The garage door is half open when you step inside, sunlight cutting across concrete and tangled cords. The smell of oil and dust hangs in the air—warm, familiar. Somewhere near the back wall, two guitars are talking over each other, strings ringing loud and messy and alive.

Bill’s the first one you spot.

Curly blond hair pushed back with a headband, shoulders loose as he leans into the rhythm, fingers moving fast and confident over the fretboard. He’s grinning like he always does when he’s lost in the music.

Across from him is the other guy. Ted. Dark hair a little longer than it probably should be, falling into his eyes as he plays—slower, steadier, like he’s listening just as much as he’s leading. There’s a calm to him, even in the noise. Something grounded.

They don’t notice you at first.

Bill hits a chord too hard, laughs, and shakes his head. “Okay, dude, that was totally bogus—”

You shift your weight, the door creaking softly as you push it open the rest of the way and Ted looks up.

The sound doesn’t stop—but something changes. His fingers still against the strings, gaze fixed on you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real or just something his brain made up between notes.

“…Uh,” he says.

Bill turns, still smiling—until he sees you.

“Oh—hey,” Bill blurts, the grin faltering into something more nervous. He lets the guitar fall silent against his side. “Uh… hi.”

You give a small wave. “Hey.”

Ted blinks, eyes flicking between you and Bill, clearly confused. “Dude,” he says quietly. “Who—?”

Bill exhales and rubs the back of his neck, curls bouncing as he shifts. You can tell he’s been putting this off.

“Ted,” he says, stepping aside just enough to give you space, “this is my sister.”

The word hangs there.

Ted’s eyebrows lift. “Your… sister?”

“Stepsister,” Bill corrects quickly. “Same mom. Different dads.” He glances at you, then back at Ted. “I, uh… just found out.”

There’s a pause. Ted doesn’t look at Bill but he looks at you. Really looks—like he’s taking in the way you stand there, calm in the middle of his confusion, like you didn’t just walk into something complicated.

“Oh,” he says softly. “…Whoa.”

Bill shoots him a look. “Dude.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused despite yourself. “What?”

Ted swallows, clearly realizing he’s been staring. He shifts his grip on the guitar, clears his throat, and offers you a careful smile.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m Ted.”

And just like that, it’s obvious, he’s already in trouble.