I flip them both off this time, but it only makes them laugh harder. Drew hums a wedding march, Miles mutters somethingabout me ending up courtside in a custom jersey, and I decide I’ve had enough.
“Enjoy your fantasies,” I say, pushing off the counter and heading for my room. “I’ll be sure to send you a postcard from reality.”
“Make sure it’s adirtypostcard!” Drew yells after me.
Their laughter follows me down the hall, loud and merciless. Assholes.
My phone’s in my pocket, a solid weight against my thigh. I haven’t checked it since I walked in, but I already know there’s at least one message from him with the party details. Only, the message alert buzzed twice more after that. I tell myself it’s nothing—some reminder, a message from my sister maybe. But my pulse jumps anyway. Because maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s him, saying something more.
Sleep doesn’t come easy.It’s one of those nights where I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, hearing Drew snore down the hall, Eli’s music bleeding faintly through the walls. My head spins with riffs, fragments of lyrics, and Ollie’s face, that flush in his cheeks refusing to let me rest. When I finally drift off, it’s closer to dawn than I’d like.
By the time I stumble into the kitchen, the place smells like burnt coffee and toast that didn’t quite survive the toaster. Miles is already at the table, laptop open, headphones clamped over his ears. He waves absently with one hand, the other busy sliding faders in his editing software.
“Morning,” he mutters, eyes glued to the screen.
Drew’s shirtless at the counter, pouring orange juice into a bowl like that’s a thing people do. “We’re out of clean mugs,” he says defensively when I give him a look.
Eli shuffles in right behind me, hair like a bird’s nest, hoodie half zipped. “What time is it?” he asks no one in particular.
“Too early,” I grumble, grabbing the coffeepot. It’s half full and looks like it’s been sitting there since midnight, but caffeine is caffeine. I find the mug I hid behind the protein powder that’s been gathering dust for two years, earning me a “What the fuck!” from Drew.
I simply shrug and pour my coffee, take a sip, and immediately regret it. Bitter enough to strip paint.
Miles finally looks up, sliding his headphones down around his neck. “It’s done. One more listen, then we get this sent.” He’s using his “I’m not bullshitting” tone, making it clear any opinions other than “It’s good to go” are unacceptable.
I sink into the seat across from Eli, cradling the mug like the warmth alone might wake me up. The pressure sits heavy in the room. It always does when deadlines get close. The demo means more than just another gig—it’s our shot at proving we’re worth something beyond late-night campus shows and thirty bucks split four ways.
Miles hits the space bar. The laptop screen flickers with waveforms, and then the first track kicks in—our fast one.
The riff tears out bright and sharp, Eli’s drums snapping like a whip underneath. My bass rumbles through, not just holding the spine but daring anyone listening to move with it. It’s raw, reckless, built for sweat and chaos, the kind of track that belongs in a basement packed wall to wall with kids thrashing in borrowed leather jackets. Mile’s guitar hooks scream over the top, and my vocals ride the edge—half melody, half snarl.
By the time it ends, the kitchen feels smaller, like we’re all trying to pretend we don’t have goose bumps.
“Good,” Miles says, too casual, which means it’s better than that.
Next is the heavy one. It starts slower, drums pounding in like thunder rolling off a cliff. The guitar tone is darker here, Miles grinding it low and mean. My bass hums deep enough to shake the cheap coffee mugs on the table, and when the vocals come in, they’re dirtier, ragged. It’s anger in a track—fists clenched, teeth bared. The kind of song that leaves your throat raw even if you weren’t singing.
I glance at Drew. He’s nodding, a grin tugging at his mouth like he’s already imagining the crowd headbanging in unison.
“Fuck yeah,” he mutters.
And then the last one—the dirge. Miles lowers the volume instinctively, like even the room needs to brace.
It starts with just guitar, slow and mournful, until the bass swells under it, heavy as a heartbeat in grief. When the drums slide in, they don’t rush. They drag, each strike deliberate, a weight pulling you down. My voice cracks more here, less controlled, more confession than performance. The lyrics bruise as they land, and by the chorus, it’s not just a song—it’s a goddamn ache.
The silence afterward is brutal.
Nobody speaks for a long beat. Then Eli exhales, long and shaky. “That one…,” he says, and then doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
Miles leans back, scrubbing a hand down his face. “All right. That’s the one that’ll crush.”
We sit together, the four of us, letting it sink in as Miles plays it again. Hope tangles with dread, and beneath all of it is the itch in my skin that no amount of coffee or music can burn out. Because as good as this feels, as much as I want the world to hear us, I know there’s something else fueling me.
Ollie. Always Ollie.
I don’t say it, of course. I just drain the rest of my mug, bitter dregs clinging to my tongue, and nod along like the only thing on my mind is the demo.
Miles clears his throat and drags his laptop closer, fingers poised over the trackpad. “All right. You’ve all heard it. Twice. Unless someone’s about to object, I’m sending this now.”
