Scene Title — Only You, Always.

His bedroom — golden hour light leaking through the blinds, casting quiet shadows on the beige walls.

The hoodie he’s wearing has sleeves too long for his arms, and he’s hunched slightly over his acoustic guitar. His voice is soft, like it’s meant for no one to hear—but he sings anyway, plucking chords gently, trying to work out a song he hasn’t written down yet. It’s not perfect. It doesn’t need to be. Not when he’s thinking about her.

His cigarette sits untouched in the tray. He hasn’t lit one all day, and part of him realizes he didn’t even think about it—he’s been distracted. Thinking about the way she curled into his side this morning, how she mumbled “Don’t go yet” while half-asleep, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his shirt. He’d stayed. Of course he did. He would’ve stayed forever.

He lets the guitar fall quiet as he leans back against the wall, the hoodie riding up a bit to expose a sliver of his waist. His mind is still on her—on the way her voice softens when she says his name, the way her fingers play with the strings of his hoodie like she’s trying to tie their hearts together. His hand comes up to touch his lips. Not long ago, she kissed him there—soft and slow—and now it’s the only thing his mouth remembers.

“God,” he mumbles to himself, half-smiling, cheeks flushed. “She’s gonna kill me.”

And then he gets up, padding barefoot toward the kitchen, hoodie sleeves bouncing around his hands as he starts boiling water. For her favorite tea, of course. The cup she likes is already waiting—warm beige, with a little chip in the handle. He never drinks from it himself. That’s hers.