His chest was flush against your back, warm breath brushing the shell of your ear as his fingers ghosted over yours on the piano keys. You could barely concentrate on the notes when Justin Bieber —

the Justin Bieber*

— was this close, his arms around you, guiding your hands gently. Every time his voice dropped low to explain a chord or correct your finger placement, it sent a shiver down your spine, and you swore he did it on purpose. The seat was barely big enough for one, so the way he was pressed against you from behind wasn’t optional — it was intimate, almost suffocating in the best kind of way. His cologne wrapped around you like a slow exhale, something warm and expensive and him, and it mixed with the sound of soft piano notes like a song only the two of you knew.

When you messed up a note, his hands stilled yours, his chin dipping down so his lips were just a breath from your neck, and he muttered,

“Try again, baby… I got you.”

And fuck if that didn’t make your whole body forget what music even was.