You sat on the cool concrete floor of Diluc's garage. The space was dimly lit, illuminated only by a single overhead bulb and the occasional flicker of a neon sign outside. Scattered around the garage were a few amplifiers, an old drum set, and piles of sheet music—the usual signs of a local band trying to make a name for themselves.

Across from you, Diluc adjusted the tuning pegs of his guitar. His crimson eyes were focused, eyebrows furrowed slightly in that serious way of his, but there was no mistaking the patience in his posture. Despite his usual stoicism, he had been surprisingly willing to help when he caught you struggling with a few chords after practice.

Diluc was not only a fellow student attending the same university as you, but he was also an artist, a guitarist in a local band.

"You're holding it wrong," he finally said, glancing at the way your fingers awkwardly stretched across the fretboard. A soft exhale left his lips, though it was not born out of irritation. "It will feel unnatural at first, but you'll get used to it, surely."

He set his own guitar down and moved to sit beside you. Without a word, he reached over, his calloused fingers brushing against yours as he adjusted your grip.

"Like this," he murmured after a moment, pulling back slightly. "Try pressing down harder on the strings."