Chapter 3: Skin and Sound (Caleb’s POV)

It’s late—way past midnight, clock’s probably laughing at me and The Static’s dead quiet. I’m back at the soundboard, headphones clamped on, the world shrunk down to this track I’m screwing with. Bass thumps in my ears, steady, loud, shoving out all the junk, Mom’s voice nagging, Jake’s drunk bullshit, that fifty grand hanging over us like a damn guillotine. My fingers slide over the controls, nudging sliders, chasing something that feels right. Perfect, maybe. It’s my thing, my getaway, always has been when the world gets too loud.

The bar’s empty tonight. No stragglers clinging to their beers, just me and Ryan rattling around. I hear him out there, boots scuffing the floor, keys jingling as he locks the front door. Rain’s chilled out, just a lazy drizzle tapping the windows now, all soft and slow. I don’t look up, too deep in the sound, but I feel him when he’s done. Air shifts, gets heavier, like it always does when he’s close.

He’s right behind me now. Hands land on my hips, warm through my jeans, and I jump a little, stupid reflexes then grin under the headphones. “You’re still messing with that?” he says, voice low, teasing, rough like he’s been yelling all night. Hits me like a shot of something strong.

I yank the headphones off, let ’em dangle around my neck. “Can’t help it,” I say, twisting my head just enough to catch his eyes. He’s right there, dark hair all messed up, eyes steady, pinning me. My grin sticks, but my chest does that tight thing, good tight, the kind he drags outta me every time.

“Thought you’d be wiped,” he says, hands not moving off me.

“Nah,” I lie, shrugging it off. I’m beat to hell, Mom’s crap, Jake’s rant, it’s all weighing me down but I don’t wanna dump that on him yet.

He sees through it, though. Always does. Tilts his head, staring like he’s picking me apart, then flips the lights down—click—and the bar goes all soft and dim. Just the green glow from the soundboard and some flickery neon sneaking through the window. His hands slide up slow, settling on my sides, and I feel his breath on my neck before his lips hit, light at first, just a brush that lights my skin up. Then harder, like he means it, and my head flops back before I even decide to let it.

“Ryan,” I mutter, half-laughing, half something else, dumb and needy, maybe.

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps going, lips digging into that spot under my ear. My hands drop off the board, and I spin fast, crashing my mouth into his. It’s deep, slow, like we’ve got forever. Not rushed tonight, no panic, no hurry. I need this, need him, and he gets it. His hands clamp my waist tighter, yanking me right up against him. Tastes like salt, beer, Ryan, and it flips something in me wide open.

My shirt’s gone first—I rip it off, chuck it somewhere, who cares. His hits the floor next, a quiet little thud. Soundboard’s light catches him, shadows sliding over his chest, his arms, and damn, I’ve seen him like this a hundred times, but it still gets me, every freaking time. My hands slide up his back, feeling him shift under them, and he lets out this low groan into my mouth, quiet but real.

We stumble back, still locked together. My jeans are next, he fumbles the button, and I laugh against his lips. “Slow, huh?” I tease, voice all shaky. He smirks, pops ’em open, and they’re off quick. His pants drop too, and then it’s just us, skin on skin, heat kicking up fast. Bar’s cold as hell, but he’s warm, solid, pressed tight against me like he’s all I need.

I shove him toward that beat-up booth by the stage. He goes, dragging me along, and we crash into it, half-sitting, half-sprawled, arms and legs all tangled up. My hands are everywhere, his chest, his hips, lower. He’s got one in my hair, tugging just enough to make me shake, the other clawing at my back. It’s messy, raw, exactly us. We move together—slow at first, then picking up, like that beat I was messing with—building, hitting hard, falling apart. It’s not just heat—it’s us clinging, saying stuff we can’t figure out how to say out loud.

When it’s done, we’re gasping, a sweaty heap in the booth. My head’s on his chest, his heartbeat thumping under my ear—fast, then slowing. Sweat’s gluing us together, and the air’s thick with us now, not just the bar’s usual beer-and-wood stink. I trace dumb little lines on his skin with my finger—squiggles, nothing smart, just feeling him there. “You’re my anchor,” I whisper, voice all scratched up.

His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling a little. “And you’re mine,” he says back, quiet, steady, like it’s a promise.

I smile against his chest, eyes getting heavy. Bar’s silent now—just our breathing and that drizzle outside, soft as hell. I could stay like this forever—him under me, the world shut out. My hand’s on his stomach, feeling it move up and down, and I’m drifting. He’s fading too, I hear it in his breath, slow and deep, like he’s already half-gone.

But then my eyes snag on something. His jacket’s crumpled by the soundboard where we ditched it, and papers are poking out, the damn loan stuff. Green light hits ’em just right, and I see it—numbers, that Friday deadline. Fifty grand. It’s like ice water, snapping me awake even though my body’s screaming to crash.

I don’t move, don’t say a word. Just stay there, head on his chest, listening to his heart. He’s still here, still mine. We’re still us. But those papers, they’re lurking, quiet for now, but not gone. The fight’s still out there, waiting to bite.