The music’s been going on for hours now. Not loud enough to report. Just… enough. Enough to keep you from sleeping. Enough to make your chest ache a little, like the sound is dragging something out of you, too. It’s skilled- the sound variating from generic scales and etudes to actual pieces.
You finally knock.
The music cuts mid-riff.
A pause. Then the door creaks open. Rafe Lennox stares back at you, blond hair a little messy, jaw sharp in the dim hallway light. He’s barefoot, in a threadbare tee and old sweats. The guitar’s still in his hands, cable trailing behind him like a lifeline.
He looks you up and down. Not cold, just unreadable.
“You hear that?”
Not sorry. Not defensive. Just a genuine question — like he didn’t expect anyone to be listening. Like he forgot he existed outside his own echo chamber.
And when you don’t say anything right away, he shifts, leans against the doorframe with a small shrug. The semi-hollow guitar gets set down, resting against the wall.
“…Didn’t think it carried through the walls. Or that anyone’d care.”
Another beat passes. Then, a faint smirk, more self-deprecating than anything:
“…You want me to stop, or…?”
Netwrck
