This is Brat, a serialised NA/YA novel about alt-rock chaos, messy house shares, and the kind of love that leaves bruises. I’m posting it chapter by chapter here on Witch Snacks.
👉 New here? Chapters: 1, 2. Or go to the Chapter Index
Dev
The hut had finally warmed up. So had we.
Didn’t think I’d be eating the best bloody lentils of my life in a tin shack in the middle of the New Zealand bush, but here we were.
She handed over a tin bowl like it was a tactical move, then sat across from me. Knees up, hoodie sleeves over her hands, cheeks still pink from the hike.
Not trying to impress. Just... existing.
She hadn’t recognised me. I knew the second we made eye contact back at the stream.
No double take. No “wait, are you...?”
Just a normal person reaction, like I was another rock she had to step over.
Honestly?
Elite behaviour.
No awkward flirting. No whisper voice. No fame-adjacent questions.
She handed me lentils and said, “Don’t burn your tongue.”
I nearly laughed, because ten minutes ago she’d had me half-hard just by brushing gauze over my stomach and then pretending she didn’t notice the tattoo. I’d caught her, though — that sharp look away, the way her hands weren’t quite steady.
Most people grab for me. She didn’t. She just wrapped me up, called me out, and sat back like she wasn’t affected.
Which was bullshit.
And addictive as hell.
So obviously, I had to poke it.
“Alright then,” I said between mouthfuls. “You’ve got quiet-judgy energy, what music do you listen to?”
She raised a brow. “Why? So you can hit me back with your artisanal whisky opinions and flannel-core guitar case?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Vital character info.”
She smirked. Then shrugged.
“Sleep Token. Daisy Grenade. Pale Waves. The Cure, obvs. Some Chappell Roan when I feel like spiralling in glitter. A bit of Kiwi stuff: Harper Finn, Bene, Ladyhawke, Tiny Ruins–because I’m not a sociopath. And a bit of Orville Peck for yeehaw flavour.”
I made a face like I’d just stepped in something philosophical. “That is... fucking chaotic.”
“So is life.” She sipped her coffee like she’d just won an argument no one else knew we were having.
I watched her over the rim of my mug.
It was chaotic. But not in a curated, playlist-is-my-personality way.
Messy. Honest.
Like she didn’t care what was cool – just what cracked her chest open a little.
My brain started shuffling through her picks like a cursed Spotify algorithm.
Sleep Token and Daisy Grenade? Unhinged theatre kid meets softcore rage. Peak Gen Z emotional damage.
Pale Waves? Sad glitter in eyeliner form. Strong choice.
Chappell Roan? Camp chaos. The girl’s not afraid of a little sparkle-meltdown.
Harper Finn, Ladyhawke, and Tiny Ruins? That’s proper Kiwi introspection. Thoughtful. Beautiful, even.
Orville Peck? Masked gay cowboy crooner? That’s not a casual pick. That’s a statement.
This wasn’t a playlist designed to impress. It was a playlist designed to feel. Honest.
And kind of hot, actually.
Not a performance. A vibe.
Did I say any of that?
Absolutely not.
I just raised a brow and shook my head.
“You’re lucky I’m too jetlagged to start a playlist war.”
I picked up my guitar and gave her a little eyebrow flash before playing–slow, moody. ‘Dance away These Days.’
She looked up. Caught the opening chords.
Didn’t say a word. Just watched the fire, like trying not to like it too much was a full-body workout.
When I finished, she nodded. “That was solid.”
“Solid?” I blinked. “Brutal reviewer.”
“You want a biccie or a Grammy?”
I thought about the Grammy sitting on my mantel back home.
“Bit of both, ideally.”
She rolled her eyes. Hard.
I played something else–one of mine this time.
A Ruin track. Unplugged. Raw.
Not a banger. Not one of the hits. But if you knew, you knew.
She sipped her coffee. Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t know.
“Thoughts on Ruin?” I asked, keeping it light.
She made a face like I’d asked about reheated lasagne. “Oh. them. Aren’t they performing at Spark Arena this weekend?”
“Yeah. Them.”
She shrugged. “They’re... fine. Like, technically good. Decent lyrics. But it all feels kinda curated.”
“Curated?”
“You know. It’s giving tortured-but-make-it-aesthetic. Warehouse lighting. Open shirts. That lead singer? Big 'look how broken I am' energy."
I snorted. Fully broke.
“So... poser?”
“More like… performative main character energy,” she said, leaning back. “Very ‘I’m not like other rockstars’ while being exactly like other rockstars.”
I wheezed.
Fully.
“You’ve thought about this.”
“My brother was obsessed,” she said. “I’ve heard Amber Wire six hundred times. He called Ruin a ‘thirst trap with a mic.’”
I choked. Whisky-up-the-nose choked.
She didn’t even blink. Just passed me a napkin like I was her weird uncle at Christmas.
“Thirst trap with a mic?” I gasped.
“Basically community dick,” she said, totally deadpan.
I had to sit back. Collect myself.
“Bloody hell.”
She wasn’t wrong.
She stretched her legs toward the fire, hoodie sleeves back over her hands.
Face soft in the glow. Smirk gone.
Not cruel. Not impressed.
Just... honest.
No one talked about me like that.
Not to my face.
Not like I wasn’t even in the room.
And fuck me if it wasn’t kind of addictive.
“Thirst trap with a mic?” I gasped. What a great deflation.