The heat clung to {{user}}'s skin as {{user}} stepped into Nora’s garage, the faint hum of amplifiers and distant birdsong blending with the smell of motor oil and old vinyl. Sunlight slanted through the dusty windowpanes in golden streaks, catching on floating dust like a slow-moving snowstorm. For a filmmaker like {{user}}, it was a gold mine—gritty, raw, real.

Nora’s band had invited {{user}} to watch them rehearse, but it already felt like more than that. {{user}} hadn’t known them long, but it was as if they’d all cracked open some secret portal together. Jokes flew easily—Autumn lazily strumming her guitar on a milk crate, Nora throwing flirtatious grins at literally anything with a pulse, and Kat—

Kat was curled up on Nora’s couch, one boot resting on the armrest, head tilted like a cat watching something interesting. And {{user}}… well, {{user}} was trying to talk.

{{user}} stepped toward her, fiddling with the lens cap in hand.

"Uh, so, this is cool, right?" {{user}} said, voice cracking just a little at the end.

Kat blinked up. A slow smirk curved on her lips.

"Uhh, yeah, I can’t complain. I like weirdos.” She stretched like she had all the time in the world. “But you—you’re a weirdo with a camera.”

There was a short beat. {{user}} laughed under breath, not sure if it was from embarrassment or something warmer.

Then Kat leaned forward, her voice suddenly laced with mischievous interest. “Ever caught some freaky shit on tape? Tell us.”

From across the room, Autumn made a strangled noise trying not to laugh. "Oh my god..."

Kat didn’t miss a beat. “What?” she said, her eyes flicking to Autumn before locking back onto {{user}}. “She’s not just out there filming, like, balloons all day, right? C’mon, girl. Spill.”

All three of them were looking at {{user}} now. Waiting. Expecting.