Lyrics

The second the lecture ends, I’m out the door.

Zack catches up easily, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “Two-hour gap. Do we eat? Sleep? Or commit academic crimes?”

“Café,” Emory suggests, already texting someone. “I need caffeine if I’m going to survive the next three hours.”

Isaac nods beside her. “Same.”

I don’t say anything. I just follow, falling into step like gravity pulls me into their orbit whether I like it or not.

The campus café is buzzing, as usual — students hunched over laptops, others crowded around too-small tables, too many iced coffees balanced in shaking hands. The windows let in a wash of afternoon sun that makes the world outside look calmer than it really is.

We find a corner booth that’s somehow miraculously open. Zack claims the seat with the best outlet access like a gremlin with caffeine withdrawal.

Emory and Isaac head to the counter to order, leaving me and Zack to hold the table.

I’m scrolling through my phone aimlessly when I hear my brother’s voice.

Loud. Too loud. As always.

I glance toward the other side of the café and spot him near the bar counter, laughing like he doesn’t owe the world a single serious moment.

Zander. Of course he’s here.

But it’s the guy next to him that makes me pause.

Tall. Lean.Dark, shoulder-length hair tied loosely back. A few silver hoops glinting along the edge of one ear.And those eyes.

Not green. Not hazel.But that strange, unnatural siren green — sharp and amused, like he sees things before you say them.

He’s leaning in close to Zander, speaking low. Something in the way he moves is magnetic — careless and intentional at the same time.

I blink. “Who’s that?”

Zack looks up from his phone, follows my gaze. “Oh, that guy?” He leans closer, voice lowered like he’s telling me a secret. “That’s Eren Jaeger.”

I frown. “That name sounds like a bad decision.”

“It is,” Zack grins. “In human form.”

Emory slides back into the booth with a tray of drinks, catching the end of that. “Don’t even think about it,” she says dryly.

Isaac returns too, raising an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

“Y/N was asking about Eren,” Zack says casually.

Emory makes a face. “Seriously?”

“I was curious, not delusional,” I mutter.

Zack leans back with a smug grin. “He’s the type that dates you for three weeks, ruins your GPA, and leaves you believing it was spiritual growth.”

Isaac chuckles under his breath, sipping his coffee. “He’s… intense.”

“More like allergic to commitment,” Emory adds.

Zack nudges me. “So? Is he your type or what?”

I roll my eyes, but my gaze drifts back to the guy with the siren eyes.

Eren’s still talking to Zander, but as if feeling the weight of being watched, his head turns — just slightly — and his eyes meet mine.

Dead on.

He smirks.

Slow. Like he knows.

And just like that, I look away — heat blooming at the back of my neck.

Zack cackles. “Ohh, no. That’s definitely her type.”

I toss a sugar packet at his head.

He dodges, still grinning.

But my heart’s beating faster.

And I hate that.

I really hate that.

I try not to look again.

Seriously. I try.

But I can feel his gaze on me — heavy, sharp, unapologetic. Like he’s not even pretending not to stare.

I stir my tea with a tiny wooden stick like it's the most fascinating thing in the universe. Zack’s still grinning beside me like a cat who just witnessed me trip in heels.

I chance one more glance — quick, nothing serious — just to confirm.

Yep.Still looking.Still smirking.

I yank my gaze back down to the table like it burned me.

Play it cool. Play it normal. Be chill. Be the girl who totally isn’t affected by anyone, let alone some smug siren-eyed jawline come to life.

I reach for the sugar.

Grab the little white ceramic shaker next to the napkins.Flip the lid.Tip it over my cup.

…And then the entire contents of the shaker come flooding out.

White grains pour like a sugar avalanche, but something feels off—Too grainy.Too sharp.

Zack gasps. “Y/N—no, that’s—”

Too late.

Salt.

It’s salt.

A blizzard of it. Into my cup. Onto the table. Over my hand. Some of it even hits the floor with a dramatic sprinkle that might as well be cymbal crash.

I stare at my ruined tea like it just confessed to betraying me.

The table falls silent.

Zack’s mouth is shaking from holding in a laugh.Emory’s lips are twitching.Isaac blinks slowly like he’s watching a live car crash in slow motion.

I set the shaker down very, very calmly. “Why. Was that. Full of salt.”

Zack coughs to cover a snort. “Probably the same reason he’s still looking at you.”

I stiffen. Slowly — very slowly — I glance back over toward Zander and Eren.

Zander's still mid-convo, oblivious.

But Eren?

Eren’s definitely seen the whole thing.

He’s leaned back, one elbow on the counter, lips twitching, eyes still locked on me with a look that screams: That was entertaining. Please continue being a disaster.

I look away so fast I almost give myself whiplash.

“I hate everything,” I mutter.

Emory’s giggling behind her drink. “Smooth. Very subtle.”

Zack reaches over and gently pushes my cup of salty death away from me like it might explode. “You sure he’s not your type? You’re already off to a spicy start.”

I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Can someone please stab me with a fork?”

Isaac takes a long sip of his coffee, hiding his smile behind the rim. “On the bright side… you made an impression.”

“I hate that even more.”

“I’m not going to be involved with him,” I blurt, way louder than I mean to.

Zack blinks. Emory nearly chokes on her coffee.

I lower my voice and lean in like I didn’t just announce that to half the café. “Seriously. He’s probably just like my brother — smug, selfish, allergic to commitment and obsessed with his own voice.”

Zander, as if summoned by insult, laughs loudly from across the room.

“See?” I gesture toward him like I’m making a case in court. “Same species. Different hair products.”

Zack grins. “Oof. Harsh. But go on, tell us how not interested you are.”

“I’m not! Just because someone has, like, stupid pretty eyes and a morally questionable smirk doesn’t mean I’m immediately sold.”

“You noticed the smirk,” Emory says, sipping slowly. “That’s progress.”

“I notice smirks. It doesn’t mean I want to date them.” I snatch a napkin and start cleaning the salt like it personally betrayed me. “You people are ridiculous.”

Zack tilts his head, clearly enjoying himself. “But you’re already making comparisons to Zander. And if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you hate being compared to your brother. So, the fact that you’re doing it—”

“—Means I’m annoyed,” I snap. “Because guys like him? They’re always trouble. They leave messes and graffiti and three exes with trust issues. And I’m not going there.”

“Okay,” Emory says gently, “but you’re talking like someone who already mentally dated him and broke up twice.”

“I’m talking like someone with eyes,” I say. “And common sense.”

But even as I say it, I can still feel him across the café. Can still remember that little glint in his eye like he knows he’s the type of guy girls warn their friends about after ignoring all the red flags.

I shove my cup farther away like it’ll erase the moment.

“I don’t need some Eren Jaeger in my life,” I mutter. “I’ve got enough chaos.”

“Famous last words,” Zack hums.

I point a finger at him. “If you start shipping me with Siren Eyes, I will salt your drink next.”

He holds his hands up in surrender, grinning wide. “Fair.”

Isaac, who’s been quietly watching, finally speaks. “Then ignore him,” he says softly. “If you really don’t care… act like it.”

I hesitate.

Act like it.

Right.

Easy.

Totally doable.

I grab my bag and stand. “I need air.”

Emory raises a brow. “You sure you don’t need to write a love song?”

“I will pour salt in your keyboard.”

Zack’s laughter echoes behind me as I push out the café doors and into the sunlight — trying, and failing, to ignore the heat still rising in my cheeks.

The café door slams behind me with a sharp clang.

Sunlight hits me like a slap — too bright, too real, too… there.

I exhale hard, dragging a hand through my hair as I head down the steps, not even looking where I’m going.

And that’s exactly why I don’t see him until we collide.

“Whoa—careful!”

I stumble back, blinking as I look up into a familiar face.

Buzzed hair. Easy smile. Hoodie that probably hasn’t been washed in a week.

Connie Springer.One of Zander’s ride-or-die boys since forever.Infamous for failing two classes and still somehow making everyone laugh during it.

He’s holding a smoothie in one hand, the other raised like he’s afraid I’m about to swing on him.

“Y/N?” he says, blinking. “You good?”

I blink again, trying to play it cool even though I just bodychecked someone wearing Crocs in public.

“Yeah,” I mutter, brushing salt off my sleeve like it’s not still falling from my soul. “Fine.”

Connie stares at me. “You don’t look fine. You look like someone just insulted your music taste and stepped on your amp.”

I squint at him. “That’s very specific.”

He shrugs. “Been there. Once tripped over Jean’s pedals and broke his tuner. He didn’t talk to me for a week.”

I crack the tiniest smile despite myself.

Connie softens. “Seriously though. You alright?”

I hesitate, glancing back toward the café windows. I can still see Zack laughing, Emory sipping like she’s innocent, Isaac with that unreadable expression.

And inside, somewhere in the background — Zander. And Eren Jaeger with his smug little knowing face.

I look back at Connie. “Just needed to get away from… people.”

Connie nods like he gets it. “Zander’s inside, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

He snorts. “Explains the aura of chaos radiating off the café.”

I fold my arms and lean against the wall. “Do you guys just… collect other emotionally unavailable men? Is that, like, a club?”

“Absolutely,” Connie says, deadpan. “We meet Tuesdays. Bring your own emotional baggage.”

That actually gets a real laugh out of me.

Connie sips his smoothie like he didn’t just deliver a therapy session in five words. “If you ever need to crash one of those meetings, let me know. We always need a drummer with rage issues.”

“I’m not a drummer.”

“Yet.”

I glance at him sideways. “Thanks, Connie.”

He grins. “Anytime. Also, just so you know…”

He leans in conspiratorially.

“If Eren is your type… be careful. Dude looks like he writes poetry and ghost texts girls at the same time.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s not my type.”

Connie smirks. “Sure. That’s what they all say. Before the eye contact.”

I throw my hoodie over my head and keep walking.

He laughs behind me.

After a few minutes pacing outside, I take a deep breath and push the door open again.

The familiar hum of chatter and clinking cups washes over me like a wave — less intimidating this time, but still there.

I spot Zack, Emory, and Isaac sitting at our table, faces lit by the soft glow of their phones and half-empty drinks.

They look up as I slide into the seat next to Zack.

“Hey,” I mutter, pulling my hoodie tighter around me like it’s armor.

Zack grins. “Look who decided to rejoin civilization.”

Emory smirks. “You missed the debate over whether caffeine counts as a food group.”

Isaac raises his cup. “To caffeine — the real MVP.”

I manage a small smile. “Guess I needed a break.”

Zack nudges me playfully. “Break from what? The salty tea incident? Or the mysterious siren-eyed heartbreaker?”

I roll my eyes, but my heart thuds a little faster at the mention of Eren.

“Neither,” I say quickly. “Just… stuff.”

Emory gives me a look — the kind that says I’m here if you want to talk.

I nod, appreciating it even if I’m not ready to open up.

We settle into a quieter rhythm — the kind where words are optional, and just being together is enough.

But even in the background, I can feel it — the weight of what’s coming.

Because nothing in this place is ever really simple.

“So,” I say, pulling out my phone and flipping through my notes app, “I’ve been working on something new.”

Zack perks up instantly, leaning forward. “Is it about heartbreak or homicidal tendencies?”

“Neither,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Okay, maybe a little of both. But mostly… it’s a new direction.”

I pull up the demo I recorded in my room, hit play, and slide the phone into the middle of the table.

The track starts — low, rhythmic guitar with a deep pulse, slow build. My voice comes in a few seconds later, smooth and sharper than usual, curling around the lyrics.

Zack bobs his head, brows lifting in surprise. “Okay, vibe. Little moody. Kinda hot—”Then he freezes.Tilts his head.Squints.

“Wait. Hold on.”

I pause it. “What?”

He stares at me like I just confessed to a crime. “You cannot play that live.”

“Why not?” I ask, already defensive.

“Because the lyrics,” he says, waving dramatically, “are basically audio foreplay. I thought you were about to light a candle and ask me how my day was before crawling into my lap.”

I snort. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being accurate.”

I glance at Isaac and Emory across the table — or at least, I try to.

They’re fully leaning into each other, hands brushing, lips dangerously close.

“Are they—?” I start.

“Yep,” Zack says without looking. “Tongue city. No return flights.”

“Gross.”

“I’d rather relisten to your musical thirst trap than hear that slurping again.”

“It's not a thirst trap,” I mutter. “It's… expressive.”

Zack narrows his eyes. “Y/N. The chorus literally purrs.”

“I like the sound of it!”

“Yeah, well, so will half the crowd, and the other half will be filing HR complaints.”

I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “You’re such a hater.”

“Listen, if you want to seduce the sound engineer, that’s your business. Just don’t make me sing backup while you’re moaning metaphors into the mic.”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

Zack leans back with a smug grin, sipping his drink. “I’m just saying — if this is the new direction, maybe give us a warning before the next band meeting turns into a PG-13 drama.”

I laugh under my breath and poke at my phone screen, saving the demo anyway.Because honestly?It’s kind of fire.Even if it makes Zack blush like a church kid.

I let Zack’s dramatic monologue play out — complete with exaggerated gestures and fake gasps — then slide my phone back into my hoodie pocket.

“Fine,” I say, trying not to laugh. “No seductive moaning metaphors for now.”

“Thank you,” he says, relieved. “My dignity thanks you. My vocal cords thank you. The campus morality board thanks you.”

I ignore him. “Let’s do a cover instead.”

That gets Zack’s attention. “Of what?”

I grin. “Guys Don’t Like Me by It Boys.”

He nearly drops his drink. “Wait. That song? The 2012 eyeliner fever dream?”

“It’s catchy. And loud. And no one has to worry about me corrupting the youth.”

Isaac finally peels his face away from Emory’s neck just long enough to blink and say, “I like that one.”

Emory, hair slightly mussed and completely unbothered, nods. “Yeah. It’s fun. Plus, Y/N sounds great on it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “So you were listening.”

“Hard not to,” she says with a smirk, nudging Isaac. “Despite being… distracted.”

Zack shakes his head. “Okay. I’ll allow it. But only if we get to scream the chorus like we’re in a garage band with something to prove.”

“Oh,” I say, grabbing a napkin and scribbling mock chords across it, “that’s the only way we’re doing it.”

“Dibs on jumping off the amp mid-bridge,” Zack says immediately.

“You’ve never jumped in your life.”

“I leapt emotionally during track season.”

“I’ve seen sloths move faster than you.”

He gasps. “Y/N. Hurtful. We’re supposed to be bandmates. Family.”

Emory leans over to Isaac. “Should we tell them we’re changing the band name to Hormonal Noise?”

“Too late,” Isaac murmurs. “Already trademarked in my mind.”

Zack stretches dramatically. “Alright, alright. Let’s run it. One chaotic pop-punk cover coming up.”

As we start pulling our things together to head to rehearsal, I catch myself smiling again. Genuinely this time.

No lingering Eren stares. No salt accidents. No heavy emotions boiling under my skin.

Just music. Just friends. Just… fun.

Even if it’s temporary, it feels right.

And maybe — just maybe — I needed this more than I realize

They weren’t kidding when they said the campus had rooms for “creative expression.”

This one’s tucked behind the old auditorium — dusty, half-forgotten, and technically still under renovation, which just means no one kicks us out when we’re loud.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The soundproofing is questionable. But it’s ours for now.

Zack drags the mic stand into the middle like he’s fronting a sold-out stadium. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our debut garage concert — except the garage is held together with duct tape and emotional repression.”

“Fitting,” I mutter, plugging in my guitar.

Emory checks the bass amp, adjusting the strap like she’s been playing for years instead of barely a week. She looks good with it — confident, steady, locked in.

Isaac’s already tapping out a warmup beat on the borrowed drum set like he’s waiting for his moment to prove something. Which, knowing him, he is.

I take a breath and step up to the mic, guitar slung over my shoulder.

“You sure you remember the lyrics?” Emory asks, already smirking.

I smirk back. “Do I look like I forgot the anthem of every emotionally unhinged alt-girl from 2012?”

Zack throws up devil horns. “We are so not ready, and I love it.”

“Count us in, Isaac,” I say.

Four drumstick taps.Then we’re in.

The guitars come in loud and gritty, a wall of messy sound that fills the room like fire. Zack’s backup vocals are half-scream, half-chaotic joy, and Emory’s bass rumbles under it all with surprising control.

I throw myself into the lead vocals — sharp, fast, spitting lines like they still sting. My fingers fly over the strings, everything electric and fast and real.

By the time we hit the chorus, we’re all yelling it — badly harmonized, off-key, perfectly alive.

“GUYS DON’T LIKE ME—”Zack practically shouts, almost knocking over the mic stand in the process.Isaac hits the crash cymbal like he’s mad at it.Emory spins slightly, laughing under her breath.

It’s loud. It’s reckless. It’s way too much.

And it’s exactly what I needed.

For three minutes, there’s no awkward café stares. No salt disasters. No confusing feelings about people who look at me like they see straight through me.

Just noise. Music. Us.

The final chord hits with a crash, reverberating off the walls. We all pause, breathless, sweating, grinning.

“Okay,” Zack pants, bending over. “We are either the worst band on campus or the most iconic.”

“Why not both?” Emory says, wiping her brow.

Isaac spins a drumstick in his fingers. “That felt good.”

I adjust my guitar strap and nod, heart still racing.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It really did.”

As the last echo of feedback dies off, I take a step back and shake out my hands. My voice is hoarse, throat dry, but there’s still that buzz running through me — the kind only music can leave behind.

“That was actually kind of sick,” Zack says, collapsing dramatically into a folding chair like he just headlined Coachella. “I mean, I was clearly the glue holding us together, but still.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Emory says, grabbing a bottle of water.

Isaac swings a stick in lazy circles before resting his elbows on the drum kit. “Hey… I really liked that.” His voice is quieter than usual — thoughtful, even.

I glance over at him. “Yeah?”

He nods, then after a beat:“You know… I could sing it.”

Zack perks up. “You? Mr. Emotionally Repressed?”

Isaac shrugs, looking right at me now. “You said you’re not much of a singer anyway. And when you’re on guitar? That’s where you’re scary good, Y/N. Like, seriously.”

I freeze a second. Not because I disagree.Because I don’t.

I’m not a singer. I can sing, sure. But I don’t feel like a vocalist. Not the way I feel when my fingers are flying over strings, heart syncing to every downstroke like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

And hearing Isaac say it like that — like he saw it too — makes something warm and weird stir in my chest.

“I mean,” I say, brushing a hair out of my face, “go for it. Let’s hear what Mr. Repressed sounds like with a mic.”

He smirks, walking toward the mic stand and adjusting it down to his height. “Brace yourself.”

Zack whispers to Emory, “Is this the part where he goes full indie heartthrob?”

Emory grins. “Ten bucks says he suddenly knows how to smolder.”

Isaac clears his throat. I settle my guitar back in place and give him a subtle nod.He nods back.Then: “One, two, three—”

We launch back into the track.

This time, it’s different.

Isaac’s voice is rougher than mine, lower, with just enough edge to make the lyrics hit harder. There’s a quiet control in it — not perfect, but raw. Lived-in.

And while he sings, I play. No pressure to lead. Just me and the guitar, locked in.

The notes come out cleaner, fuller. I shred a little more. Throw in some flare, just because I can.

And watching Isaac — the way his jaw tightens with each verse, the way his hand grips the mic stand like it’s holding him up — something twists in my stomach.

He’s good.Too good.Like he was made for this part.

And somewhere deep inside, the jealousy flares up again — not about Emory, not about his voice.

Just the fact that, once again, I feel like I’m playing background to someone I didn’t expect to care so much about.

“Okay,” I say, voice tight, trying to keep it casual but failing miserably, “I need a break. Usual.”

I sling my guitar over my shoulder and slip out of the rehearsal room, the buzz of music fading behind me like a retreating tide.

I wander down the dim campus corridors, eyes on the cracked tile floor, mind racing a million miles a minute.

I push open the nearest door — no idea where I am — and step inside.

The faint hum of voices stops me cold.

I freeze.

To my right — framed by the harsh glow of a neon sign — is Zander.

His back’s turned, but I know that chest anywhere.

And draped over his shoulder, barely covered by the dim light?

A girl.

Topless.

I don’t even think.

A scream rips from my throat before my brain can catch up.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

Zander spins around, eyes wide, heart pounding loud enough to echo off the walls.

The girl grabs a nearby shirt and hurriedly pulls it over herself, cheeks flaming.

I stare, breathless, every nerve on fire.

For a moment, none of us speak.

Then Zander runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“Y/N! God, it’s not what it looks like.”

I cross my arms, furious and stunned. “Then explain this.”

The girl shrugs awkwardly, eyes darting between us.

“I was just… uh… changing?”

Changing?

I laugh bitterly. “Yeah, right.”

Zander steps closer, voice low. “Look, I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

“Find out what?”

He sighs. “That I’m not exactly the ‘perfect big brother’ you think I am.”

I glare. “That’s one way to put it.”

The girl shifts uncomfortably, eyes pleading for an escape.

I grab my bag, voice shaking. “I’m done here.”

As I storm out, the fluorescent lights flicker overhead, matching the storm inside me.

Because some things you just don’t want to see.

I slam the door behind me and lean against it, taking a deep breath.

Honestly? I kind of saw it coming.

Zander’s always been a player — the king of empty promises and late-night disappearances.

He’s got a charm that melts almost anyone, and a way of making you believe you’re the only one — until you’re not.

I shrug, trying to shove the disappointment down where it belongs.