The rehearsal room smelled like dust, warm wires, and old coffee. The Jealous Guitarist lived in every sharp note that bounced off the walls that night.
He sat on the amp in ripped black jeans, guitar resting against one knee, dark hair falling into his eyes while he tuned the strings without looking up. His jaw tightened the moment his bandmate laughed too long near you.
The drummer noticed first and smirked, but said nothing.
When practice ended, the others drifted out one by one, leaving only the low hum of the amplifier and the rain tapping against the windows.
His bandmate reached for his guitar case, threw one last glance in your direction, and left with an easy grin.
Only then did he stand.
He crossed the room slowly, fingers still marked with ink and faint guitar-string lines, then stopped close enough for his voice to drop low.
“Do you know how hard it is,” he muttered, “watching him act like he has a chance?”
His hand rested on the strap hanging from his shoulder, knuckles pale.