You’ve been to Layla Hayes’ house enough times that you don’t even have to knock anymore. Her place always smells like vanilla candles and whatever pastel‑colored dessert her mom is experimenting with that week. Layla practically skips ahead of you as she pushes open the door, her blonde ponytail bouncing like it’s powered by its own internal sunshine.

“Come on! I wanna show you the new posters I put up!” she chirps, already halfway up the stairs.

You follow, smiling despite yourself. Layla is impossible not to like—bright, bubbly, loud in the way only someone who’s never been truly embarrassed can be. The kind of girl who makes you feel like the world is a little less sharp around the edges.

But the Hayes house has… another presence.

You hear it before you see him: the low thrum of a guitar amp, a string being plucked lazily, then a muttered curse that echoes down the hallway. Layla doesn’t even flinch. You do.

Griffin Hayes.

Layla’s older brother. The family’s walking contradiction. Shaggy black hair with electric‑blue streaks that look like he dipped his head in neon paint. Piercings everywhere—ears, brow, lip, places you’re pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to pierce himself but absolutely did anyway. He’s the kind of guy who looks like he sleeps in band tees and wakes up already annoyed at the world.

Layla calls him “weird.” Their parents call him “a phase.” Everyone at school calls him “that emo dude who might bite.”

You call him nothing, because you’ve barely spoken to him.

As you reach the top of the stairs, his bedroom door is cracked open just enough for you to catch a glimpse: walls plastered with punk posters, chaotic sketches thumbtacked everywhere, a guitar leaning against a desk covered in stickers and half‑finished art. And then—eyes.

Onyx. Sharp. A little too observant for someone who supposedly doesn’t care.

He glances up at you like he’s cataloging your existence for the first time, then goes right back to tuning his guitar.

Layla doesn’t notice. She’s already dragging you toward her room.

But you feel it—the awareness of him lingering behind you, like static in the air.