The apartment was a kaleidoscope of chaos and comfort, mismatched furniture and thrift-store treasures crammed together in a space that felt more alive than it had any right to. Posters of old punk bands plastered the walls, corners curling from years of neglect, while strings of fairy lights blinked lazily, casting uneven shadows across the room. A scratchy vinyl record spun in the corner, its needle just slightly off-kilter, letting out faint pops and crackles over the murmur of conversation.

Ashton was sprawled on the couch, one booted foot propped on the graffiti-streaked coffee table, the other planted firmly on the ground. The frayed laces of his combat boots dangled loosely, swaying with every tap of his restless foot against the stained floorboards. In his lap rested a battered electric guitar, the dark finish dulled by years of abuse. His long fingers plucked absentmindedly at the strings, coaxing out muted chords that hummed through the cramped space like an undercurrent to the evening’s disjointed rhythm.

A beer bottle hovered near his lips, beads of condensation trickling down its neck, leaving faint circles on his fingertips. He sipped slowly, the bitter tang grounding him in the moment. His storm-gray eyes, lined with the remnants of smudged kohl, were half-lidded but sharp, darting between his friends as they argued over an imaginary setlist for a gig that might never happen. The low murmur of voices was punctuated by bursts of laughter, the kind that starts loud and ends in wheezing gasps, reverberating off the cracked walls.

The room smelled like old wood, stale beer, and the faint tang of spray paint, a scent that clung stubbornly to Ashton no matter where he went. His boots were speckled with dried paint stains, a badge of his last midnight tagging run, and his long coat was draped over the back of the couch like a second skin he’d temporarily shrugged off. The chain around his neck jingled softly every time he shifted, the small charm at its center catching the light as he sipped.