "we gotta wait until you fucking won that battle".

"Fucking hell." He’s suffering, you can see it, the way his jaw clenches, the way he keeps shifting on his feet, the way his hands will not stop gripping at your thighs like he’s trying to keep himself from losing it right then and there.

"Later, baby," you murmur, pressing one last slow, lingering kiss to his lips. 

Eddie exhales sharply. "You’re gonna kill me".

You smirk, "But what a way to go, huh?"

He groans, leaning his head back, pressing you back against the wall, "I fucking hate you".

"No, you don’t".

"No, I don’t," he agrees, then glares, "but you’re still fucking evil."

Then, suddenly - applause.

It rises from inside, loud and sudden, and it yanks you both out of your haze. The next band is going on. The last one for tonight. People are watching. Waiting. Looking for you. You exhale sharply, press your forehead against his, force yourself to breathe. "We should really go back inside," you murmur, though your arms stay locked around him, fingers still tangled in his hair.

He sighs, heavy and reluctant, and leans in, brushing his lips over yours in something softer, sweeter. "Yeah," he mutters, "We should."

Neither of you move.

"Eddie," you say.

"Mmm."You chuckle, "Let me down".

"Mmm."

"Eddie-"

"Just one more minute," he grumbles, squeezing your thighs, pressing another long kiss against your lips. And you let him. Because you’re fucking gone for this man.

As you and Eddie push your way back inside, the energy in the venue is electric. The last band has just taken the stage, the crowd still thrumming with adrenaline from your performance. People recognize you instantly, heads turning, fingers pointing, voices shouting.

"Holy shit, it’s them!"

"That was fucking insane!"

"Yo, Eddie, you madman!"

"Corroded Coffin, baby! LET’S FUCKING GO!"

Eddie keeps a firm grip on your hand as you weave through the crowd. Some people try to reach out, pat you on the back, grab your arm, even ruffle Eddie’s curls. He laughs, shaking them off, but when a particularly drunk dude stumbles forward, getting way too close to you, he doesn't hesitate, hand on the guy’s chest, shoving him back with a firm, "Back the fuck up, man." The guy raises his hands, mumbling something incoherent, and you just tighten your hold on Eddie’s fingers, squeezing in silent thanks. He squeezes back, gives you that signature smirk, and keeps leading you forward.

By the time you finally reach the others, Vanguard is already in full celebration mode. The second they see you, they erupt.

"THERE THEY ARE!"

"Fucking legends, man!"

You barely have time to react before you’re being grabbed, hugged, shaken by Matt, Greg, and the others, their excitement infectious. "That was fucking INSANE!" Matt practically yells, gripping Eddie’s shoulders before turning to you, "And YOU! JESUS FUCK, SAM! Where the hell have you been hiding that?!"

"Apparently in Cherry Burn’s fucking pocket," Greg mutters, rolling his eyes before grinning, "but not anymore, huh?"

You laugh, shaking your head, still overwhelmed, still trying to process everything. "I- I don’t even know, man. What the fuck just happened?"

"What happened?" Matt barks out a laugh. "You took that stage. You owned that song. And Eddie, my god, man, you played like your life depended on it."

Eddie just grins, shrugging, "Kinda did, huh?"

The others of Corroded Coffin finally catch up, looking much more composed, though still a little traumatized from your earlier emotional onslaught.

"Look who finally decided to stop sucking face," Jeff smirks, nudging Gareth, who just sighs dramatically.

"They probably found some dark corner and went at it again," Grant adds. "Fucking maniacs."

You roll your eyes, flipping them off. "Ten minutes, guys. That’s all it’s been".

"Plenty of time for you two," Gareth mumbles, sipping his drink.

"Alright, alright, enough about my sex life," Eddie laughs, throwing an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him, "Where’s our goddamn drinks?"

"Coming right up," Greg grins, signaling to the bartender.

Within minutes, you’re all clinking cups together, toasting to the most chaotic, reckless, and fucking legendary night of your lives.

The music pounds, the last band absolutely killing their set, but even as you focus on them, you can feel the eyes on you. People see you. People recognize you. And across the room, even Rick is watching for a second, arms crossed, nodding slightly as he takes in the way his bandmates can’t stop hyping you and Eddie up. The way people still whisper your names, still cheer when they look over. The way you shine under the dim lights, laughing, shaking your head at some stupid joke Joe just made, Eddie’s arm still slung around you, a drink and cigarette between your fingers.

The final band finishes their set with a crashing chord, sending the crowd into a frenzy of applause and cheers. The energy in the room is electric, the air thick with sweat, beer, and cigarette smoke. The moderator struts back onto the stage, hyping everyone up, microphone in hand."That was our last band for tonight! Who do you think should win this battle, huh? Make some fucking noise for your favorite!"

The crowd erupts, people already shouting band names before he can even ask.

"BLACK SIRENS!"

"IRON FANGS!"

"BLOOD CHAPEL!"

"CORRODED COFFIN!"

Your stomach flips at the sheer number of voices screaming Eddie’s band name. You even hear a few shouts of, "SAM!", which makes your heart jump into your throat. You weren’t even supposed to be part of this.

Matt throws an arm around your shoulder, shaking you excitedly, "Hear that, princess? You’ve got fans now!"

"They weren’t even supposed to hear me sing," you mutter, still in disbelief.

"Yeah, well, they did," Greg smirks, "And now they’re never gonna shut up about it."

Vanguard and Corroded Coffin are hyped, still riding the high of the night. The nine of you are laughing, joking, fooling around, Grant teasing Eddie about his "fucking Romeo moment" while Salva dramatically reenacts the way Eddie grabbed you on stage.

And you realize, you really like these guys.These four 30-something-year-old, tattooed, pierced, metalhead-looking motherfuckers who seem like they should be intimidating as hell. But somehow, in just a week, they’ve... adopted you. They treat you like you belong here.

The moderator hypes the crowd again, waving his arms. "Alright, alright, HOLY SHIT, that battle was fucking INSANE! Fifteen bands! FIFTEEN absolute beasts of rock and metal up here tonight! Only ONE winner! Two thousand dollars! A gig at the legendary Black Cat! And a slot on 92.3 Rock FM!"

Another loud roar from the crowd.

"And you know what that means! It’s decision time, baby! Our judges will need just fifteen minutes to decide our FINALISTS!"

Another eruption of voices. Excitement. Anticipation.

"Three bands will be called back up here," the moderator continues, "and their best moments will be played back on the big screen before we crown our winner!"

Another wave of applause.

"And after that?" The moderator grins. "It’s fucking party time!"

The room explodes again, and Vanguard whoops loudly, clapping each other on the backs, nudging Corroded Coffin, already getting hyped for the real best part of the night.

"Oh man, I can’t fucking wait for the afterparty," Matt grins, tossing back a drink. "You’ve never been to one of these before, right, Sammie?"

You shake your head, still a little overwhelmed. "Didn’t even know it was a thing."

"Oh", Salva smirks, "you’re in for a fucking ride tonight."

Joe nods, lighting a cigarette, "That’s where the real fun happens."

The judges leave the stage, some rock music is turned on, people are moving outside, to the bathroom lines, over to the bar where your group has settled.

You're taking another drink, smoking a cigarette with Greg as he chats shit about the other bands, watching how the buzz around you still hasn't faded. People are drunker now. Bolder. Fans are still coming up, weaving through the crowd, calling for Vanguard, for Corroded Coffin, getting autographs, flirting or just talking. And spotting you alongside them. Recognizing you. Waving. Pointing. Singing.

"Whyyyy should I caaaare" A couple of guys, tipsy, off-key, but they remember.

"Holy shit, you’re her! That song, fuck, that was yours?!"

"Girl, you fucking killed it!"

It’s overwhelming. Some people just want to talk, to ask about the song, but some, especially the guys, are trying to get closer. Touching your arm, your shoulder, standing too close, trying to get your attention. And the girls? The girls are flocking around the guys. Eddie.

You take a sip of beer, watching a group of girls hovering nearby, giggling, whispering, casting glances at Eddie and his band. One of them approaches Matt, holding out a marker. "Sign my arm?" she grins.

"Babe, I’ll sign whatever you want," Matt smirks, flipping the marker between his fingers. Within seconds, he's got a fucking line of girls in front of him, rolling up sleeves, pulling down collars, and... oh. Well.

Now he’s signing tits.

"Dude’s living the dream," Grant snorts, watching Matt scribble his name across a drunk 25-year-old’s cleavage, "That's literally all I aim for in my life".

You chuckle, shaking your head and notice how a couple of them set their sights on Eddie. You try to brush it off, even as one of them leans in way too close to him, running her fingers through his curls, laughing at something he didn’t even say. The signed tits are now inching closer to him, the girls  whispering, flirting, playing with their hair. One of them says something that makes him even grin, a cocky little smirk that makes your stomach twist a little.

But before you can even think about feeling some type of way about it, a hand grabs your wrist. You turn, startled.

It’s a guy. Tall. Mid-20s. Super drunk.

"Heyyy", he slurs, swaying slightly, "you, fuck, you were... incredible up there."

You take a small step back, smiling carefully, "Uh, thanks, man".

"No, really," he insists, moving closer, "like... fucking sexy up there. You're hot".

Your stomach tightens, "Thanks, I guess. But I'm not-"

"No, no, you don’t get it," he cuts you off, his fingers still on your wrist, "I think I fell in love with you up there. I have to"He takes another step, and suddenly your back hits the bar counter.

Your throat closes up. "Hey", you try again, "step the fuck back, okay?" 

"Come on," he grins, "Just wanna talk".

"And I don't", you snap, trying to move past him, but his hand catches your waist.

The second Eddie sees you pinned against the bar, that guy’s hand on your waist, something snaps. His drink is gone, hitting the floor with a dull thud as he moves. The guy barely has time to register what’s happening before Eddie yanks him back."Hey!" your boyfriend snarls, shoving the guy away from you with so much force that he stumbles, nearly losing his footing, "What the fuck do you think you’re doing?"

The shift in the atmosphere is instantaneous. The group’s attention snaps to you, Vanguard, Corroded Coffin, even the girls who were just flirting, all turning to watch as Eddie squares up, seething. Drunk guy blinks, clearly not expecting this reaction, "Whoa, man, chill"

"Chill?" Eddie barks out a humorless laugh, "You think I’m gonna ‘chill’ when you’re putting your hands on my fucking girl?"His words come out sharp, possessive, leaving zero room for doubt.

And suddenly, you realize, all those girls, the ones who were just inching closer to Eddie, laughing, twirling their hair? Gone.

Because everybody just heard that.

Greg steps in before Eddie can take it further, throwing an arm in front of him. "Alright, alright, let’s not ruin the night over a dumbass who can’t take a hint," he mutters, leveling the guy with a glare, "But seriously, dude, what the fuck made you think this was a great idea?"

The drunk sways slightly, squinting, like he’s just now realizing how fucked he is.

"You really thought you were gonna hit on the only girl here who got officially called someone’s girlfriend on a fucking stage?" Greg scoffs. "The one who’s clearly not interested? The one surrounded by eight dudes? You stupid or just suicidal?"

"Didn’t know she was-"

"Yeah, no shit," Greg cuts him off, shaking his head, "Do yourself a favor and walk the fuck away before this gets worse."

Matt, Joe, and Salva step up, reinforcing the warning, towering over the guy, arms crossed, eyes hard. "Go, man," Matt says, voice deceptively light but full of warning. "Before Romeo over here gets his hands on you again."

The drunk hesitates. Then finally, he throws up his hands and stumbles away, muttering under his breath.

You sigh. Eddie’s still tense, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to breathe through his anger. "Alright, big guy," Joe claps a hand on his shoulder, "Deep breaths. Don’t get yourself kicked out before the winner’s even announced."

"Yeah, come on," Salva grins, "We get it. She’s yours. No one’s questioning it".

But Eddie doesn’t even acknowledge them. He's already stepping close, his hands are already on you. Gripping your arms, sliding over your waist, holding you tight against him like he needs to feel you close. "You okay?" His voice is softer now, just for you, his eyes scanning you like he’s still making sure that guy didn’t do anything.

You nod, "I’m fine".

He's still not letting you go. His arms are around you, pulling you in, pressing you against him. You can feel how tense he still is, how fast his heart is racing. "Fucking prick," he mutters, lips brushing against your hair, your temple, your cheek.

You snort, "Baby, I'm okay. You’re being dramatic".

"He touched you," he grumbles, "I should’ve broken his fucking nose."

"Please, not again" you tease, and Eddie just huffs, holding you tighter.

Behind you, the guys are still joking, still laughing there in time. "Well, that was the least surprising thing I’ve ever seen," Grant quips, "Munson losing his shit over his girl? Wow, shocking".

"Man’s a fucking guard dog," Jeff smirks, "Should get him a leash".

"Already got one," Gareth mutters, and Eddie just flips him off without letting go of you.

You laugh, shaking your head, and he just grins, finally starting to relax again as your arms drape over his shoulders. You watch him for a moment, the way his breathing evens out, the tension slowly seeping from his body, but there’s still something tight in his jaw, something lingering. "You know," you murmur, "I was just about to tell that girl touching your hair to step away or I’d rip hers out."

Eddie snorts, the tension in his shoulders cracking as amusement creeps back in. "Aw, baby," he purrs, "you getting territorial on me?"

"Would that turn you on?" you tease, arching a brow.

He grins, wicked and sharp. "Absolutely."

You roll your eyes but smirk, stepping onto your toes to kiss him, tasting beer and cigarettes and him, and Eddie groans softly, melting into you, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding shamelessly down to your ass. "Eddie," you gasp against his lips, swatting at him, "behave".

"No," he mumbles, smirking as his fingers tighten on your hip.

"Jesus Christ," Greg mutters, shaking his head as he takes a drag of his cigarette, "They never stop".

"Think they ever get tired of it?" Matt wonders, sipping his beer.

"Doubt it," Salva answers. "They probably fuck like-"

"We’re standing right here," you interrupt, turning just enough to glare at them.

"And yet," Joe gestures vaguely at you and Eddie, "you still choose to act like this in front of us."

You just smirk, eyes flicking to Eddie’s, watching as he grins wider, because he can feel you’re tipsy now, feels the way you’re leaning into him, how giggly and soft you’ve gotten. His fingers skim under the hem of your shirt, just barely ghosting against your lower back, enough to make you shiver. "You feel good, baby?" he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

"Mm-hmm," you hum, smiling as you nuzzle your nose against his, "You gonna take care of me later?"

"Always," he breathes.

The lights change. The music stops.The judges return to the stage. The noise of the crowd shifts, excitement bubbling as the host strides back onto the platform, mic in hand, hyping them all up again. "Alright, alright," he calls, "how we doing tonight, huh?"

A roar in response.

Eddie’s lips hover just above yours, but his breath catches, tension snapping back into his body as reality crashes in.

Your fingers squeeze his. "It’s time, baby."

He nods, swallows hard, and you turn your attention toward the stage.

Rick and the other judges sit at the table, looking serious, professional. The host launches into a whole speech about the night, the bands, how incredible the performances were, how difficult the judges’ decision had been. "So difficult," he adds, "that there was a lot of discussion backstage, especially after one particular band decided to bend the rules a little tonight."

A wave of laughter rolls through the audience, mixed with cheers, and your whole group howls, hooting and clapping, no shame at all, while Rick bites his lip, shaking his head just slightly.

The finale begins.

Nancy, one of the judges, steps up first, announcing the first finalist.

"Our first band moving on to the finals tonight is… Black Sirens!"

The girl band jumps up, cheering, all smiles and waves as they head toward the stage. They look ridiculously hot under the lights, long legs, tight outfits, smudged makeup that makes them look effortlessly sexy, and - Corroded Coffin whoops. "Jesus Christ," you mutter as Grant, Jeff, and Gareth lose their minds.

"Dude, look at her," Gareth hisses, elbowing Grant, "She’s unreal."

"I will die for her," Jeff declares.

"All of you," Eddie snorts, "need to calm the fuck down."

You snicker, elbowing him. "You sure you don't wanna join in?"

He scoffs. "Baby, please. I got you".

Kenny, the next judge, grabs the mic. And the second band is announced.

"Iron Fangs!"

More cheers, more applause, another solid pick, but you barely hear it. Your heart is pounding. Your fingers tighten around Eddie’s. Matt, Greg, Joe, and Salva shift, falling into a loose circle around Corroded Coffin, all waiting, all buzzing with nervous excitement. Your guys are pale. Gareth and Jeff are frozen now. Grant’s whispering under his breath like he’s either praying or cursing. Eddie’s grip on you is bruising, his breath shallow.

Rick steps up.

The last band.

"And now," Rick announces, "for our final spot in the Battle of the Bands finale…"

He pauses. On purpose.

Eddie stiffens behind you, jaw locked, fingers squeezing yours so tight you think he might break them. "Fucking say it", he mutters under his breath, eyes glued to Rick. The whole group is silent, holding their breath, bodies tense. The tension is unbearable. Your chest is aching with how hard your heart is pounding. You let out a groan, louder than you intended, making a few people nearby laugh. Rick smirks.

"The last band is…

"CORRODED COFFIN!"

Your group explodes, a deafening mix of shouting, cheering, laughing. Matt grabs Eddie by the shoulders, shaking him violently. Greg’s howling, Salva and Joe are whooping, Vanguard practically jumping on Corroded Coffin, crushing them in celebratory slaps and hugs. You basically scream. It just bursts out of you, raw and ecstatic and relieved, all that tension snapping like a rubber band. You whip around, grabbing Eddie’s face, kissing him hard, breathless, giddy, laughing against his mouth. "Holy shit, baby!" you gasp. "You did it! You fucking did it!"

"We did it" he grins, voice shaky, eyes wide, like he still can’t believe it, like it’s not real yet.

Behind you, Gareth and Jeff look like they’re about to pass out, Grant’s bent over, hands on his knees, wheezing. "I think I’m gonna be sick," Gareth groans.

"Dude," Jeff pants, "I forgot how to fucking breathe."

"Breathe later, dumbass," Grant smacks his back. "We’re finalists. We’re in the fucking finale!"

Then, the crowd. They're screaming for them. Shouting their name.

"CORRODED COFFIN! CORRODED COFFIN!"

You grab Eddie’s hand, practically dragging him forward, pushing him toward his bandmates. "Go!" you laugh. "Get your ass up there!"

"Holy fuck," he breathes, then he runs.

They all do.

Charging toward the stage, still looking like they can’t quite believe it, like the moment’s too fucking big for them to process, but it doesn’t matter because they’re up there now.

The crowd roars.

Rick’s grinning behind the judges' table. The other bands clap, nodding, giving them their moment. Even Black Sirens and Iron Fangs smile, some of them high-fiving your guys as they take their spot next to them.

Eddie stands in the middle, breathing hard, scanning the crowd like he’s burning this into his memory. And then he finds you.His eyes lock onto yours. You beam, giving him the biggest fucking grin of your life, so fucking proud as you and the guys head to the edge of the stage to support them from right there. Greg and Matt to your sides, Joe and Salva behind you, carrying another round of drinks.

Eddie smirks at you. And then he winks.That cocky, Eddie Munson wink, full of mischief, full of him, and you roll your eyes, laughing, heart swelling so fucking big you think it might actually burst.

This is his moment.

And he’s fucking shining.

The air is thick with tension. The kind that sinks into your bones, makes your heart pound, makes your breath feel too shallow.

You’re standing at the front row, right at the edge of the stage, surrounded by Vanguard. Close enough to see Eddie, to feel the heat of the stage lights, the sweat on your palms making your drink slippery in your hand. Matt’s arm is slung around your shoulders, keeping you steady, keeping you here while the anticipation threatens to eat you alive. Joe and Salva are right behind you, standing close, watchful, keeping the more wasted crowd members from stumbling into you. Greg’s next to Matt, tapping his beer bottle against his thigh, his other hand clenched into a fist. They’re waiting too.

And so is Eddie. On stage, lined up with his band, all four of them standing in a tight, anxious huddle. He’s not looking at the judges. Not looking at the crowd. Not looking at the fucking screen overhead that’s about to decide his future.

He’s looking at you.

And fuck, your heart hurts.

Because you see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way he holds his breath every time the moderator moves. You know him. And right now, he’s terrified. You give him a smile, small, reassuring. I’m here.

He exhales. Not enough to relax, not enough to calm down, but just enough to shift his weight, to plant his feet, to breathe again.

The screen flashes. The clips start rolling.

Each finalist gets their moment.

Black Sirens. Fucking powerhouses, the lead singer captivating as hell, their riffs dirty, their rhythm section insane.

Iron Fangs. Aggressive, fast, sharp, the kind of band that demands attention, their frontman a force.

Corroded Coffin. The moment their name appears, the venue erupts. And your heart stops. Their performance plays in quick, electrifying flashes. Eddie, slick with sweat, radiating energy, shredding his guitar like it’s an extension of his own goddamn soul.Grant, pouring himself into every word, voice raw, soulful, ferocious. The crowd, fucking losing it, people jumping, screaming, fists in the air.

Eddie’s voice, echoing from the stereos.

"MAKE SOME NOISE FOR MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!"

Followed by a cut. And suddenly, there's you. Your hands on his guitar. Your voice, your song, filling the venue. The crowd, alive, vibrating, with you. Eddie, behind you, watching, playing with you, his eyes pinned to you.

"You’re still in." Rick’s voice.

The clip ends.

And the world explodes. You lose it.You scream, clapping, shouting Eddie’s name, your voice raw, barely even thinking, too fucking happy, too fucking proud. Matt whoops loudly beside you, shaking your shoulders. Joe and Salva are roaring, Greg’s fucking grinning, Vanguard is clapping and cheering and making sure the whole fucking venue hears them.

On stage, Eddie looks stunned. His bandmates are hyped as hell, Gareth’s mouth open in a whoop, Jeff clapping so hard his rings catch the light, Grant shaking Eddie by the shoulders like, Do you see this? Do you fucking see this?

Eddie’s looking at you. His mouth parted. His hands in his hair. His eyes so fucking soft, so fucking bright.

The lights change. The music shifts.And the tension slams back into place.You feel it, everywhere. The final moment.

The moderator steps forward. "Alright, everyone. This is it."

Your stomach drops.

"Three incredible bands. Three insane performances".

Eddie shifts, foot tapping, jaw clenched.

"But only one winner".

You grab Matt’s arm, hard.

A fucking drumroll starts. Slow. Deep. Building.

The whole venue holds its breath.

Rick leans into the mic.

"And the winner of the 92.3 Rock FM Battle of the Bands 1985 is..."

The screen goes black.

The drumroll pounds through the speakers, shaking the fucking ground beneath your feet, your bones, your soul.

You can’t fucking breathe. Every muscle in your body is coiled so fucking tight, your nails digging into Matt’s jacket as you cling to him, your other hand crushing Joe’s forearm.

Eddie’s up there, standing dead still, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes locked on the screen, jaw tensed. Gareth is fucking rocking on his heels like he might actually explode, Jeff’s got his hands on his knees, bracing himself, and Grant... Grant just grabs Eddie’s arm, shaking him like he needs to be grounded, like they’re all about to fucking implode.

Matt squeezes your shoulder, "Breathe, kid".

"I can’t," you whisper.

The drumroll builds. Higher, louder, fucking booming.

And then, finally -

The screen lights up.

Bright. Blazing. Two words.

CORRODED COFFIN.

And the world fucking erupts, again.

You scream. You lose your fucking mind.

Eddie drops. Just drops to his knees, hands in his hair, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe it, like he can’t believe it. Jeff and Gareth collapse on top of him, screaming in his face, Grant’s fucking shouting, slapping Eddie’s back, grabbing him, shaking him like he’s trying to wake him up, yanking him up. He's throwing his arms around all of them, grabbing them, his mouth open in a shocked, ecstatic laugh, eyes fucking wild, whole body vibrating with adrenaline.

It’s fucking chaos. The venue is shaking, the sound of screaming, cheering, roaring so loud it feels like it’s going to tear the roof off the place.

You barely see anything past the blur of movement, past the hands in the air, the bodies jumping, the sheer force of the moment.

Corroded Coffin is on the ground again, collapsed into each other, a mess of limbs and screams and laughter, barely able to fucking comprehend what just happened. Eddie is on his knees, hands yanking through his curls, eyes wild, disbelieving, his mouth open in shock, in ecstasy, like he physically cannot process the fact that they won.

They fucking won.

Jeff is shaking him, Gareth is grabbing his face, Grant is whooping, their bodies practically vibrating as they cling to each other, their laughter breaking, breathless.

Your body moves before your brain does, your mouth wide open as you scream, as you jump, as you fucking throw yourself into the moment, into the noise, into the sheer, uncontainable joy exploding around you. Vanguard is fucking losing it, Matt grabbing you by the shoulders, shaking you as he yells in your face, Joe and Salva are shouting, laughing, practically pounding on each other’s backs in pure celebration. Greg throws his head back, letting out a wild yell, his whole body bouncing with adrenaline.

Even Black Sirens and Iron Fangs are cheering, clapping, grinning, some of them high-fiving your guys, nodding in respect, in acknowledgment. Rick Vaughn is grinning, big and fucking genuine, nodding at Eddie, at Corroded Coffin, his hands slamming together in loud, steady applause.

It’s loud. It’s insane. It’s perfect.

Eddie turns. Still dazed, still stunned, still looking like he might actually fucking pass out, but his eyes... his eyes find you.The second they lock with yours, it’s like there’s nobody else in the entire goddamn room. His whole body shifts, his breath hitches, his eyes widen, his face breaks into something so raw, so fucking real that it destroys you. He points at you. Directly. Like it’s instinct. Like it’s the only thing his body can do.

And before you can even process it, Matt’s hands are on your waist. You’re airborne. You yelp, laughing, thrilled, as Matt throws you onto the fucking stage, his shout blending into the chaos, into the riot of the crowd, into the pure madness of the moment. You’re running. Stumbling, sprinting, laughing, legs barely working, vision blurring because you’re crying too hard to see, but it doesn’t matter. Because Eddie’s there. Catches you. His arms wrap around you, tight, crushing you against him, lifting you off the fucking ground, spinning you, holding you like he never wants to let go. Laughing lips fall on each other as you kiss. Hard. Messy. Desperate. Full of everything.

The venue screams. The loudest it’s been all night. The crowd goes feral, clapping, shouting, whistlng, and the guys of Corroded Coffin are howling, Gareth and Jeff fucking whooping, Grant grinning so hard it looks painful, and Vanguard is losing their shit in front of the stage. Matt pounding his chest like an animal, Greg and Salva fucking roaring, Joe tossing his beer into the air because he’s so gone, so thrilled, so hyped.

But Eddie is just holding you. Arms locked around you, lips still on yours, breath still ragged, still shaking, still overwhelmed, but there, here, with you. He pulls back, just enough to look at you, and fuck, you’ve never seen him like this.His eyes are shining. His smile is so big it takes over his whole face, his cheeks flushed, his breath still uneven, still hitched with disbelief, with adrenaline, with the weiht of what just happened. "We fucking did it," he breathes, his forehead dropping against yours.

You laugh. Choked. Hysterical. "You did it," you whisper back. "Baby, you fucking won! I-"

"I love you," he cuts you off, shaking his head, like he needs to say it, like it’s about to burst out of him, like he can’t hold it in for another second.

Your chest caves in. You gasp. Because you feel it, deep, so deep it shakes you, like a fucking earthquake, and thn you’re gripping his face, pulling him back in, whispering, "I love you, too."Kissing him again. And again, and again. "You fucking won", you whisper, cradling his sweaty face with your hands as he puts you back down to the ground, kissing your forehead, your nose, your lips again. "Eds, you WON!", you laugh and glance at his face, "YOU FUCKING WON!"

The chant starts slow, like a rumble rolling through the venue, then it builds, swelling louder and louder, until it’s deafening.

"CORRODED COFFIN! CORRODED COFFIN! CORRODED COFFIN!"

The band throws their arms in the air, feeding off the energy, the raw, chaotic, unreal adrenaline of a dream they never thought would come true. Eddie stares out at them all, at the fans screaming his name, at the people chanting for him, for his music, and he just laughs. A loud, breathless, disbelieving sound, his body shaking with it, his whole soul burning with it.  The venue is still vibrating. The applause, the cheers, the electricity in the air - it’s all-consuming, stretching on for what feels like forever.

One of the judges, Kenny Jones, steps forward, grabbing the mic. "Alright, alright," he laughs, shaking his head. "Let’s bring it back for a second. First off, huge congrats to Corroded Coffin."

Another round of cheers.

"This decision… was not easy."

The noise settles just a bit, enough for his next words to land like a fucking grenade.

"Because, believe it or not," Kenny continues, looking out into the crowd, "people were coming up to us backstage, trying to get them disqualified. Again."

A wave of boos rumbles through the audience, loud and pissed off, echoing through the venue like a storm. You stiffen, glancing at Eddie, at the guys, at the way Eddie’s whole face darkens, jaw clenching, fingers twitching.

"But we’d already made our decision," Kenny pushes on, tone sharper now. "And you know what the argument was? That their gig was only that good because of their guitarist's little Romeo move." He gestures toward you. "Your song. Not them. You."

Your stomach twists. A flicker of doubt, of guilt, tightens around your ribs, but before it can sink in too deep, Nancy Stone, another judge, steps in.

"Yeah, well," she says, grabbing the mic from Kenny, rolling her eyes, "we actually did our jobs and went back to rewatch some parts of their set." She smirks. "I mean, you saw it during the clip, these guys fucking won before any rule break even happened."

A pulse of relief surges through you.

"They deserved this," she finishes, firm.

More cheers.

Mark Mendoza, the third judge, leans forward, smirking into his mic. "And, let’s be real here," he says, eyes gleaming, "This genre isn’t exactly known for following rules anyway."

The crowd fucking loses it. Laughter, cheers, howls of approval, and right in the middle of it, Corroded Coffin. Your boys, still stunned, still riding the high, still looking like they don’t fully believe this is real.

Mark chuckles, shaking his head. "Corroded Coffin, you deserved this. You’re the winners of a $2000 cash prize, a gig at one of the most famous venues in Indianapolis, The Black Cat, and..." He pauses, grinning. "you’re welcome to play one of your songs during prime time on 92.3 Rock FM, plus give a short interview on air."

The audience erupts again.

Mark raises a brow, "You guys happy about that?"

The guys react immediately. Laughter, nods, claps, disbelief. Gareth and Jeff fucking grab each other, shaking like lunatics, Grant lets out a fuck yeah!, Eddie just throws his head back, grinning so wide it has to hurt.

You smile, staying back. Standing at the edge of the stage, watching, not stealing their moment, letting them have this.Rick grabs the mic. "Alright, one last thing."

You still, something prickling at the back of your neck.

"All the bands tonight were amazing," Rick says, nodding toward Black Sirens and Iron Fangs, "And I really hope we’ll hear more from you in the future."

A round of applause for them, respectful, genuine.

He turns back to the crowd. "But… someone else really made quite an impression tonight, right?"

The heat in your body spikes as Rick’s eyes lock onto you.

"Sam," he drawls, smirking. "Where are you, huh? Suddenly all shy after heavily making out on our stage?"

A spotlight finds you. Your entire body flushes. The crowd laughs, whistles, shouts your name, and you hesitate, stepping forward, heart racing, barely able to breathe.

Rick tilts his head, watching you, grinning widely. "Your man here broke the goddamn rules for you," he says, nodding toward Eddie, "You got screwed over by your old band tonight, and instead of letting it slide, you got up there and showed us how it's done."

Another roar from the crowd.

"And we all loved it," Rick continues, "Loved your version of it."

Your throat closes.

"You got my number," he continues, grinning wider and winking at you, "Fucking call me."

Your heart stops.

"I wanna make a star out of you," he declares. Then, he gestures at the guys. "And, out of these bastards."

The noise in the venue triples. More cheers, more screams, more madness.

Before you can even process it, Eddie grabs you again, yanks you toward him, laughing, dragging you straight into their huddle, into the middle of it all, arms locking around you, keeping you close. "You belong here, baby," he says, voice gruff, eyes shining, face still flushed with adrenaline, happiness, fucking love.

Your chest aches, you can't help but glance at the front row. Rick's band. Vanguard. Matt, Greg, Joe, Salva. Watching you with nothing but pride. Like big brothers.

The moderator steps closer, handing Grant a mic. It's time for the band to say something. They’re still speechless, still dazed, still riding the high. Grant stares at the mic in his hand. Up at his band mates. And without a second thought, he hands it to Eddie.

Dark eyes flicker across the stage, to the judges, to the crowd, to you, then back down to the mic. He swallows, exhales, tries to steady himself, he’s still vibrating, still wired, still holding on by a fucking thread. "Uh." He clears his throat. "Holy shit."

More laughter. More cheers.

"Okay, fuck," he breathes. "This- this is fucking insane. I don’t even know where to start".

"Try saying thank you," Jeff mutters, snickering.

Eddie shoots him a look, but he nods. "Right. Right. Thank you. Jesus Christ- thank you. To everyone. The judges, the other bands. Black Sirens, Iron Fangs, you guys fucking killed it-"

More cheers from the side of the stage, the other finalists clapping, nodding, grinning. 

"To this fucking crowd!" Eddie lifts his arms, gestures at the screaming, chanting mass of people losing their minds, "For sticking with us, for fucking screaming for us, holy shit, I think you guys gave us a heart attack".

Louder, now. More chanting.

"CORRODED COFFIN! CORRODED COFFIN!"

Eddie laughs, shaking his head, squeezing the mic. "Fuck", he laughs, "This- this is fucking insane. I mean... shit, man, we came here to play, to just- fucking do our thing, and somehow we... " He laughs again, overwhelmed, running a hand through his hair, "We fucking won."

The venue loses it again.

"Like, fuck," Eddie continues, laughing breathlessly, shaking his head, "And I know, I know people are probably pissed about what went down, but you heard the judges. You saw the clip. We didn’t win because of one fucking song. We won because we earned it."

More cheers.

Eddie nods, his confidence building, his stance firming. "And fuck anyone who tried to take that from us," he declares, voice stronger now, more sure. "Fuck anyone who tried to have us disqualified, who thought they could just- just cut us out because we don’t fit their little fucking mold. We played our fucking asses off. And we belong here."

The crowd roars. Jeff and Gareth whoop behind him, Grant slapping his back, nodding, grinning. You're just staring, smiling. Crushing so hard on him as he goes on.

"So, thank you, to every single person who ever came out to our gigs, who ever fucking believed in us. To every freak, every outcast, every headbanger who ever felt like they didn’t belong - this is for you!" 

The crowd roars.

Jeff and Gareth whoop beside you, Grant tossing up devil horns, and Eddie nods, looking out over them all, still in shock, still in it.

"And to these idiots", he jerks his thumb toward his bandmates, grinning as they snicker, "You guys are the best fucking people I know. My brothers. And I would not be standing here without you".

Another explosion of cheers, more claps on the back, more celebratory punches to the arm, and Eddie laughs again, shaking his head, bathing in the sounds. He lets the cheers roll over him, lets the moment breathe, drags a hand down his face, like he's trying to ground himself, to make sure this isn’t some insane fever dream. But then his fingers tighten back around the mic, and his eyes find you, standing between his band, watching him. His stance softens, the wild, buzzing energy in him shifting, still intense, still electric, but warmer now. More focused. Like the chaos of the night has settled into something solid, something real.

"And you", he says, voice lower, steadier, but still thick with emotion. The roar of the crowd doesn’t even register because he’s looking at you like that. Like you hung the goddamn moon. You freeze, pulse hammering, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. The heat of the stage lights. The way the guys are grinning like idiots beside you. The fact that the entire fucking venue is watching. Eddie huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t even know what to say," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering between the floor and you, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Like he’s feeling too much at once. He breathes in deep. Steadying himself. "You..." He pauses. Swallows. "You've completely wrecked my life since the first day I saw you".

Laughter. Shouts. More whistles from the crowd.

But Eddie just keeps looking at you, keeps shaking his head, that grin still there, soft and so fucking in love. "Baby," he says, voice rough, full of something big, something wild, "I’d break the rules for you over and over again. You fucking belong on a stage".

More cheers, more screams, more excitement bursting through the room, and you swallow hard, heart swelling, eyes stinging.

Eddie just grins, keeps shaking his head. "I was already gone for you, but now? After you just set this place on fire with your song?" He lets out a breathless laugh. "Fuck, Sam, I don’t stand a chance."

Your chest aches.

"You are..." He stops, searching for the words, really searching, because nothing feels big enough to hold what he wants to say. "You’re the kinda girl people write songs about," he finally breathes, voice softer now, like it’s meant just for you. And then his grin turns sharp. Bright. Certain. "And trust me, I’m gonna write you the fucking best one".

The venue explodes again as Eddie steps closer.

His free hand finds your waist, squeezing like he needs to. "Never leave me, okay?" His voice is quieter now, not for the crowd anymore. Just for you. His dark eyes flicker over your face, burning, pleading, "Never."

You swallow hard, nodding, breathless, fucking ruined for him.

He grins, lifts the mic again, and shouts for everyone to hear, "Baby, I am so fucking done for you."

The world tilts, and then Eddie Munson kisses you once again. Right there, on stage, in front of everyone. And the venue erupts. Screams. Cheers. Fucking madness. But none of it matters. Because it’s him. His hands on your waist, his lips pressing firm against yours, every ounce of adrenaline, relief, and pure joy pouring into you like he’s trying to make sure you feel it too. And you do. You kiss him back, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, swallowing the quiet noise he makes in the back of his throat. He smiles against your lips, breathes out a soft fuck, baby just for you.

"ALRIGHT!" Gareth’s voice cracks as he snatches the mic from his grasp. "Get a fucking room," he shouts, grinning like a lunatic, and the whole crowd bursts into laughter, catcalling, howling.

Eddie pulls back but doesn’t let go of you, still laughing, still dazed as hell. "Fucking jerk", he gripes, but there’s no heat behind it, just pure fucking happiness.

Gareth just winks, and then, Rick steps up again. "Alright, alright, before this turns into some kind of live broadcasted porno, let’s get these winners their goddamn prizes!"

A stagehand steps forward, handing over a massive check, a sleek black envelope, and a small trophy.

Eddie takes it, staring down at it like he can’t fucking believe it’s real. "$2,000, a gig at The Black Cat, and airtime on 92.3 Rock FM," Rick reminds them, grinning. "How the fuck does that feel?"

Grant grins as he lifts the mic.

"Like the fucking start, baby!"