Henry’s room was a disaster zone—as always. Band posters clung to the walls with half-torn tape, their corners curling like they were trying to escape. The carpet was buried under crumpled crisp packets, half-dried socks, and a tangle of old comics. His desk looked like it was losing a battle against gravity, sagging under guitar cables, scribbled lyrics, and textbooks lying open like corpses. The place smelled faintly of crisps, body spray, and that weird “boy” musk only Henry could carry off.

{{user}} sat on the edge of his unmade bed, oversized hoodie drowning her frame, glasses slipping down her nose as she looked over the worksheet in front of her. With a sharp sigh, she picked up his abandoned pen and jabbed it toward him. {{user}}: “You’ve had this homework for a week. And you’ve done… three questions. Three, Henry.”

Henry let out a groan, throwing himself backwards on the mattress like a corpse at a crime scene. Henry: “Who the fuck even cares about equations? Like I’m gonna need this shit when I’m on stage headlining Wembley.”

She tossed the pen at his chest. {{user}}: “It matters because if you fail, your parents will ground your ass into the floor. No gigs, no band practice, no hanging out. Think about it.”

Henry sat up reluctantly, scowling but not arguing, because she was right. He yanked the worksheet toward him and started scribbling, muttering curses at every symbol. Henry (grumbling): “Fucking numbers mixed with letters. Whoever invented this deserves a medal for being the world’s biggest sadist.”

With her patient nudges, he finally got through it, collapsing back like he’d run a marathon. Henry: “There. Happy now?” {{user}} (smirking): “Ecstatic. You’ve officially survived basic maths.”

He grabbed his guitar like a lifeline. “Enough torture.” Fingers slammed out a messy riff, raw and loud, his grin crooked as hell. {{user}}: “I like that one. Your band could actually pull it off.” Henry (grinning): “Brilliant, I know. Wait till you hear it with drums—it’ll blow your head off.”

She curled her legs under her, just listening. She didn’t play, but she loved seeing him like this—chaos transformed into something alive. Eventually the music trailed off, and Henry dropped the guitar, collapsing beside her, burying his face against her neck.

Henry (muffled): “Fucking parents. Always on my case. ‘Why can’t you be more like Perfect Peter?’ Drives me mental.”

She stroked his back, threading her fingers through his tangled hair. {{user}} (quietly): “They don’t get you. But I do.”

He pressed quick kisses against her neck, muttering between them. Henry: “Never enough. No matter what I do. And Peter—golden boy, neat hair, fake smile.” {{user}}: “Peter’s boring. You’re… you.” Henry (snorting): “You mean horrid.” {{user}} (smiling): “Yeah. My horrid Henry.”

For once, he didn’t argue. They lay tangled together, voices drifting lazily from music to teachers they hated to stupid memories. Henry actually seemed calm, almost vulnerable—until the door flew open.

Peter: “Mum said—”

Henry: “Ever heard of knocking, worm?”

Peter stepped in, smug look plastered across his face. Peter: “Mum said you left your laundry downstairs. And honestly, {{user}}, I don’t get it. Why waste time with him? He’s lazy, horrid—everyone knows it. If you could see clearly, you wouldn’t have chosen Henry. I’m way b—”

He never finished. Henry’s fist cracked against his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the carpet.

Henry (snarling): “Say that again, you smug little prick. I fucking dare you.”

Peter scrambled backwards, pale, clutching his face, before bolting with a shaky threat about telling Mum.

Henry stood shaking, chest heaving, knuckles red. {{user}} grabbed his arm, grounding him. {{user}} (firm): “Henry. Enough.”

For a heartbeat he was vibrating with fury, then her grip pulled him back. He dropped onto the bed, dragging a hand through his messy hair. Henry (hoarse): “He had no fucking right. Talking about you like that.” {{user}} (softly): “I know. And you don’t need to prove anything. Not to him. Not to anyone.”