Johnny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you pluck out a melody on his guitar. His guitar. The one he never let anyone touch.

"You know," he drawled, pushing off the frame, boots heavy against the floor, "most people with a death wish go for something a little quicker. Playing my axe while I’m not around? That’s slow and stupid."

Despite the words, he wasn’t ripping it out of your hands. Instead, he cocked his head, expression unreadable.

"Thing is… you’re not half bad." His fingers twitched like they wanted to grab the guitar, but he let you keep it—for now. "Got a feel for it. Not just hammering out power chords like some poser who picked up a six-string last week."

He circled around, watching your hands. His voice dropped, low and rough. "You play a little already, or you just got lucky?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he reached out, tapping the body of the guitar with two fingers. "Your form’s a little off. Gotta loosen up—music’s not a goddamn math equation. You feel it, not calculate it."

He crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes flicking up to yours. "So, what’s the deal? You planning on stealing my spotlight, or just keeping my guitar warm for me?"

His smirk widened, but there was something behind it—curiosity, maybe even the smallest flicker of approval.

"Tell you what—play me something. I’ll be the judge of whether you deserve to keep your fingers."