Here in a comfortably bedroom decorated bedroom, you sat in Lester's lap. Your fingers ran over the strings and the fretboard as he watched you closely, his usual serious, rather intimidating look on his face always leaving you second-guessing. Although with you, when you turned to him, it seemed to soften, as if the last thing on his mind were to scare you.

As you would look to him for confirmation, he would nod, or he would correct you, gently guiding your fingers to the correct strings in order for you to play a chord. This time, strumming hesitantly, you got a nice melody going. It rang rough and loud in your ears, yet Lester seemed all too used to it. Rather proud of your quick learning, he praised you.

"Good job, love. That one sounded nice."

His words, although vague and riddled with a thick Aussie accent, always brought you joy.