Flashing lights, loud music, and huge crowds. It wasn't my usual scene, but I was learning to appreciate it. After all, my girlfriend was the vocalist for the popular punk band, Racing Against Ravens, and I didn't dare miss a single show.

Mostly because I loved to yell "RAR" and pretend it was a fan chant.

I made my way backstage as they bid their screaming fans a good night, playing with my split ends and ignoring the reporters as I waited for her to find me.

"How did you two meet?" asked one. "What's she like off stage?" asked another. I glanced up only to roll my eyes when one of them asked me what she was like in bed.

"How would she know," a raspy voice called out from behind the wall of nosy reporters. "It's not like we're dating or anything." Someone laughed, and I didn't have to look to know it was the drummer. He had set us up in the first place.

A smirk worked its way onto my face as I watched her shove through the wall and come to a stop in front of me. Feigning indifference, I eyed her outfit. She wore stylishly scuffed black boots, holey black skinny jeans, a red cutoff tank, random accessories I couldn't even begin to describe, and a ring of heavy black around her eyes.

Next to her, I looked like a nobody--although I supposed that's exactly what I was: the nameless girlfriend of a famous punk singer.

I let her pull me up so we were standing face to face, just inches from each other. She smiled when I looked her in the eye. "Was I amazing?" she asked. There was a kind of nervous anticipation buried beneath her bravado, and I couldn't help but want to tease her. Of course she was amazing.

Leaning in, I brushed my nose against hers, pulling away when she moved closer, and smiling at her frustrated huff. "You were alright," I shrugged.

She opened her mouth to voice her offense when we heard someone say, "You look kind of... weird together." A general murmur of agreement sounded from the crowd.

We pulled away, glaring at the crowd and trying to determine who spoke. They weren't wrong. She had dyed hair and piercings and make up, and I had brown hair, glasses, and a band teeshirt. We didn't match. If anything, I looked like a groupie.

It was unconscious how our hands found each other, reassuring the both of us that what people thought of our relationship didn't matter. We couldn't change their opinion, we could only do what was right for us. "Who gives a fuck," she snarled. "And why are you all still here?"

I chuckled, trying to make light of the pain I felt from yet another person who didn't think I was good enough for her. "You're so cute. Always yelling at people for me." The faintest blush tinted her cheeks, making me grin and easing the clenching of my heart just a little.

She must have sensed that I was about to tease her again because she pulled on my hand and led me to her dressing room before I could throw fish to the hungry sharks and their gossip articles.

"You're blushing," I sang when she closed the door. I had to joke around because if I didn't, I might cry. I agreed with everyone who believed that she was too good for me, and even though I knew that she chose me over everyone else in the world, I couldn't help but feel insecure. I didn't look good standing next to someone so stunning.

She rolled her eyes and dropped onto the chair, already pulling out her lip ring and searching through her bag for her make up wipes. "Shut up," she snapped, but it didn't have any bite.

I sat down beside her, watching in the mirror as she cleaned off her face.

"I always feel like I look strange after I take it all off," she said after a minute of merciless scrubbing. "Like I'm removing the mask and suddenly I'm not the lead singer for R. A. R., I'm just me." She looked at me through the reflection. "When I'm on stage, I'm a completely different person. I'm confident, and I feel important and it's exciting."

I turned to look at her, threading my fingers through hers once again.

"But then it's off and I feel normal. Uninteresting. Like I'm missing a part of me." She turned to meet my gaze, a sad smile on her lips.

I knew how she felt, and I knew that the feeling sucked, but I liked when she wasn't a stunning rockstar dripping with confidence. I liked to see her when she was broken and imperfect. Those were the times when I felt like I was special to her and that I deserved to stand by her side--not because she wasn't perfect, but because she trusted me enough to drop her facade and be real. In those moments, she let herself belong to me, not her fans or the band, but me and only me.

"You're beautiful," I whispered, bringing my hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Without the make up and the piercings and the outfit. Even without that rockstar confidence. You're fascinating. You've got three moles under your eye and they look like a pawprint. The scar on your eyebrow from running into that bookshelf never grew back and for some reason it looks really badass. Even though I know why you ran into the shelf."

She pulled a face. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. It was cute. You wanted to be cool but you couldn't hide your nerd." I held up my hands in surrender, still smiling at the memory. "Look, point is, you aren't perfect, and I think it's wonderful.'" I pulled the glasses off my face and set them carefully on her nose.

A grin tugged at the corner of her lips and she turned back to the mirror to hide it from me. Always trying to be cool. "I guess we match when I look like this."

One eyebrow quirked, I eyed her. "You mean when you look plain and normal, just like me? Thanks."

The tension left my shoulders when she laughed, and I figured I'd let her get away with calling me normal just this once.

We sat like that for a long while, just staring into our reflections, but she seemed content and I wasn't about to disrupt her. Even a mighty punk singer needed to relax sometimes.

"... So I only sounded 'alright?'" she asked after a long moment. I couldn't help but smile at how my comment had gotten to her. She had been more than amazing, and in truth, I had been awe struck yet again when I watched her easy confidence on that stage. Her voice was my favorite sound.

Of course I wasn't about to admit that.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a wicked grin crept onto my face. I brought my lips to her ear and whispered, "I like it better when you moan."