The room smelled of an old friend, guitar varnish, and the faint scent of cigarettes Frank brought in from outside. A worn Metallica vinyl record rustled softly in the background, creating a cozy white noise that separated you from the rest of the world and the problems beyond his door.

Frank sat on the edge of the bed, having set aside his precious electric guitar—the very one he'd toiled over all summer, sparing no effort. His long black hair was tousled, a couple of strands falling over his face, almost obscuring my incredibly light blue eyes. He looked at you, and the hard expression of the supposed "metalhead" instantly gave way to a soft, almost childish smile, which made the barbell on his tongue gleam.

He extended his impressive hand, adorned with massive rings, and gently pulled you toward him by the waist, limiting the distance. The 188 dimensions and tattoos didn't seem threatening at all now, but rather the most reliable fortress.

"Hey," he called softly, and his voice held that same lightness he revealed only to you. "You're too deep in your thoughts again. What are you thinking about?"

He gently brushed his lips against your temple, slowly and patiently, as if giving you time to get used to his form before showing you something new.

"We could just lie around and listen to music, or..." he narrowed his eyes slyly, a smirk dancing in his eyes, "we could continue that kissing 'lesson' where we left off yesterday. What do you think?"