Rules for the Breaking

Chapter 1

The shrill ring of Chris's alarm cut through the silence of his room, yanking him from a tangle of dreams into reality. The numbers on the clock glowed 6:30 AM. He slapped the snooze button, buying himself some more time. He laid there for a moment more before he stretched out, his muscles waking up with him, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.

The room was a small universe of Chris: a drum set crammed in one corner, stacks of vinyl records flanking the walls, and a worn-out sketchbook open on his desk. The morning light peeked through his posters of Led Zeppelin and The Rolling Stones, filtering a soft, inspiring glow onto the floor.

Throwing off his covers, he padded across the room, the chill of the floorboards a stark contrast to his warm skin. He stood there for a moment, in only his boxers, facing a reflection staring back at him, a solitary figure framed by the edges of the worn mirror. The silence of the room hummed in his ears, punctuated only by the distant sound of the world waking up outside his window. Today was not another day; it was THE day — his first at a new school.

The very thought of joining the junior class, mid-year, in Greenville, Illinois was enough to make his heart race, a symphony of nerves playing beneath his skin. Even the name of the place sounded like the middle of nowhere. But as he stood there, bare, and unadorned, he remembered the words his dad used to say, "Courage, Chris, starts with showing up."

"Show up," he whispered to his reflection. "Just show up and let them see who you are."

Still groggy, he let his gaze drift over his body, taking in the lean muscles and tan skin from afternoons spent on his skateboard. This was the body of someone who lived, who created, who wasn't afraid to take a leap. He let those thoughts seep in, replacing the whispers of doubt. He was used to a casual style, but he stood out for pushing that to the limits, even back home in California.

With a deep breath he reached for the jeans that hung over the side of his dresser. They slipped on like a melody, each movement in harmony with the quiet confidence building inside him. He never wore a belt with jeans, they always hung perfectly without one, snug at the hips to hold them low and in place, with the waist slightly loose.

He had been told last year by a girl that she liked the way his torso slid into his jeans. His heart raced a bit at the memory, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. He had never considered that aesthetic before, but it stuck with him.

Still in the fog of waking up Chris's mind wandered to that day on the beach in California that echoed in his memory. In his mind's eye, he was back there under the stars in the warmth of the bonfire, the chatter and laughter of his friends all around.

"Chris, you know," she said, her voice clear and tinged with affection, "I really like the way your torso slides into your jeans. It's... kinda captivating."

Chris had blinked, taken aback by her directness, the same flush of warmth spreading across his cheeks. "Really?" he stammered, a mix of surprise and bashfulness in his voice. "I, uh, never really thought about it."

Her name was Sheila and her laughter, light and musical, filled the air between them. "Well, you should," she insisted, stepping closer. Her hand reached out, fingertips grazing the denim at his hip in a gesture that sent a shiver down his spine. "See, it's just... there's something about it. It's effortlessly cool."

Sheila leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to carry over the sound of the waves and the crackle of the fire. "And it's not just about going shirtless, you know. A lot of guys do that. But with you, it's different."

"Different how?" he asked, genuinely curious, his earlier bashfulness mingling with a burgeoning interest.

"It's the way you carry yourself," Sheila explained, her hand still lingering near his waist, her fingers now tracing a deliberate path along the edge of his jeans, emphasizing her point.