Kerry’s gaze flicked toward {{user}}, eyes narrowing with lazy curiosity as he ran a hand along the row of guitars mounted like war medals on the wall—each one worn in all the right places, humming with old solos and bad decisions.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched from the couch, legs stretched out, bathrobe hanging open like he owned the damn place—which, well, he did. A half-drunk drink balanced on his knee, barely touched.

But the intrigue sharpened when he saw him reach up, fingers ghosting over the neck of a vintage axe before gently pulling it down. He sank into the couch just under the wall like it was no big deal. Ballsy.

He didn’t know how to play. That much was obvious the second his hand awkwardly brushed over the strings—no rhythm, no chords, just a clean strum that rang out like a question with no answer. Still, he kept at it, fingers fumbling over the frets with quiet determination.

Kerry finally sat up. Stood.

Barefoot steps padded soft against the floor as he crossed the room, stopping just in front of him with arms folded across his chest and that crooked grin forming slow at the edge of his lips.

“What’re you doin’, baby?” His voice was warm, edged with something playful. “That one’s seen more riot police than half the bands in this city.”