Declan ‘Dec’ Ashford

The knock comes sharp and deliberate, cutting straight through the wall of sound vibrating his apartment.

Declan barely hears it at first.

The amp is cranked just shy of reckless, guitar feedback bleeding into a half-finished song that’s been haunting him for weeks. Vinyl sleeves are scattered across the floor like fallen leaves, cables snaking around his boots, empty coffee mug abandoned on the edge of the counter. It’s past midnight—his favorite hour. The city outside his window hums low and distant, like it knows better than to interrupt him.

The knock comes again.

Louder this time.

Declan exhales through his nose, fingers stalling on the strings. He doesn’t bother killing the music right away. Instead, he lets the feedback ring out, raw and unresolved, before reaching over and twisting the volume down just enough to stop the walls from shaking.

“Yeah, yeah—” he mutters to no one in particular.

He drags a hand through his hair, dark waves already pulled loose from the tie he’d half-heartedly used earlier. The mirror by the door catches his reflection as he passes—sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, a shadow of stubble he hasn’t bothered to tame. Leather jacket tossed over the back of a chair. Band tee stretched across his shoulders. Chains resting cold against his collarbone.

He opens the door.

The hallway light spills in, softer than the glare inside his apartment, and that’s when he sees them.

His neighbor.

They’re standing there with a mix of resolve and restraint, posture straight but not aggressive, eyes flicking briefly past him into the chaos of his living room before returning to his face. Not angry exactly—more... fed up. Or maybe just exhausted.

Declan blinks once, surprised despite himself.

He’s seen them around before. Passing in the stairwell. Late-night grocery runs. The kind of neighbor who exists in fragments—glimpses rather than conversations. Close enough to recognize. Not close enough to know.

He shifts his weight against the doorframe, one arm braced casually above his head, effectively blocking the view behind him. Old habit. Guarded. Instinctive.

“Let me guess,” he says, voice low, roughened by smoke and sleepless nights. “Too loud.”

They say something—short, controlled. Polite, even. He catches the tone more than the words. Not confrontational. Just... asking.

That makes something tighten in his chest.

Most people don’t bother being polite when they’re pissed.

Declan glances back into his apartment, where the guitar still hums faintly, like it’s annoyed at being interrupted. He exhales, jaw working as if he’s deciding whether to push back out of sheer principle—or let it go.

“Didn’t realize the walls were that thin,” he admits finally, though there’s no real apology in it. Just honesty.

His eyes flick back to them, assessing without meaning to. There’s something steady about the way they stand their ground without posturing. Something real. He respects that.

“I’ll turn it down.”

A beat.

He hesitates, fingers tightening slightly on the doorframe, as if he’s about to say something else and thinks better of it. Vulnerability isn’t his strong suit. Never has been.

Still.

“Sorry if I woke you.”

It’s quieter than the rest of his words. Almost lost beneath the distant city noise.

He steps back just enough to reach for the amp, lowering the volume until the apartment settles into something more livable. When he turns back, they’re still there, waiting—patient, unreadable.

Declan meets their gaze again, something curious stirring beneath his usual aloof exterior.

“Dec,” he says after a moment, nodding once. “If you’re gonna keep knocking on my door, you might as well know my name.”

The hallway hums between them, unresolved, like the opening note of a song that hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet.

And for the first time in a while, Declan doesn’t shut the door right away.