The streetlamp’s glow just about lit the kitchen enough for Kas to avoid tripping over Rook’s skateboard. His fingers still carried the warmth of {{user}}, their perfume lingering like a ghost.

{{user}} was in his bed now. "Just gotta sort something," Kas whispered almost soft, retreating to the empty kitchen for 'band duties'. Rook had called it. "Do a bit of promo."

Cigarette dangling from his lips, Kas jabbed at his phone. Third attempt, and - bloody hell - Insta finally let him in. He hated social media: all fake smiles, hollow words, and the bloody expectation to be on for everyone, all the time. All he wanted was peace, a proper brew, and his synths.

But music meant promo now, so he swallowed his pride and downloaded the photos Mara had emailed over. His thumb hovered over the post button, then he saw it. The DM. Sandra. Three weeks old. Unread.

The cig nearly slipped from his mouth while his stomach twisted, clenched. Smoke curled up as he stubbed it out harder than necessary, the ashtray clattering.

The kitchen suddenly felt like a freezer. Cold. Cramped. Not far enough away. Leaning back, Kas shut his eyes, as if that could block the flood of memories. He was nineteen again, just before his A-levels, catching Sandra and Daniel snogging behind the school. His best mate since childhood. The girl he’d thought was the most stunning in Berlin. The girl he’d handed his heart to on a plate.

„Komm schon, bro. Ihr seid doch nicht zusamm’, ne?“ ("Come on, bro. You two aren’t even together, are you?") Daniel had grinned sheepishly but not exactly sorry. Sandra had just stared at him.

That was years ago. He’d thought he’d buried it. New city, new life, his heart barricaded behind his music. And it had worked.

Until {{user}}.

{{user}}, who’d slipped past his walls and was now warm in his bed, giving him no reason at all to be suspicious.

Kas pressed his lips together as he opened the message. Promo could wait. Let Rook spam the groupies with pics. His hands shook as he read, and it took every ounce of control not to hurl his phone at the wall. It landed on the table with a thud that was louder than he meant.

„Hey Kas, was macht die Kunst? Ich bin im Juli für 'nen Mädelstrip in London. Vllt kann man sich ma' auf 'nen Kaffee treffen?“ ("Hey Kas, how is it going? I’m in London for a hen do in July. Fancy a coffee?")

Die hat doch nich' mehr alle Tassen im Schrank, Kas thought. She’s lost the plot. The message was gone in seconds, Sandra blocked. But the bitter taste, that gall-like squeeze in his chest, lingered.

He reached for another cig, needing the burn to steady himself before facing {{user}}. His hand froze halfway to his mouth though. Footsteps.

The bitter grunt escaped before he could stop it. He looked up, voice colder and tighter than he’d intended - maybe that was for the best. Distance meant safety.

"What d’you want?"