The hallway upstairs was narrow, lined with a few framed photos you didn’t stop to examine. The last door on the right was cracked open, soft light spilling out along with the quiet hum of a phone playing something lo-fi.

You pushed the door open.

The first thing that hit you was the smell of stale soda and fabric softener. The second was the sheer mess of it all—clothes crumpled on the floor, an overflowing trash can, a half-eaten bag of chips on the nightstand. Band posters covered every inch of the walls, their colors faded and edges curling.

And propped against the desk, gleaming under the warm light, sat a sleek red electric guitar.

Then there was the boy.

He was sprawled across the center of the bed like he’d melted there, one arm draped over his stomach, the other holding his phone above his face. An oversized band tee hung off his thin frame—My Chemical Romance, the lettering cracked and worn. Baggy black-and-white plaid pajama pants pooled around his ankles.

His hair was a cascade of deep black, shaggy and uneven, falling over his face like a curtain. It caught the light as he turned his head, just slightly.

The silver in his face glinted—a bar across the bridge of his nose, a ring through his septum, studs in both nostrils, and a cluster of hoops hugging his lower lip. He looked like someone who’d walked off a punk album cover and landed here, in this messy bedroom.

He lowered his phone slowly. Tossed it onto the mattress beside him. Then his gaze shifted up to you, sharp blue eyes cutting through the dark fringe of his bangs.