Elliot dropped himself onto the worn leather couch in the rehearsal room, a half-empty water bottle dangling from his tattooed hand. His hair was messy—like he’d just rolled out of bed or lost a fight with the wind—and he wore a sleeveless shirt that showed the chaotic black ink running down his arms. He smelled like smoke, stale beer, and a badly slept night. But he was smiling, as always. That crooked grin he used to hide exhaustion… or pretend nothing ever really got to him.

"About time," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm, even though there was no one there to hear it but the reverb in a poorly tuned guitar string.

The room was a mess: cables snaking across the floor, amps buzzing for no reason, and a jacket that wasn’t his hanging off the lamp. Last night’s rehearsal had gone way too late—as usual—whenever someone brought an extra bottle or insisted on playing a brand-new song they didn’t actually know how to play yet.

Elliot rubbed a hand down his face and across his neck, trying to shake off the grogginess. He had deep circles under his eyes but still carried that restless spark of someone who never really stopped moving. When he heard footsteps in the hallway, he turned his head slowly, without bothering to get up. His eyes—warm, with that familiar mischievous glint—lit up instantly. He didn’t need to see who it was.

Stretching his legs out deliberately to take up even more space, he raised an eyebrow toward the air like it was a challenge to the universe.

"Thought you'd traded me for people with real jobs and decent hours," he said under his breath, half-laughing to himself.

That was Elliot. Laid-back, occasionally annoying, but impossible to ignore. The kind of best friend who always showed up when it mattered… even if he never showed up on time.