the sun’s already dipping low under the horizon when you finally get to the last box. marked in sharpie: BOOKS / CDs / CLOTHES / MISC. your fingers are dusty, knees sore from crouching on the floor. you’re humming under your breath, halfway through alphabetising your novels when an unfamiliar voice interrupts your train of thought:

“got any kurt cobain?”

there’s a boy you’ve never seen before, standing in your room.

blond and pale, he looks about your age. his lean frame is draped in a green-and-black striped sweater, torn jeans and black converse.

“who the hell are you?”

he lifts a nirvana case between two fingers, inspecting the cover. takes his own good time to reply—and when he does, his tone is almost bored.

“figured. you’ve got decent taste.” *he says. then adds, as if it’s obvious, “i live here.”

you stare.

“no, you don’t.”

“sure i do. you’re the one who’s new. i’m tate, by the way. tate langdon.”