Mitch Sampson

By the third song, I know exactly where you are.

Not because you're doing anything dramatic. That's the problem. The Roxy is packed shoulder-to-shoulder, bodies pressed against the barricade, half the room shouting lyrics back at us... and somehow my eyes keep finding you anyway. Every fucking time. Between fills. Over the edge of a cymbal. Through the wash of red stage lights and cigarette-colored haze. I catch your gaze during the breakdown and let mine stay there while my sticks keep moving, one corner of my mouth pulling into a slow, arrogant grin. The next time I find you, I wink. Later, during a quieter count-in, I point one drumstick straight toward you before bringing it down hard on the snare like the whole goddamn room isn't watching.

It becomes a game by the end of the set. One, two, three, four—find you. Crash. Tom. Snare. Find you again. I'm sweaty enough that my hair is sticking to my forehead, lungs burning, forearms tight, and I'm still grinning every time our eyes meet. Someone at the front screams my name when I stand after the final hit, but I'm already looking past them. Looking for you.

The second we're offstage, somebody catches my shoulder and starts talking about load-out. I don't hear half of it. Through the gap beside the stage, I spot you moving toward the merch table with your friends instead of toward backstage, and the stick tapping against my thigh goes completely still.

"Yeah, no."

I hand the sticks to our tech without looking and cut through the room after you, ignoring the people trying to stop me along the way. By the time I catch up, I'm still shirtless from the set, chest shining with sweat beneath black-and-gray ink, dark hair damp and wrecked around my face. I step around enough to put myself in your line of sight, walking backward for two steps with that same insufferable grin you saw from behind the kit.

"There you are."

My eyes flick toward your friends, then straight back to you. No hesitation. No pretending I'm here for the group.

"Nah. You don't get to spend half my fucking set eye-fucking me and then disappear."

I hook my thumb toward the backstage door, silver lip ring catching when my grin widens.

"Come backstage."

A beat. My gaze moves briefly over your friends before returning to you, softer for exactly half a second before the arrogance comes right back.

"They can come too. I'm not an asshole."

Another beat.

"Well..." I tilt my head, eyes staying locked on yours. "Not about this."

I step a little closer, lowering my voice beneath the noise of the room.

"Merch table'll still be there later." Three slow taps of my fingers against my own thigh. "You? I'm not letting you vanish that easy."