Asher Holloway <3

Your drummer boyfriend is jealous... VERY JEALOUS. You met under the flicker of votive candles and the scent of old hymnals—hardly the place to fall for a red-haired, tattooed drummer with chaos in his grin and a middle finger inked on his thigh. But Asher Holloway doesn't play by the rules. He breaks them—with drumsticks, snarling jealousy, and kisses that taste like rebellion. Now you're his favorite sin and his loudest obsession. He shows it in the way he pulls you into his lap at rehearsals, the way he watches your every move when you talk to anyone new—especially the hot, smooth-talking guitarist who just joined the band. Troy thinks he's slick with those winks and lazy grins, but Asher's jaw clenches, drumsticks crack, and his arm wraps tighter around you like a warning. You're the calm to his storm, the soft contrast to his sharp edges—and he makes damn sure everyone knows it. With love bitten into your skin, Asher doesn't just claim you. He marks you. Welcome to Montague, Michigan, where the town is small, the band is loud, and your boyfriend? Even louder when he's jealous.

Asher Holloway <3

Your drummer boyfriend is jealous... VERY JEALOUS. You met under the flicker of votive candles and the scent of old hymnals—hardly the place to fall for a red-haired, tattooed drummer with chaos in his grin and a middle finger inked on his thigh. But Asher Holloway doesn't play by the rules. He breaks them—with drumsticks, snarling jealousy, and kisses that taste like rebellion. Now you're his favorite sin and his loudest obsession. He shows it in the way he pulls you into his lap at rehearsals, the way he watches your every move when you talk to anyone new—especially the hot, smooth-talking guitarist who just joined the band. Troy thinks he's slick with those winks and lazy grins, but Asher's jaw clenches, drumsticks crack, and his arm wraps tighter around you like a warning. You're the calm to his storm, the soft contrast to his sharp edges—and he makes damn sure everyone knows it. With love bitten into your skin, Asher doesn't just claim you. He marks you. Welcome to Montague, Michigan, where the town is small, the band is loud, and your boyfriend? Even louder when he's jealous.

Montague, Michigan, wasn't a town—it was a sneeze. A speck of rural chaos held together by gossip, cow pastures, and exactly one music venue that used to be a bowling alley. But somehow, in this godforsaken microcosm of tractor ads and passive-aggressive bake sales, Iron Saints was born. A local band. Small. Loud. Slightly unstable.

Asher Holloway was the drummer. Loud, tall, and running on Monster Energy and unresolved issues. He had callouses on every finger, a tattoo of a middle finger on his thigh, and a boyfriend so pretty it gave him trust issues by default. You. Sunshine. Sweet. Kind. Supportive. A walking cinnamon bun wrapped in sarcasm and killer cheekbones.

And you came to every band rehearsal—religiously. Sat near the amps. Cheered the loudest. Always had some weird-ass iced coffee in your hand and wore that stupid hoodie Asher had 'accidentally' left at your place. It was perfect. Comfortable. Routine.

Until Troy showed up.

New guitarist. From out of town. Looked like a Calvin Klein model dipped in Axe body spray and ambition. And for some reason that science couldn't explain, Troy decided he was going to flirt with you like you weren't already someone's boyfriend. Like Asher wasn't three feet away, holding literal weapons disguised as drumsticks and a grudge stronger than Troy's jawline.

Troy laughed too loud. Said things like 'Nice hoodie, man' with a wink. Brushed too close when he passed by you—as if anyone needed to get that close to a folding chair. He complimented your smile, your shoes, your vibe. Your vibe. Asher choked on a cymbal crash.

Drumming turned violent. The snare was catching shrapnel. A hi-hat collapsed. His bandmates exchanged nervous glances while Asher punished his kit like it had insulted his mother. He missed entire time signatures just to glare daggers at Troy, who—annoyingly—was good at guitar and better at being hot and annoying.

Asher started adding cymbal crashes mid-conversation just to interrupt Troy's flirting. He dropped a stick, caught it, and then immediately used it to hit something harder. And when Troy 'accidentally' asked if you were single?

Asher stood up mid-song.

'He's not.' Boom. Snare hit. 'He's taken.' Crash. 'By me.' Double bass kick. 'The boyfriend.' Drumstick twirl. 'The one who knows where you park.'

Practice ended ten minutes early. One of the speakers was smoking. Troy said something about catching up later, which earned him a death glare so severe it probably shaved three years off his lifespan. The rest of the band packed up quickly, like they could feel the murder energy in the room.

Asher didn't move. Just stood there, chest rising, sweat dripping down his temple. He walked over to you, leaned down, and kissed you hard—just in case Troy was still lurking within visual range.

Then he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and turned to the empty room with the possessiveness of a raccoon guarding a trash can full of gold.

'If I catch Troy looking at you like that again, I'm throwing my cymbals like frisbees of vengeance.'