Chapter Text
(Y/n) - Your name
(E/c) - Eye color
(H/l) - Hair length
(H/c) - Hair color
(S/c) - Skin color
(F/c) - Favorite color
Disclaimer: (Y/n) is depicted as feminine during the first act of the story then later on turns more androgynous. Despite this they’re welcomed to be pictured as completely genderless! They’re also portrayed as strongly bisexual. Don't be weird about it.
Enjoy!
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
June 6th, 2005.
That day would stick with you for the rest of your life.
You leaned against the iron railing of your balcony, arms crossed, eyes fixed across the street. The air was thick with that slow-burning early summer heat—the kind that made the pavement shimmer—and you were watching a family unload a moving truck like it was the most exciting event you'd seen in years.
Okay, it probably was.
The house across the street had been empty for a while, practically haunted by its own boredom. The last family who lived there were painfully beige—never talked, never waved, never even decorated for Halloween. But now, a truck full of cardboard boxes, furniture wrapped in plastic, and a minivan crammed with kids' stuff had pulled up that morning. You counted two boys about your age. And if fate had a sense of humor, they were both kind of... cute.
The itch to make friends had grown stronger lately—especially with your last year of middle school creeping up. And those two boys? They looked like the exact kind of interesting you needed.
So here you were, peering like a total creeper from your balcony. You knew it was weird, but you couldn’t stop watching. You were curious. It had been years since anything remotely exciting happened in this neighborhood.
Then—as if your thoughts summoned him—the boy in the white hoodie turned and looked directly at you.
Your stomach dropped. He had short brown hair, sharp eyebrows, and the kind of smile that wasn’t forced—it just was. The breeze picked up at that exact moment, rustling the leaves and sweeping a lock of hair across your face. You stood there frozen like a deer in headlights. Then, on instinct, you gave him a sheepish little wave.
To your horror, he waved back.
You immediately turned around, your face heating up in the worst way. You smacked your forehead with the heel of your hand.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you muttered. “God, I’m so stupid… You already blew it, and you haven’t even talked to him yet!” You paced, gripping the railing like it might save you from the embarrassment. “How fast can I move out of the country…?”
You didn’t get a chance to spiral too hard,
“(y/n? Where are you, kiddo?” your dad called from inside.
“I’m out here!” you shouted back, adopting a singsong voice to mask your humiliation. “What’s up?”
He stepped onto the balcony, one eyebrow raised. “Already stalking the new neighbors?”
You rolled your eyes, nudging him. “I’m observing. You raised a curious child, deal with it.”
He laughed. “Well, I hope your curiosity includes talking to them.”
Your smile vanished.
He didn’t mean—
“Oh, no,” you said, stepping back. “Dad, wait—”
Too late. He was already walking toward the stairs.
Your dad was that kind of person. The type who could strike up a conversation in a grocery store and walk away with someone’s life story. You loved that about him—most of the time. Right now? It was your worst nightmare.
You followed him reluctantly, dragging your feet as you crossed the street. The new family’s house looked even bigger up close, freshly painted with bright white siding and navy-blue shutters. The lawn hadn’t been mowed yet, but you could tell someone had cared about it.
You stopped at the front door, practically holding your breath, as your dad knocked.
This was your life now. Maybe if you fainted right there on their porch, you'd be spared this meeting.
The door opened.
A petite woman stood in the frame. She had shoulder-length brown hair that fell in soft waves and eyes so green they could’ve been fake if they weren’t glowing with warmth. She smiled wide, her teeth perfectly straight and white.
“Hello! Can I help you?”
“Hi!” your dad chimed in, already launching into his introduction. You barely listened; your brain stuck on the million escape plans that would get you out of this.
Eventually, you caught enough to piece together some basic facts. Her name was Margaret Woods. Her husband had just gotten a new job promotion, hence the move. She was a stay-at-home mom, and yes—she did, in fact, have two boys. The very same ones you’d been staring at like an absolute freak.
Your eyes wandered past her into the house, scanning the inside. The living room was wide and bright, walls painted a soft white, boxes stacked to the ceiling. The only furniture set up was a large beige leather couch and a round rug in the middle of the room. It all looked… temporary. Transitional. But not cold.
Your dad nudged your elbow.
You snapped back to reality, plastering on a polite smile.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Woods. I’m (y/n),” you said, extending a hand.
She took it warmly. “It’s lovely to meet you too. Actually…” Her smile widened. “My boys are upstairs! They’re just about your age. Would you like to come inside and say hi?”
Oh no.
You couldn’t say no now. That would be rude. You peeked at your dad for backup, silently pleading with your eyes.
“I don’t see why not,” he said with a grin. “Go on, kiddo.”
“Perfect!” Margaret stepped aside, ushering you both in. “They’ll be thrilled. Especially my Jeffery—he’s been keeping to himself lately.”
The moment you stepped inside, a chill slid up your spine. It was colder than it had any right to be in June. You rubbed your arms as the breeze ghosted over you.
Margaret gestured toward the stairs. “They’re just down the hall to the left—Jeff’s room. Go ahead, sweetie.”
You nodded and made your way up. Every step made your heart thud louder. You were trying to look casual, but internally you were preparing for death by awkwardness.
And then it hit you. Jeff. That had to be the boy in the white hoodie.
Fantastic.
You reached the top of the stairs and stared at a closed bedroom door. You could hear laughter and muffled voices behind it. You swallowed hard and knocked.
“Hang ON, Mom!” someone yelled from inside. You winced.
“It’s not your mom,” you said quickly, trying to sound casual.
Silence.
Then, footsteps. The door swung open. And there he was. White hoodie, brown eyes, slightly windblown hair.
“It’s you!” he said, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
You laughed nervously, “Um… sorry. My dad brought me over to say hi. Your mom asked me to come up and meet you and your brother. Sorry if I’m interrupting.”
“You’re not,” he said, stepping back and gesturing inside. “Well, stranger, guess you’re stuck with me and Liu.”
You stepped into the room. Liu sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a paperback novel. He looked up and offered a soft smile that was weirdly comforting—his mother’s smile.
“Stranger, huh?” you grinned, relaxing. “I’ll take the nickname.”
Jeff crossed his arms, leaning on the doorframe. “I mean, I’d appreciate a real name.”
“(y/n),” you said.
He gave you a genuine smile. “Nice to meet you, (Y/N). Make yourself at home.”
You kicked off your shoes and settled on the floor beside them. The room still smelled faintly of fresh paint. Boxes lined the walls, and the bedframe sat empty—no mattress yet.
“So, (y/n), what kind of music do you listen to?” Jeff asked.
“Jesus Christ, Jeff,” Liu groaned. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“Your freaky music interrogations.”
You raised your hand. “Oh, I really don’t mi—”
“I just want to see if they know any of the good stuff!” Jeff interrupted.
“I mean…” you shrugged, “I mostly listen to whatever’s on the radio.”
“There you go,” Liu said smugly. “Radio means good music. Problem solved.”
You sighed. This was clearly brother banter, and breaking into their rhythm felt like trying to merge onto a highway with no brakes.
“You know,” you raised your voice just slightly, “I’m open to learning new music. It’s not like I’ve got a packed schedule.”
They looked at you. Jeff grinned. Liu shook his head.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
The rest of the afternoon was chaos—in the best way.
You and Jeff listened to everything from grunge to alt-rock to whatever he insisted was “real punk” (which, according to him, "Definitely not Green Day, don’t even say it." At some point, after a surprisingly passionate argument about who ruined The Smashing Pumpkins, he threw up his hands and said, “Okay, you need help,” and decided to burn you a CD.
You’d sat on the carpet of his bedroom while he typed the track list in a Word doc like he was composing a manifesto. You watched the light from his desk lamp halo his hair, and you didn’t say anything because—somehow—it was one of the nicest afternoons you'd had in a long time.
Now, you cradled that CD in both hands like it was sacred as you stepped through the front door.
Your dad was just coming out of the kitchen with a glass of water, hair still messy from his nap. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, giving you a quick glance-over. “You survived?”
You laughed. “Barely.”
He ruffled your hair, then caught sight of the CD case in your hands. “Got yourself a souvenir?”
“I did,” you said proudly. “Jeff made me a mix.”
“Ohhh,” he said slowly, taking the CD and squinting at the scribbled Sharpie on the front. “Jamz for (Y/N).” He gave you a look. “He spelled jams with a Z.”
“Yeah, because it’s cool, Dad.”
He handed it back, smirking. “Right. My mistake. Z’s are very punk rock.”
“They’re actually really nice,” you said, following him into the kitchen. “Jeff and Liu. It was fun. We hung out and talked about music for, like, four hours.”
“Well, thank God,” he said, opening the fridge. “I don’t think I could take another David.”
You rolled your eyes. “He’s not that bad.”
“That kid is a nuisance, (y/n)," he shook his head disapprovingly, "He throws rocks at cars."
You paused. “…Okay, that was one time.”
“He got caught spray painting profanities on a wall near here.”
“That was a joke.”
He pulled out a soda. “He also tried to sell you homemade ‘essential oils’ made from motor oil and mint leaves.”
You groaned, flopping dramatically against the counter. “Okay, he’s weird, but you don’t have to list the whole article.”
He grinned over the can. “I get it from you.”
“Rude.”
“Anyway,” he said, cracking it open. “I’m out most of tomorrow. Work thing. Can you clean the house while I’m gone? Floors too, please.”
You groaned louder. “Ugh. Fiiine.”
“Is that a yes or just a dramatic noise?”
“Yes! I’ll do it, jeez.”
He leaned against the counter and looked at you a little more closely. “You look… happy.”
You blinked. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Like… lighter. I like seeing that.”
You smiled, small and sincere. “Thanks, Dad.”
He reached out, brushing some lint off your sleeve like he couldn’t help it. “I like when you make new friends. You’re a strange little kid with too many stuck up friends. Weird people need other weird people.”
You snorted. “Thanks?”
“That was a compliment.”
"Sounded like an insult.”
“Welcome to parenting.” He nudged you toward the stairs. “Go on. I’ll yell about chores again tomorrow.”
You turned and made your way upstairs, CD still tucked tightly to your chest.
Your room was cool and still, the late afternoon sunlight casting long slats of warm light across your bedspread. You threw yourself down onto it, limbs sprawled everywhere and held up the CD to inspect it again.
Jamz for (Y/N) :)
You ran your thumb over the crooked smiley face Jeff had drawn beneath the title. You smiled to yourself.
“I wonder what Jeff’s doing right now,” you mumbled into the ceiling, then rolled your head to the side. “Probably setting something on fire.”
You laughed a little under your breath. Not because it was that funny, but because… it felt good. It felt good to be home. To have a CD. To have something to look forward to. To feel like maybe—just maybe—someone got you.
No one had ever made you something like this before. Not a mixtape. Not a song list. Not anything.
It was small. But it meant something. It meant he’d noticed. It meant he’d cared enough to share what mattered to him.
And maybe that was stupid.
But you didn’t think so.
You tucked the CD onto your nightstand, stared at it for another second, and then finally closed your eyes, thinking—not for the first time, and not for the last—that this might be a really, really good summer.