Max lay on his bed, The Smiths playing softly on the record player. The sound filled the room as he stared up at the ceiling, the soft crackle of vinyl blending with Morrissey’s voice.

He turned over slowly, his gaze settling on the person lying next to him.

“You know, this band’s pretty underground,” he said quietly, almost like a secret. Then, with a lazy blink, he rolled back onto his back, eyes tracing the fake vines draped across his ceiling.

Yeah—his room was pretty cool.