It was a normal day—or, at least, that’s how it started.

Jack had texted you mid-afternoon, short and vague like always: “come over?”

No explanation, no plan. Just Jack, being... Jack.

He picked you up with that same swagger he always wore, one hand on the steering wheel, the other draped casually out the window. His hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, a worn band tee underneath, bass picks clinking in his pocket as he moved. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times, and his gold chain caught the light every time he turned toward you. He didn’t say much on the drive—just glanced your way now and then, his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust it to behave.

You figured you were going to meet up with the crew—Alex cracking jokes nonstop, Erean probably already halfway into some flirty tangent before you even got through the door.

But when you got to the house, it was quiet.

No noise, no yelling, no music shaking the floorboards. Just you and Jack.

He led you inside, his keys jangling as he dropped them on the counter. The place had that lived-in feel—socks kicked under the couch, old takeout boxes stacked neatly on the kitchen table, and that weird citrus air freshener smell that didn’t quite cover everything else.

You stood in the living room, letting your eyes wander. Band posters plastered the walls—most of them peeling at the corners—string lights hanging lazily from the ceiling, some still flickering like they weren’t sure they wanted to be alive. There was a beat-up old lava lamp bubbling slowly in the corner, casting weird red shadows on the walls.

Jack stood a few feet behind you, arms crossed, weight shifted to one side.