I’m at Cole’s house, half-watching him try to beat his little brother at Madden and half-scrolling my phone.

“You’re trash,” his brother says, grinning as he runs in another touchdown.

Cole groans and chucks the controller onto the couch. “I let you have that.”

“You didn’t.”

“Shut up, small child.”

I laugh and take a sip of my soda. It’s been that kind of day—lazy, nothing going on, just wasting time before practice tomorrow.

Cole grabs his phone off the coffee table, taps something out fast, then glances at me. “Hey, random question.”

“Shoot.”

“You remember that band from last night?”

“Yeah.”

“The lead guy—Jace? You wanna talk to him?”

I look up, surprised. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. You were into the music. Figured maybe you wanted to hit him up or something. Chill dude. Preston said he’s cool with it.”

I think about it for a second.

Not for any particular reason. Not because I’m planning to do anything. Just… curiosity, I guess.

“Sure,” I say. “Can’t hurt.”

Cole types something, sends it off.

“That was fast,” I say.

“Preston doesn’t sleep. He’s like a human notification.”

I laugh again and lean back into the couch. It’s no big deal. Just a number.

Doesn’t mean anything.

Just a guy who plays music.

That’s all.

Cole and his brother start another round of Madden, and I zone out halfway through the first quarter.

My phone’s on the armrest beside me. No new messages. Not that I was expecting one.

I check my feed. Nothing exciting. Some pictures from last night’s party are already up—people posing like they weren’t three drinks in and shouting over a speaker that kept cutting out. I scroll past them. Don’t see me in any.

Which is fine.

Hailey posted a story from this morning—her smoothie, her nails, her dog. I tap through them, toss my phone onto the cushion, and stretch.

The room smells like Doritos and fabric softener. Cole’s arguing with the game again. His brother’s still talking trash like it’s his job.

“Hey,” Cole says without looking away from the screen, “you wanna grab food after this?”

“Yeah, I’m down.”

“Burgers?”

“Always.”

He nods like we just made a life-altering decision.

I let my eyes close for a second, letting the noise blur into the background. It’s a good day. Easy. No pressure. Nothing big waiting around the corner.

And if I’m maybe a little curious about whether or not I’ll get a text later?

Whatever.

It’s not like I’m thinking about it.

We hit up that burger place off Main—the one with the busted sign and the fries that always taste better than they should.

It’s packed, but we grab a booth near the window. I order double bacon, extra cheese, no regrets. Cole gets something with jalapeños and immediately regrets it.

“I swear this place uses actual fire as seasoning,” he says, gulping his drink.

“Maybe don’t order the one called ‘The Punisher’ next time.”

He flips me off across the table.

My phone buzzes as I’m reaching for a fry.

Unknown Number (6:17 PM):

Heard you wanted my number.

I blink.

Read it again.

Then, slow smile.

There’s no name, but it doesn’t take much guesswork.

I type back.

Me (6:18 PM):

Depends. Who’s asking?

A second later:

Jace.

The guy who didn’t throw a guitar at anyone last night.

I huff a laugh, leaning back against the booth.

Cole raises an eyebrow. “Who is it?”

“Jace,” I say.

He nods like that answers everything, then grabs more fries.

I glance back at the message. No pressure. No weird vibe. Just a text.

I answer.

Me (6:18 PM):

Solid set, by the way. You guys were tight.

Unknown Number (6:20 PM):

Not bad for a backyard with a half-dead speaker.

Me (6:21 PM):

Could’ve fooled me.

I lock my phone, toss it on the table.

Cole’s halfway through his burger. “So, you gonna hang out with the music guy now?”

“Dunno,” I say. “Maybe.”

And that’s all there is to it.

We finish up around seven. The sun’s low, casting that golden light across the parking lot that makes everything look softer than it actually is.

Cole drops me at my place with a lazy salute and a “Don’t be boring tonight.”

I flip him off as I grab my leftover fries and head inside.

The house is quiet—Mom’s out with her book club, Dad’s probably still at the hardware store or fixing something just to fix it. I toss my shoes by the door, grab a soda, and flop onto the couch.

Phone buzzes again.

Jace (8:12 PM):

You always text strangers or just guys who play loud music in strangers’ yards?

I grin, thumb tapping.

Me (8:43 PM):

Mostly the second one. Gotta keep it interesting.

Jace (8:14 PM):

Appreciate the honesty.

I set the phone down again, not rushing the reply. It’s easy. No pressure. Just trading lines with a guy who apparently doesn’t mind texting back.

The TV’s on mute. Some rerun I’ve seen a hundred times plays in the background. I eat cold fries one by one, stretched out on the couch like it’s the only place I’m supposed to be.

No plans. No stress.

Just another Saturday night, winding down.

And a message that doesn’t mean anything.

Not really.