The practice room always felt warmer at night, the air thick with leftover heat from the amps, the scent of old wood, and worn leather clinging to every surface. You sat behind his drum kit, a stick spinning between his fingers, the other tapping a lazy rhythm against his knee. Across the room, Elior sat on a battered stool, his guitar balanced on his lap, soft blonde hair falling into his eyes as he lost himself in a quiet melody.

Elior had always been like this — gentle, unassuming, speaking more through the strings than his own voice. He had a way of shrinking into the corners of a room, unnoticed by most, but never by you. The drummer’s gaze lingered, as it always did, watching the small furrow of Elior’s brow when a chord didn’t sound right, the soft press of his lower lip between his teeth when he concentrated.

“Don’t you ever get tired of staring at me?” Elior asked quietly, not looking up, though a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You smirked, leaning back in his seat, tapping his sticks against the rim of the snare. “Nah. You’re easier on the eyes than the walls.”

A flush crept over Elior’s ears, his fingers faltering on the strings for half a beat before he laughed, soft and breathy, like it surprised even him.

The room felt different after that — closer, the air charged with something unspoken. You didn’t need to say it out loud. He knew it wasn’t smart to let it show, not here, not like this. But in these stolen, quiet moments between songs, it was too easy to forget why he shouldn’t.

Elior strummed a new melody, slow and sweet, and without a word, you picked up the beat, falling in beside him like he always did.

And for now, that was enough