Wally absentmindedly adjusted the chords of his guitar, fingers moving with a kind of casual precision, like muscle memory. Every now and then, he hummed under his breath—off-key on purpose, just to be annoying.

You were tucked comfortably against the headboard on the other side of his bed, a comic propped open in your hands like it belonged there. The two of you had long settled into this kind of easy silence, broken only by his string-plucking or your occasional page flip.

After a few more experimental strums and a soft groan of frustration, Wally clicked his tongue and tilted his head, his eyes flicking toward you. “Hey—how’s this sound?” he asked, strumming a quick riff.