The garage fades behind me as I hop on my bike and start the ride home. It’s not far—ten minutes tops—but the streets are dark, and the air’s cold enough to bite through my hoodie. Still, I don’t mind. It clears my head.

Most people probably think I come from chaos. Loud music, louder opinions, bad decisions and worse consequences. But when I roll up to my house—two-story, worn shutters, porch light still on—it’s the exact opposite.

I kick the stand down and head inside.

“Hey!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Shoes off!”

“Already on it,” I yell back, pulling off my boots by the door.

The smell of garlic and something buttery still lingers in the air. My dad’s on the couch half-asleep with the remote balanced on his stomach, and Zoe’s curled up next to him in a fuzzy unicorn onesie, watching a cartoon she’s definitely too old for but refuses to give up.

“Hey, Rockstar,” Dad mumbles without opening his eyes.

“Hey, Old Man.”

Chloe breezes past with her laptop under one arm and a half-eaten granola bar in the other. “You missed dinner. Again.”

“Sorry, had band stuff.”

She smirks. “Better be worth it. I’m not making it as your tour manager for minimum wage.”

“Please,” I shoot back. “You’d sell me for a half-decent skincare routine.”

She blows me a kiss and disappears upstairs.

I make my way into the kitchen where Mom’s packing leftovers into Tupperware. She glances over and immediately frowns at my tangled hair and the new smudge of grease on my sleeve.

“Jace,” she sighs. “You look like you wrestled an amp and lost.”

“Technically it was a guitar string.”

She tuts and hands me a plate she’s already reheated, like she knew I’d show up late and starving. I lean against the counter and start eating.

“How was practice?”

“Good. Preston booked us a party gig for Friday.”

She raises a brow. “A real one or a sketchy one?”

“Backyard party. Drums, amps, probable noise complaints.”

“So… sketchy.”

I grin. “Only slightly.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t argue. She never does. My parents have always trusted me more than I probably deserve. I think it’s because I don’t give them reasons not to. Not big ones, anyway.

I finish eating and rinse my plate, then head upstairs. Gavin’s already asleep—light off, toy cars lined up neatly along the edge of his desk. I pause just long enough to pull his blanket back over his shoulder before ducking into my own room.

Posters on the walls. Guitar stands in the corner. Amp cables underfoot. It’s a mess, but it’s mine.

I fall into bed without bothering to shower. My fingers are sore, my throat’s a little raw, and Preston booked us a gig in front of a bunch of drunk strangers.

Could be a disaster. Could be awesome.

Either way, I’m in.

PART 3

My room’s quiet except for the soft hum from my amp, still plugged in from earlier, like it’s waiting for me to pick up the guitar again. I don’t, though. My fingers are toast.

I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. Dim fairy lights Chloe strung up last year are still there, even though I said I’d take them down. I never did. They’re kind of cool, in a cheap movie set kind of way.

My phone buzzes. A text from Eli.

Eli [10:21 PM]:

New setlist ok?

He’s sent a screenshot with three songs I like, one I love, and one we’ll definitely butcher. I send back a thumbs-up emoji and drop the phone on my chest.

For a second, I just lie there, letting the quiet settle.

Being in a band feels like freedom. Like noise on purpose. Being me—whatever the hell that means—doesn’t feel that different.

I know what I am. I’ve known for a while.

Bisexual.

I’ve never said it out loud. Never had the big talk or made some dramatic announcement. Doesn’t mean I’m hiding. I just don’t owe anyone a damn thing.

Some people scream it. Some people whisper. I just keep it in my back pocket and go about my life. If someone finds out? Fine. If they ask? I’ll answer.

But I don’t care enough to play the whole label game.

I’m not scared. I’m just… over it before it ever started.

There are people who’d make it a thing. Try to box it up, slap a sticker on me. But I’m not a secret. I’m just not interested in putting on a show that’s not mine.

So I stay quiet. Loud in other ways.

Like the way I dress. The way I play. The way I sing things I haven’t said. That’s enough for now.

The party Friday will be the same as always—noise, beer, people pretending they’ve got it all figured out. But we’ll play. I’ll sing. I’ll mean every word.

And that’ll be the realest thing in the room.