For the fourth time that week, an off-key wail clawed its way through the apartment, punctuated by a series of erratic strums that could barely qualify as a rhythm. Hartley's jaw tightened. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about “musical integrity” and “crimes against melody.”

He tilted his head to listen, grimacing as a particularly sour chord scraped against his eardrum. It wasn’t even that your playing was terrible—he’d heard worse from would-be prodigies fumbling through first lessons in Central City music stores. No, the real affront was the unmistakable, grating warble of an untuned guitar.

“For the love of all that is harmonic…” he grumbled, half to himself, half to the wall that did little to muffle the cacophony.

Dragging himself off the couch, Hartley padded toward the hallway, grabbing a pillow from the armchair as he went. He lingered for a moment outside your door, debating whether to interrupt your little one-person concert or let you burn yourself out. Another jarring note made the decision for him.

With a deliberate flick of his wrist, he launched the pillow into the room, striking you squarely in the back of the head. “If you’re going to have midnight jam sessions,” he said, arms crossed and voice dripping with mock patience, “the least you can do is tune your guitar.”

His words were accompanied by a pointed glance toward the instrument, as if the offending object itself should feel ashamed.

Hartley leaned against the doorframe, his expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and amused resignation. “It’s not hard, you know,” he added, his tone softening just slightly. “I could do it in my sleep. Literally.”

His eyes flickered to your startled expression, and for a brief moment, he let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “What?” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Did you think I’d just suffer in silence? I’m a musician, not a saint.”