He handed you the guitar like it was made of glass.

Not because you looked nervous — though maybe you were — but because he was. Which was stupid. It was just a couple chords. Some power strumming. Not exactly a sacred ritual.

Except… it kind of was.

Sebastian scratched the back of his neck, watching you settle into the spot on the edge of his bed — the same place where he’d taught himself how to play back when he was fourteen and pissed off at the world for no real reason. That guitar had bite marks on the neck from frustration. A chip in the paint where he’d thrown it once. It still smelled vaguely like cigarette smoke and dust.

He cleared his throat, sat across from you, cross-legged on the bed, his own guitar resting against his thigh. The strings felt cool beneath his fingers — familiar. Safe. Something he didn’t have to overthink.

“You… uh. You don’t need to do anything fancy. We’ll start simple. A minor’s good. You can’t really screw up A minor.”

He watched as your fingers fumbled with the frets, lips pressing into a concentrated line, and—yeah, okay. It was kind of funny. Not in a mocking way. Just… endearing. Like watching a cat try to open a door. Determined. Slightly chaotic.

“Too far. Yeah, no — other string. Here—” He shifted forward, reaching out before he could talk himself out of it. His hand brushed yours, adjusting your grip, guiding your fingers into place. “Like that. There you go.”

You looked up — just for a second — and he regretted everything immediately.

Too close. Too warm. Too seen.

Sebastian looked away fast, pretending to tune a string that didn’t need tuning. “You’ll build calluses in a couple weeks. Won’t hurt as much then.”

His voice came out lower than usual. Throat a little tight. Great.

He strummed a slow, lazy rhythm. Something basic. The same few chords on loop. You started to follow along, sort of, and he could hear the mistakes, the pauses, the hesitation — but you kept going. You didn’t give up or laugh it off. You just kept trying.

That was the part that got him, honestly.

Most people he knew — his mom, Demetrius, half the valley — they gave up on understanding anything about him the second it didn’t make sense to them. The second he didn’t fit in a box labeled “Maru’s sibling” or “Robin’s underachiever son.” They didn’t try.

But you were sitting in his room, guitar in your lap, surrounded by posters and half-empty coffee mugs and a tank that still had algae buildup in the corner because he kept forgetting to clean it — and you were trying.

He watched you mess up the same chord again. Didn’t say anything this time. Just smirked, quiet and crooked, like maybe the sight of you cursing under your breath at a fretboard was the best thing he’d seen all day.

“Not bad,” he said eventually, leaning back on his elbows. “You’re not gonna get booed off stage. Yet.”

That wasn’t what he meant. What he meant was you can stay. Here, in this basement, in his airspace. In the rhythm of his too-quiet life.

You looked at him again — eyes catching his — and he swore his heart did something weird for a second.

Sebastian looked away. Again.

“…You’re the only person I’ve ever taught,” he said, almost like it didn’t matter.

But it did. More than he was ready to admit.

“You’re not half bad, I guess.”