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The band wasn’t what he’d call ‘good’, Dave Strider noted, but they weren’t bad, either. He supposed they’d be good if you were into that sort of repetitive pop-punk music.
Which, apparently, Jade was.
She was bouncing up and down on the spot, practically bursting with excitement. Noticing his mirrored, smiling glance in her direction, she hopped over, almost knocking him over as she slung her arms around his neck, eyes wide behind her large round glasses.
“Oh my god, Dave, this is soooooooo cool! Thank you so much!!! This is the best birthday ever!!” She squealed, hugging him tight.
He chuckled, opening his mouth to throw out one of those cheesy one-liners so so adored before the band unloaded the next song on their set list and the sheer ecstasy proved just too much for her.
Mid-breath, she flopped over, completely limp in his arms, fast asleep. He chuckled, shaking his head as he gently dragged her to the side, away from the moshing crowd. He set her down on the grass, sitting down next to her prone, snoring form. She’d be back up in a few minutes anyway: he knew the routine. She’d snap awake just as quickly as she fell asleep, and he’d greet her with a kiss, Prince Charming style. She liked that.
All he had to do was wait.
He glanced back to the stage. She wouldn’t miss much.
The band wasn’t what he’d call ‘good’, but Jade Harley liked them. And that was good enough for him.