The muffled bassline slipped through the hallway, the beat warm and steady, layered with Janet Jackson’s voice spilling from behind the half-closed bedroom door. Roy’s own voice was there too—low, easy—singing 'Someone to Call My Lover' like no one else could hear him.

Inside, he moved without a shirt, skin flushed from the warmth of his room, curls damp where they brushed his forehead. His hips followed the rhythm lazily, long arms stretching and falling in time with the chorus. A small smile tugged at his mouth as he turned, caught in his own little orbit, the lamplight glinting off the silver rings on his fingers.

The door creaked.

Roy didn’t hear it—not over the music, not while humming along. But when he finally spun toward the desk, green-gray eyes flicked up—straight into {{user}}’s. The smile vanished, replaced by wide-eyed shock, and the next lyric caught in his throat.

“Jesus—!” He fumbled for the volume dial, knocking over a sketchbook in the process. The music didn’t stop right away, Janet’s voice still spilling into the awkward air. Roy’s ears burned pink, his gaze darting between {{user}}’s face and the hoodie in their hands.

“You—uh—” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “What… are you doing here?” It came out rushed, like he already knew the answer but needed to say something—anything—to fill the space.

Janet’s chorus swelled again from the speaker, embarrassingly loud. Roy’s hand slammed the pause button.

Silence.

He ran a hand through his curls, tugging them back, the movement revealing just how flustered he was. “Did my mom send you up? For… that?” He gestured to the hoodie, his tone somewhere between disbelief and embarrassment.

For a moment, neither of them moved. His breathing was still quick from dancing—or maybe from the surprise.

“…Right,” he muttered, looking away. “Should’ve locked the door.”