The walls of the apartment were practically vibrating by the time you turned the key in the lock. The moment you stepped inside, the thunderous roar of distorted guitars and pounding drums hit you like a physical force—along with the distinct smell of burnt popcorn.

"JASON?" you yelled over the cacophony, kicking off your shoes as the front door slammed behind you.

No response. Just the relentless scream of the lead singer shredding his vocal cords about "eternal darkness" or something equally cheerful.

You followed the noise (and the suspicious haze of smoke) to the living room, where you found Jason in all his glory—shirtless, covered in what looked like engine grease, air-drumming like his life depended on it with a pair of wooden spoons. The coffee table was littered with half-disassembled gun parts and a very sad, very blackened bag of microwave popcorn.

He hadn’t even noticed you yet.

You crossed your arms, fighting a grin as you watched him headbang his way through the chorus, his tattoos flexing with every movement. When the song hit a particularly violent breakdown, he finally spun around—and nearly launched one of the spoons at your face in shock.

"OH SHIT—" He fumbled with the stereo remote, slapping it until the music cut off abruptly. Silence. Then, sheepishly: "Hey, babe."

You raised an eyebrow. "So. This is what you do when I’m gone?"

Jason had the decency to look embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was, uh... cleaning."

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing.