Most love stories don’t start with I stole your bike, you stole my heart. That’s Lerocque’s flex—making something reckless feel like fate (and yes, he really did steal her bike!). The track slides in mid-tempo, alt-pop shimmer wrapping around a story where trouble turns tender, where a fight you thought was coming turns into someone dropping their guard and stepping closer. Like You lives in that space of surprise, the kind that sneaks up on you and stays warm in your heart long after.
Lerocque, born Pedro Rodrigues, isn’t new to turning chaos into charm. He grew up as the immigrant kid in Switzerland, glued to Lion King VHS tapes and Final Fantasy soundtracks, already drunk on the way music can change the air in a room. The middle finger in family photos, the boy who tried to start a zoo before starting a band—there’s always been mischief in him. That mischief runs through this track, the grin behind the line I thought you’d wanna fight, but you put down your guard. It feels raw and unpredictable, the kind of closeness you’d expect from someone who learned English through Zelda quests and Final Fantasy soundtracks, carrying that gamer sense of drama and escape into every hook he writes.
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That gaming foundation taught him how to dream big, but the water keeps him grounded. Lerocque says some of his best song ideas come while diving, the world muted except for his own breath. It makes sense—Like You carries that same suspended feeling, like you’re weightless in someone else’s orbit, unsure if you’ll surface the same way you went under.
When he hits the chorus—Ooh, never met someone like you, that could blow my mind like you—the track opens up, glossy and wide. It’s the kind of hook that feels like falling harder than you planned, the floor slipping under you, every word stretched with the ache of surrender. He leans into repetition, like you, like you, oh, like you, turning it almost hypnotic, the way a crush loops in your head until you’re dizzy from it. You can hear him giving in, like resistance was never really an option.
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Then he drops into the verse—You showed me love, a deeper side, yeah somehow we connected, it was unexpected, you and I. The production softens around him, the edges smoothing so the words land bare. It’s Lerocque letting the thrill fade into something steadier, the first rush turning into skin-to-skin closeness. You can hear how much he leans on the word unexpected, like he still can’t believe the chaos brought him something that feels this safe.
When he repeats I do, I do, listen to me when I say, the track shifts into something closer to a vow, stripped of polish and ceremony. The hook that began with stolen bikes and broken trust circles back as devotion, raw and unpolished. It’s not marriage-ballad polished—it’s the kind of line you blurt when you’re still catching your breath, when honesty beats out control.
That’s the heart of Like You—a song born out of Lerocque’s contradictions. The gamer who learned English from Zelda, the dreamer who wanted a zoo, the diver who chases silence underwater, the optimist who still flips chaos into melody. The edges stay jagged because love in his world comes from stolen bikes, broken trust, and unexpected turns. And somehow, in his hands, it feels less like chance and more like destiny set to a beat.
