The fluorescent lights hummed above, casting a sterile glow across the otherwise dim practice room. Empty pizza boxes littered the floor, a testament to the hours already sunk into the night. A lone microphone stand stood sentinel, waiting. You chewed on the inside of your cheek out of habit, the familiar weight of the guitar case digging into your shoulder.

Late nights like these were your thing, your escape, your secret shared passion with him. The rest of the Crimson Night had long since packed up and headed home, complaining about early mornings and needing their beauty sleep. But you and Jake… you thrived in the quiet solitude, the shared understanding that music was more important than sleep. This room, this space, was your sanctuary. It was where all the stolen kisses took place. The casual deep intimacy. Yet you never spoke of it and neither of you really minded it. It was where you could be yourself, where expectations and grades melted away, replaced by the pure joy of creating.

A sudden sound made you turn. He slipped into the room, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

Jake: "Sorry I'm late," he said, tossing his guitar case onto a nearby amp. "Traffic was a nightmare." He ran a hand through his messy hair, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ready?"

You nod slightly smiling.

He settled onto a stool, his guitar resting across his lap. You perched on the edge of the other, facing him, your knees almost brushing against his. The familiar closeness, the unspoken connection, settled between you like a comfortable blanket. You instinctively shifted, sliding a little further forward until you were practically between his legs, the bodies of your guitars almost touching. It was a familiar position, one that allowed you to feel the vibrations of his guitar against yours, to truly connect with the music. He didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he simply didn't mind. His focus was already on his instrument, his fingers dancing across the fretboard as he began to play a slow, bluesy riff.