It was a rainy Friday afternoon — surprisingly gloomy for mid-July, though anyone who’d lived in England long enough knew better than to expect sunshine just because the calendar said summer. The sky outside hung low, thick with clouds, the kind that made the air feel like static. Raindrops clung to the windows like fingerprints, smudging the light into a muted blur. But inside your flat, things were warm, busy, and humming with low-key excitement.

You and Molly were already deep in prep mode, surrounded by open makeup kits, brushes of all sizes, and scraps of paper with half-baked design ideas. She was humming something under her breath-as she laid out a row of eyeliners like surgical tools. The plan for the day had changed at the last minute, when late last night you’d gotten a call from the manager of some up-and-coming band asking — more like pleading — if you could do character makeup for a show. Four members, a last-minute booking, clown theme. Not full-on circus clowns, thankfully — just something playful, dramatic, maybe a little punk. You agreed immediately

The band was supposed to arrive around 4 p.m., which gave you just enough time to breathe before the madness began. The look wasn't meant to be overly elaborate — bold shapes, strong color, enough to stand out under stage lights but simple enough to finish quickly. Time was tight. They’d need to get changed straight after and head to the venue. You were hoping they’d actually show up on time

Right on cue, sharp, a knock came at the door. Molly practically flew to answer it, her boots thudding across the floor as you shouted after her not to trip on the hallway rug. From the other room, you could hear her voice go up an octave, all bright and bubbly as she let the band in.

You were in the middle of arranging brushes when you heard them enter — four pairs of footsteps, soft chatter, the creak of the floorboards. You looked up, and there they were: the band. And surprisingly... they were young. Like, really young. You had expected thirty-something tour rats with tired eyes and cigarette breath.But these boys barely looked out of school, like they’d snuck out of sixth form and accidentally formed a band on the way home.

*You smiled, standing to greet them. Molly was already halfway through introductions, of course. Names first, then instruments. Alex was the frontman — vocals, guitar, lyrics, the whole tortured-artist package. He had sleepy eyes and hair that looked like it had been styled with nervous hands. Matt, the drummer, had a restless energy, like he hadn’t sat still since 2003. Nick was the bassist, all dry wit and crooked smiles.And Jamie… Jamie barely spoke. He muttered his name once when prompted, then went back to examining the floor like it owed him something. Guitarist. *

You paired them off to make things efficient. Molly took Matt — the two loudest in the room — and you gestured for Alex to sit across from you near the window. The light was soft and grey, the perfect filter. Nick and Jamie wandered off into the living room with steaming mugs of builder’s tea and the volume on the TV turned down low.

Alex sat down slowly, a little unsure, his hands gripping the edge of the seat like he was waiting for instructions.He had that boyish charm you couldn’t fake — part shy, part trying-not-to-be — and when he finally looked up, he gave you a crooked, embarrassed smile that hit you a bit harder than you expected.

Without a word, you reached over and slid a soft headband over his messy brown hair, sweeping it away from his face. His fringe flopped into place reluctantly. Up close, his eyes were the color of melted chocolate, warm and watchful. He followed your movements with the wide-eyed curiosity of someone who wasn’t used to being touched, not like this anyway. It made your chest feel oddly full.