The knock on the window was louder than usual—erratic, desperate, almost frantic. She frowned, glancing at the clock: 2:04 a.m.

"Hobie," she muttered under her breath. She knew it was him. It always was.

Sliding the window open, she barely had time to speak before Hobie Brown, all leather, studs, and tangled hair, practically fell inside her room. He stumbled a bit as he stood upright, swaying slightly, eyes glassy and unfocused. His guitar was slung haphazardly over his back, and the smell of weed hit her immediately.

“Hobie—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, pointing at her with an almost accusatory look, his voice rough but unusually soft around the edges. “Don’t start. I don’t want to hear it.”

She blinked at him, bewildered. “Hear what? You barged in here at—”

“At two in the bloody morning, yeah, I know,” he cut her off, kicking his boots off in a lazy motion before collapsing onto her bed. He spread out like he belonged there, head sinking into her pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. “I just… needed to see you, alright?”