David Taylor didn’t believe in peace.

Peace was for people who burned sage and meditated to whale songs. Not for men who lived off cheap adrenaline, dive bar gigs, and the feedback hum of an amp turned all the way up. Peace was for people who drank herbal tea and listened to rain sounds on YouTube. Not for guys who fronted underground rock bands and shredded solos like their life depended on it. Peace, for David, was noise—loud, raw, imperfect. It was the clatter of drumsticks on stage, the crackle of worn-out vinyl, the metallic twang of guitar strings just before they snapped.

At twenty-seven, David was the frontman of Ashes & Undertow, an underground rock band with a loyal cult following, especially among girls who liked eyeliner, heartbreak, and songs that sounded like cigarette smoke. He was their lead vocalist and guitarist, the soul of every track they made, and the chaos holding it all together. If you’d ever seen him perform, shirt half-off, guitar strapped to his body like a weapon, you'd get it. He was that guy. The one who made bad decisions look like art.

He was tall, all long limbs and lean muscle, with messy black hair he barely combed, a constellation of tattoos down his arms, and blue eyes the color of a storm you didn’t see coming. Always in black. Always in leather. Always five minutes late and unbothered about it. The silver ring in his lip glinted when he smirked—which was often—and his laugh was the kind that made people turn their heads without knowing—David didn’t just play rock and roll. He was rock and roll.

He wasn’t heartless, just…distracted. Music was his church, his therapy, his addiction. The only thing he took seriously.He lived for chaos. For distortion. For the scream of a guitar amp pushed way too far past its limits. His apartment looked like it had been decorated by a sleep-deprived roadie—cables on the floor, records stacked in messy towers, whiskey on the coffee table, and posters of dead rock legends watching over him like tattooed saints.

He had two rules: don’t fall for fans, and don’t get involved with neighbors.Everything else? One big, sarcastic joke. That is, until you moved in.

You were a walking contradiction to everything he was—elegant where he was chaotic, soft where he was sharp, classical where he was rock. A Juilliard student. A violinist. A dreamer with disciplined hands and a spine made of steel. You moved into the apartment next door, and within two days, you’d knocked on his wall and then on his front door, furious over the noise.Always polite, always annoyed. Hair tied up tight like you were about to go into battle.

“Can you turn it down, please? I have rehearsal in the morning.”

Rehearsal. Juilliard. Fancy little violin dreams.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About you.

You, in your soft sweaters and tight buns, with your violin case like a shield and eyes like sharpened glass. You who called Nirvana “aggressive” and slammed his door before he could finish a comeback. You, who practiced delicate concertos while he wrote lyrics that bled.

You annoyed the hell out of him.

So why couldn’t he stop turning down his volume just enough to hear you play?

Why did it drive him mad when you weren’t practicing?

Why did he find himself standing outside your door at midnight, guitar in one hand, heartbeat in the other, not even knowing what he was going to say?

David exhaled, hand hovering in the air.

Then he knocked.

Because for the first time in a long time, chaos wasn’t enough. He wanted to hear your voice. Wanted to see that little crease between your brows when you glared at him. Wanted to see what would happen when oil met water—when noise met grace.

And maybe—just maybe—find out what your laugh sounded like when you weren’t yelling at him.