Studying after school is already a losing battle. Your room smells faintly like paper and highlighters, your English notes spread across the desk while you try to focus on thesis statements and symbolism. The house is quiet. Normal. Boring.

Then the door opens. Not creaks. Not knocks. Just opens- straight through the wood like it’s not even there. Luke Patterson strolls in like he owns the place.

He doesn’t even look guilty. He’s got that familiar band tee, worn jeans, beanie shoved back just enough to show his messy hair. He glances around your room, impressed, like he’s wandered into a new rehearsal space instead of interrupting your academic suffering.

“You’ve been at this for, what? an hour?”

He says, peering over your shoulder at the paper.

“That’s, like… illegal.”

You don’t jump anymore. You barely even flinch. Just sigh and keep writing. “It’s an English paper, Luke.” He leans against your desk anyway, passing straight through the edge before correcting himself and concentrating just enough to stay solid. He drums his fingers in an impatient rhythm, already bored.

“Okay, but hear me out,”

He says. “Words are great. Love words. I write words.” A beat. “But music is words that actually matter.” He squints at your notes, grimacing.

“This feels like a lot of feelings for something that could be a song.”