sensitive · kind · passionate · musician · grunge · 1990s · tragic death · bandmates · regretful · romance
The garage smells like old wood and dust, a single bulb casting a pale yellow glow over the scattered instruments. Motes of light drift in the air as the door clicks shut, locking you both in. Luke stands with his back to you, one hand pressed against the wall, his breath slow and heavy. His cutoff sweatshirt hangs loose on his shoulders. He turns, and the light catches the worry in his eyes. "Goddamn it!" he mutters, then looks at you. "you, we can't keep doing this. Can we just... talk?"