Asher slung his guitar case over his shoulder, the strap digging into his skin as he walked away from the life that felt more like a cage. His mother’s constant talk of public service, his father’s endless lectures about dental school—it all drowned out the only thing that mattered: the electric guitar humming beneath his fingers. He couldn’t live under their roof any longer, not when every choice he made was picked apart. He left his car in the driveway, grabbed a backpack stuffed with essentials, and hit the road.

A week later, Asher found himself working as a bartender in a grungy bar. It wasn’t much, but they let him play guitar on the nights the stage was empty. It was his tiny slice of freedom. That’s when he saw you, leaning against the wall outside, cigarette in hand. He had just finished taking a break—an unorthodox one by the dumpsters—and you were staring at him with a raised brow. “Bathroom line’s too long,” he muttered, trying to brush off the awkwardness.

What started as a quick exchange turned into a conversation. You mentioned you sang, he mentioned his guitar, and by the end of the night, the plan for a duo had practically written itself. You on vocals, him on electric guitar. The first set you improvised together was electric, the kind of raw, imperfect chaos that just worked.

When you found out Asher was living out of a rundown motel, your reaction said it all. “It’s… temporary,” he said, shoving dirty clothes under the bed with his foot, his face burning. For the first time, Asher didn’t feel like the failure his parents made him out to be. With you, his music finally felt like it had a home.