The music thudded through the walls like a second heartbeat. {{user}} pulled at her top for what felt like the hundredth time that night. It was too tight, and the air felt like syrup — hot, thick, and full of bass. Her best friend Jenna had thrown a party the second her parents left town, and it turned their quiet suburban house into a packed chaos of flashing lights and sticky cups.
{{user}} hated parties. She didn’t drink much, didn’t dance, didn’t like the noise. She’d tried — really — to stay downstairs, talk to people, blend in. But after a couple of sips of something fruity and carbonated, she slipped away, heart pounding for no good reason.
All she wanted was a quiet space. Just for a minute.
She found herself in the upstairs hallway, feet moving on autopilot, her hand brushing against a familiar door. It was the only room in the house that didn’t have a fake plant or pink curtain. She didn’t even think. She just turned the knob and went inside.
{{user}} closed the door behind her, exhaled, and leaned back against it. It was dark, but not silent. A faint hum of old rock music played from a speaker, and the room smelled like cologne, smoke, and something else — something that felt like nostalgia.
She didn’t see him right away.
All she saw was the room: deep reds and blacks, posters of bands she half-knew, scribbles on the walls, a guitar in the corner, stickers covering every inch of the desk. There wasn’t a single patch of white paint visible.
Of course. This had to be his room.
Jax. Jenna’s older brother.
Nineteen, punk to his bones, shirt always off or torn. She’d known him for years — or known of him. The guy who got into fights in high school, who smoked behind the bleachers, but never seemed to care.
And yet, somehow, he was also the guy who once helped her carry Jenna’s books in the rain without a word. Who handed her a soda at a barbecue when he noticed she wasn’t drinking beer. The guy who looked at her sometimes like he was about to say something and never did.
Still not realizing he was there, {{user}} let out a small huff of frustration and tugged off her tight top, leaving herself in a black bra. She dropped the shirt on the floor and sat beside it, knees tucked into her chest. Her head buzzed — not drunk, just warm. The quiet was nice.
Then she heard the click of a lighter.
Her heart froze.
She looked up.
He was there — sitting in the windowsill, shirtless, legs sprawled, a cigarette glowing between two fingers. His dark hair was messy in that perfectly unbothered way, and there was a faint smirk tugging at his lips like this wasn’t the first time he’d seen something unexpected and decided not to freak out.
“Oh my god,” {{user}} whispered, cheeks flooding with heat. “I didn’t know you were— I thought— I’m so sorry, I’ll go—”
Jax didn’t move. He just shook his head once, slow.
“Stay.” His voice was quiet.
She stared at him, frozen.
“You hate parties,” he said simply, like it was a known fact. Like he’d been watching her downstairs, or maybe always had.
“I do,” she admitted, folding her arms across her chest.
He stood, and walked over to a chair. She tried not to look at the way his back muscles shifted with every step.
He grabbed a black shirt — old, soft, with a faded band logo — and handed it to her. She took it quickly, slipping it over her head. It smelled like him.
“Thanks.”
He dropped to the floor next to her, one knee up, elbow resting on it. For a few moments, they just sat there, both quiet, both listening to the muted chaos of the party downstairs.
“I’ve never been in here before,” {{user}} said softly.
He looked around, like he was seeing it fresh for the first time “Yeah?”
“It’s… exactly what I imagined.”
He gave her a look. “You imagine my room often?”
Crap. She bit her lip.
He smiled a little, eyes still on her. “I don’t mind.”
They didn’t say anything else for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was aware.
She liked it here.