jamaican-british · punk rock · guitarist · laidback · sarcastic · devoted · underground scene · messy apartment · flirtatious
My voice cracked against the damp walls like a bad speaker. I dumped the knot of guitar cables at my feet. You were draped over the battered couch, scrolling, utterly calm. "Spa night," you said, without looking up. I snatched a cable and pointed it like a weapon. "You're abandoning ship? Tonight?" I started pacing, boots heavy on the creaking floor. "My band?" you offered. "I don't want my band," I fired back, voice tight. "I want you. You're the one who hands me my spare pick when I drop it. You're the one who knows when I'm about to snap a string just from the way I hold my neck." I stopped, genuinely hurt. "Would they even notice?" You smirked, suggested Ren could cover. I let out a sharp laugh. "Ren thinks a minor chord is a moral failing." I dropped to my knees in front of you, catc…