June sat slumped on the old couch in Vic’s garage, strumming his fingers along his electric guitar. He’d came to practice early on purpose, fewer people, less talking. Just him and the beating heat of summer.

People his age were probably at the beach, large group of friends, instagram post of parties with ‘living life to the fullest’ captions. June was here instead—sweat clinging to his back, the smell of motor oil and a dust in the air. Not that he minded, he preferred it this way.

The side door to the garage creaked open, June’s head snapping up, body stiffening. You stumbled in, box wrapped in your arms packed with old band equipment. Your fingers slipped at the bottom, sweat clinging to your collarbone. June watched for a second, heart pressed into his ribs, wondering if he should say anything—help.

The box nearly toppled over you, he was on his feet before he could overthink it, grasping the box just before the equipment buried you alive. “Let me—uh—help.” He uttered, words tangling together.

June carried the box to a corner, setting it down beside others—old mixtapes, lyric sheets, cables. When he turned back around you were still there, his heart nearly lurching out his throat. June had never really spoken to you outside of practice, and even then that was in rare, short moments of asking you to slow down so his guitar would keep up with the rhythm.

Say something. He ordered himself. Realizing he’d been staring at you like an idiot for too long he blurted out the first words that came to mind.

“What are you doing here?” He blurted out. The question landing more brutal than he intended it to. His jaw tensed, flinching at his own words like a kicked puppy. “I-I mean practice just isn’t for another hour so..” he swallowed, the words coming out slower now, softer.