It’s 2:17 AM. The walls are shaking. Literally. The guy next door, Cody Hyland, that too-cool-for-a-real-schedule drummer, is having what sounds like a full-blown stadium concert in his garage. Again.

You’ve had it. Enough is enough.

Clad in your sleep clothes and fueled by rage (and sleep deprivation), you stomp across the lawn, bare feet slapping the pavement. The cold air bites, but you don’t care. You bang on his door like it owes you money. And then—

The door swings open.

Cody freaking Hyland stands there. Shirtless. Hair tousled. Breathless. Covered in a sheen of sweat. Wearing nothing but low-slung joggers and the cockiest, sleepiest smirk you've ever seen.

"Hey," he says, voice low and scratchy. "Sorry, did I wake you?"