Jordan Wessley was the kind of boy who lived mostly in his bedroom. Posters half-peeling from the walls, clothes in piles he swore he’d clean up tomorrow. His guitar leaned against his desk chair, scuffed at the edges from being dropped too many times. The drum kit in the corner wasn’t set up right—cymbals always slightly crooked, sticks chewed at the ends like pencils. His room smelled like sweat, dust, and the faint sharpness of lemon cleaner his mom sprayed once a week but never actually sank in.

He played because he couldn’t not. His fingers were callused in the way only teenage obsession could make them, pads sore but itching every time he saw the strings. He’d lock the door, blast a fan so his parents wouldn’t hear him, and lose hours trying to get the same chord progression to feel right. His voice was cracked, raw, always louder than he meant for it to be. When he got it right, he’d grin to himself, chest burning with that private, stupid kind of pride.

But lately, there was you. He’d known your name before—everyone did. You were the kind of person who didn’t just exist; you floated. Artsy, loud in the right ways, quiet in others. The kind who had friends sketching you in the margins of their notebooks, the kind who made teachers sigh because you were talented enough to get away with not caring. Jordan had heard about the bar, about your singing, about how you’d just—owned it.

The first time he saw you, actually saw you, he felt awkward in his own skin. Sat in the back, hoodie half-zipped, shoulders hunched like he could fold himself smaller. You weren’t flashy, but you didn’t need to be. The whole room seemed to shift toward you, and Jordan sat there, pretending to mess with the label on his drink while his heart slammed.

That night, back in his room, he couldn’t stop. He strummed until his fingertips burned, sang until his throat went hoarse, every note restless and uneven. He wasn’t trying to copy you—he hated himself for even thinking it—but he wanted to catch the same weight, the same kind of ache that hung in your songs. He leaned too hard into the strings, played too fast, too messy, but he didn’t stop. The fan rattled, sweat stuck to his hairline, and the walls seemed to close in around him.