This is my first JONAS fic, I hope you like it. :)

He's a popstar, rockstar, professional and serious.

She's an athlete, a fan, a friend.

He likes to think she came along and made everything slightly messy.

And he doesn't mind.

She flits in and out of his days, his routines, her big brown eyes always wide when he speaks to or smiles at her. She's less of a squealing fangirl now, having dropped the 'of JONAS' a while ago, and far from one of those screeching girls who wept as they met them.

She laughs at his jokes and comes to band practise, swinging her legs in time to the beat. Sometimes she hums along and taps her fingers too.

He notices that she smiles at the lyrics too, and she always likes the songs and claps afterwards.

It touches his heart that she's constantly supporting them, and suddenly he needs her there at practise.

He takes Frankie to the park one Saturday, because Joe's out with Stella and Kevin's doing...something, and their parents are attending a parenting conference.

Frankie wants to play football and basketball and baseball and it seems all at once and a hyper nine-year-old is the last thing he needs.

But then he spots her on a bench, texting vigorously with a scowl on her face. He leaves Frankie with the football for a minute and heads over to her, hands in his pockets.

"Hi," he says when he reaches her. She looks up.

"Oh, Nick! Hi!" She glares at her phone one last time before stuffing it in her pocket. "I didn't see you."

"Who were you texting and why were you so mad?" He asks, taking a seat next to her.

"It's one of the people at the JONAS fansite. She's changing everything, because she thinks it needs a 'new look'," she grumbles. "She's a system editor but she didn't ask for my permission first."

"That sucks," he says. "So you're yelling at her through text messages?"

"Yes," she says solemnly, nodding.

"Want to take your mind off it and help me babysit Frankie?" he asks hopefully.

She raises her eyebrow and glances past him, and then her eyes widen.

"Nick! He's throwing the football at those little kids!"

"Nick," she says as they slump on his couch. "Do you know that you are a terrible babysitter?"

He turns and frowns at her, and she grins mischievously.

Her eyes shine for a second and it's kind of beautiful.

He writes a song.

He doesn't really know why he wrote it, just that it's about a girl who swings her feet and flashes playful smiles at everyone.

He isn't quite sure why it's one of his favourites, either.

He writes it, yes, but the sheets of paper are stuffed into a folder and then pushed into one of the crevices by his under-the-drum-kit bed.

It's the only one in the clear blue plastic folder, because he shows everyone all his other songs, but not this one.

It doesn't make any sense; the melody is weird and it is half melancholy, half amused.

At night, when Kevin is snoring and Joe is huddled as far as he can go under the covers, he takes it out and looks at it, clutching his favourite pencil; but he can only bring himself to maybe sharpen or flatten one or two notes.

He shoves the folder back behind one of his pillows and tucks his pencil away, utterly confused.

He isn't sure who finds it; maybe it was his mom, bless her, moving it so she could change his sheets, or Kevin, looking for something to save the animals with, or maybe Joe's itching fingers towards the manuscript paper finally succeeded.

Macy gives him a fright in the morning, coming from nowhere and throwing a stupid, pretty smile at him.

"Hi, Nick," she murmurs. "I like the song."

He goes red, anger and humiliation battling for the prime emotion.

She looks like she's trying not to laugh, and she reaches for his hand.

"I like it," she says again as her fingers lock around his. "I – I know."

He doesn't know why, but he finds it a little easier to breathe all of a sudden; it's not like he ever sat down and thought about her – her, Macy, a girl he could love – but he knows he's smiling and pulling on her fingers just as hard as she's pulling on his.

He smiles, and they don't kiss, or anything, because for once he's tired of the cliché. She tugs on his arm and he walks her to class, and it's sort of wonderful.