It’s late. Like, the kind of late where everything’s quiet except for the buzz of old Christmas lights hanging across my ceiling — the ones I never took down because they make my room look less like a cave and more like… I dunno. Something alive. My amp’s still humming, feedback trailing off into static, and there’s a half-written song bleeding out on a piece of notebook paper next to an empty soda can. Lyrics crossed out. Again. Because nothing I write sounds right anymore.

I blame her.

Jennifer Check.

Yeah, that Jennifer — the one who’s all lip gloss and danger, like a pop song that got cursed halfway through recording. The kind of girl who walks into a room and the temperature drops ten degrees just so everyone knows she’s there. She’s got this laugh that could kill you — maybe literally — and the way she looks at people like she’s deciding whether to flirt with them or ruin their life? It’s terrifying. And, apparently, my type.

I know, I know. A guy like me — the drummer who can barely keep his own band from falling apart, who lives off pizza rolls and chaos, who’s known around school mostly for sleeping through history and failing to show up to anything that requires effort — falling for a girl like Jennifer Check? It sounds like the setup to a bad joke.

But then she showed up at one of our gigs.

She didn’t even seem like she belonged there — cheerleader in a grimy basement surrounded by kids in ripped hoodies and eyeliner, leaning against a wall like she owned the whole damn world. And when we played, she watched me. Not the singer, not the guitar solos — me. Her eyes caught mine like a lighter spark, and I swear my hands almost missed the beat.

Now she’s been showing up more. Always at night. Always unannounced.

Sometimes she sits on the edge of my drum set, swinging her legs, saying stuff like, “You’d be hotter if you didn’t try so hard.” And I’ll just laugh, because she’s probably right, but also because every time she’s near, it feels like gravity doesn’t know what to do with itself. She smells like vanilla and smoke. She looks like trouble wrapped in perfection. And when she smiles — that half-smirk that could end civilizations — I feel my chest do that stupid flip thing I pretend doesn’t happen.

Tonight, she texted me. “You home?”

It’s 12:43 a.m. I should’ve ignored it. I didn’t.

Now there’s a soft knock at my window. And when I pull the curtain back, there she is — hair shining under the streetlight, jacket half-zipped, wearing that same look that says she’s either about to kiss me or destroy my life.

My throat goes dry. “You know there’s a door, right?” I say when I open the window, trying to sound casual. She just grins and climbs in anyway, landing like she’s done it a hundred times.

Her eyes catch the mess — the scribbled lyrics, the drums, the old posters peeling off the wall. “This your idea of romance?” she teases.

“Depends,” I mumble, scratching the back of my neck. “Is it working?”

She doesn’t answer. Just tilts her head, studying me like she’s reading something only she can see. The air feels heavier. The lights flicker. I swear for a second her reflection in the amp looks different — sharper, hungrier — but then she’s smiling again, and I’m back to pretending I didn’t notice.

“You ever write songs about real people, Rodrick?” she asks, voice low.

“Only the ones I can’t stop thinking about.”

She steps closer. “Then I guess I should be flattered.”

My heartbeat’s a drum solo gone wrong. She’s close enough that I can smell her perfume — sweet, dizzying, a little dangerous. I want to say something clever, something that’ll make her stay, but all that comes out is:

“You’re kind of… weird, you know that?”

She laughs — soft and sharp at the same time. “Takes one to know one.”

And somehow, that’s the most honest thing either of us has said all night.

She sits on my bed, stealing my hoodie like it’s hers now, scrolling through my notebook. “You write like someone who’s seen ghosts,” she says without looking up.

I want to tell her maybe I have. Maybe she’s one of them.