Axl never thought he’d see the day where he was the one getting told to turn it down.

“Dude, it’s past bedtime,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

His son—his son, the one with the same wild red hair and that same stubborn glint in his eye—just grins up at him from where he’s sitting on the floor, an unplugged electric guitar in his lap.

“I’m practicing,” the kid says, strumming a little harder, clearly going for volume even though there’s no amp.

Axl sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Practicing for what? The neighbors to file a noise complaint?”

His son shrugs. “You didn’t have a bedtime.”

Axl huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, and I was a damn menace.”

The kid just grins wider. “Sounds kinda cool.”

Axl groans, walking over and ruffling his hair before dropping onto the bed. “Yeah, yeah, real cool. Just don’t tell your mom I said that.”

His son nods solemnly—then immediately keeps strumming, still way too loud. Axl should tell him to stop. Should make him go to bed.

Instead, he just leans back, smirking. “Alright, kid. Show me what you got.