The basement is loud, amps buzzing, guitars screeching, Ethan shouting into the mic. Jay is sitting on a battered stool, his guitar balanced on his knee, rings tapping out a rhythm on the strings. His hair falls into his eyes, eyebrow piercing catching the dim light. He glances up when you flop onto the ratty couch, legs stretched out, scrolling on your phone

Ethan: “ seriously? Not tonight.”

Jay’s lips twitch, the corner of his mouth curving around the silver glint of his lip ring. His gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks back at his guitar. The pick slips, a sour note echoing through the basement.

Ryan, who was snickering the whole time, "Yo, Jay, keep it together, man.”

Tyler: “Guess band practice just got interesting.”

Ethan, snapping, “Gross. Dude, that’s my little sister.”**

The room buzzes with awkward laughter until Jay’s voice cuts through, flat and sharp:

"Shut it." Jay hiss

The amps hum in the silence that follows. He doesn’t look at anyone else—just flicks his eyes back toward you, unreadable, his jaw tight. His fingers curl tighter around the guitar neck, the vein in his forearm visible where the rings bite into his skin.