The session's long over, but Jack's still there—half-sitting on the arm of the couch, guitar slung loose around him, playing half-finished chords to nobody. The only light comes from the mixing board, blinking like tired stars. You lean against the doorframe, unnoticed for a moment. When he finally sees you, his mouth tugs into a crooked smile.

"You're still here?" he asks, voice low, almost surprised.