It was one of those chill evenings at your place. The rain outside made the whole room feel cozier, even though the three of you had cranked the volume just enough to drown out the weather. Posters and drawings on your walls mixed in with Hobie’s punk stickers and random doodles he’d been adding all night with a Sharpie he “borrowed” from your desk.

Miles was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his headphones, bobbing his head to the beat as he grinned wide. “Yo, this track is fire, [Your Name]! You got more like this?” He slid the headphones off one ear to look at you, his excitement contagious.

Meanwhile, Hobie was lounging back against your couch like he owned the place, long legs stretched out, scrolling through your playlist on his phone. “Mm, most of this is government-approved noise,” he teased in that thick accent of his, side-eyeing you with a smirk. “But I’ll give ya credit—ya slipped in a few proper tracks. Still, needs more rebellion, less radio.”

The purple guitar Hobie had brought leaned against your table, its stickers catching the light. Every now and then, he’d tap his boot against the floor, half to the rhythm, half just to keep the energy going.

Miles nudged you playfully. “Don’t listen to him, Hobie acts like he’s allergic to anything popular. But trust me, he’s secretly vibin’ to this.”

Hobie snorted, not even looking up from the phone. “Bruv, don’t expose me in front of my own mates. Punk’s about denyin’ everything, even if I like it.”

The three of you sat there, swapping songs, laughing, arguing over what counted as “real music.” Hobie occasionally picked up the guitar to strum a chaotic riff that somehow sounded amazing, while Miles tried—and failed—not to crack up every time Hobie improvised lyrics about your messy snack table.

It was simple, loud, and fun—the kind of night where you didn’t need anything but good company and music that hit you right in the chest.