The thing about backyard shows? They’re always a gamble.

Sometimes you get a decent crowd, a half-working sound setup, and enough room to breathe between songs. Other times, it’s tangled wires, screaming drunks, and somebody’s cousin trying to freestyle over your set.

But I don’t mind.

Noise is noise. We show up, we play, we leave. That’s the job.

I pull a black shirt over my head—clean-ish, sleeves rolled. Ripped jeans. Beat-up boots. I run my fingers through my hair until it looks like I tried. I didn’t. But it looks like I did, and that’s what matters.

Downstairs, Chloe’s on the couch with her laptop and a bowl of popcorn.

“You performing or brooding?” she asks, eyeing my all-black situation.

“Little of both.”

She tosses a kernel at me. “Tell Preston not to set anything on fire this time.”

“No promises.”

In the kitchen, Mom’s filling water bottles and Dad’s cleaning a pan from dinner. Gavin and Zoe are sitting on the floor building something out of LEGOs that looks like it shouldn’t be standing but somehow is.

“You heading out?” Mom asks, handing me a paper bag.

“What’s this?”

“Food. For after. You always forget to eat after shows.”

I shrug but take it anyway. “Thanks.”

She kisses the side of my head and says, “Be safe. Don’t trust cheap extension cords.”

“Noted.”

I ride with Eli—he’s the only one in the band with a van big enough for the gear. Preston’s already there when we pull up, running cable from the garage to the edge of the yard like he’s rigging a concert instead of a party. Mason from Cole’s crew is helping, which explains why nothing’s plugged in correctly yet.

“Soundcheck in ten,” Preston calls, waving us over.

I grab my guitar and help Eli unload the amps. The sky’s starting to dim, pink bleeding into navy, and kids are already trickling in—plastic cups, Bluetooth speakers, someone yelling about chips.

It’s gonna be loud. Sloppy. Probably chaotic.

Perfect.

I tune up, adjust my mic stand, and test the pedal board. Everything buzzes the way it’s supposed to.

I don’t care who’s here.

I don’t care who’s listening.

I’ve got a guitar in my hands and something to say.

That’s all I need.

PART 2

The backyard’s already packed by the time we finish setup.

Preston’s got standing lights strung across the fence, half of them flickering like they’re running on borrowed time. Somebody wheeled out a cooler, and kids are clustered in groups—laughing, yelling, trying too hard not to look like they’re trying too hard.

I don’t know most of them. Doesn’t matter. We’re not here for them.

We run a quick soundcheck—nothing fancy. Just a line test, volume balance. Eli gives me a thumbs-up behind the drum kit. Preston’s messing with his bass strap, tightening it like it might save his life.

Cole comes over right as I’m plugging in.

“You good?”

“Always,” I say.

He looks half-hyped, half-nervous. “Just don’t piss off the neighbors.”

“No promises.”

I roll my shoulders, adjust the mic, and glance at the band. Eli counts us in with four clicks of his sticks.

We start.

First track—tight, fast, loud enough to drown out any conversation. My fingers fall into rhythm like they always do, muscle memory doing the work while I let the lyrics come out raw. I don’t care how they land. They’re not for anyone but me.

The backyard shifts. Heads turn. Conversations slow. Not stop—but slow. That’s the first sign.

A few people start moving closer. Somebody whoops after the chorus. Someone else holds up their phone.

Second song’s slower, heavier. Preston’s bass buzzes through the ground. My voice catches just right on the hook, and I lean into it—eyes closed for a second, like the rest of the night doesn’t matter.

This is the only part that ever feels real.

By the third song, the crowd’s bigger. Tighter. Closer.

Someone says my name. I don’t look.

I don’t need to.

I’m already somewhere else—chords under my fingers, words in my throat, lights flashing like a heartbeat. Everything else fades out.

No faces. No names. Just sound.

PART 3

By the fourth song, we’ve got them.

People are actually listening now—not just drinking and yelling over us, but watching. Nodding along. A few are dancing, loose and messy, not in time with anything but the beat in their heads. It’s good. Better than most house sets.

We’re not even halfway through, and Preston’s grinning like a maniac. He loves when the crowd bites early. Eli locks in behind him, steady and hard, cymbals crashing just enough to push the sound through the walls.

I lean into the mic. “This next one’s a little rough. Just how we like it.”

It gets a few cheers. A whistle. Somebody shouts something I don’t catch.

I don’t write clean songs. I don’t write happy ones either. But they’re honest. That’s the whole point.

We start the next track—a slower one, gritty, with a drop halfway through that always lands hard. My voice rides the edge of raw. I don’t try to sound polished. I don’t care if I crack a little. Sometimes truth sounds like breaking.

Halfway through the song, I glance up.

Just for a second.

There’s movement near the back of the crowd. Some guy—tall, broad-shouldered, arms crossed like he’s pretending he’s not actually listening. His face catches the string lights just right. Clean-cut. Letterman jacket. Classic jock type.

But he’s watching.

Not casually.

Not like the others.

Just… still.

Eyes on me like he’s trying to figure something out.

I don’t look again. I don’t need to.

I already felt it.

The band hits the drop. The bass roars. I throw my head back and let the last note rip straight through my chest.

If anyone’s looking for something real tonight, this is where they’ll find it.