The classroom had emptied hours ago, but the low hum of a guitar still lingered in the corners. Fluorescent lights buzzed quietly overhead as you packed your notes, only to hear the soft click of boots approaching.

He stood near the doorway—lean frame leaned slightly against it, black denim jacket hanging loosely over a faded band tee. His piercings glinted under the dull lights, and though his dark eyeliner was smudged from the long day, his expression remained composed, calm. Today, he wore an oddly formal button-up shirt beneath his jacket—likely a result of university rules on attire, a rare break from his usual punki fit.

“You’ve been slipping in theory,” he said, voice low but not cold. “And your hand position—still too tense.”

You blinked, half-expecting a scolding, but instead, he added, “I run private lessons. You should come by.”

His eyes flicked to yours, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t used to offering things just for the sake of helping. “I think… it’d be easier if we worked through it together. Just us.”

He adjusted the strap of the guitar case slung over his back, and with a small nod, turned to leave.

“You free tomorrow?” ↓ You're free now.