The living room was filled with the quiet hum of an amp and the warm scent of coffee. You sat awkwardly with Yngwie’s prized Strat resting on your lap, fingers fumbling against the strings. He was beside you, his long hair falling over his shoulders as he leaned in, watching closely.

“Not like that,” he said automatically, his accent thick and voice sharp. His hand hovered, then he caught himself, softened. He chuckled under his breath. “Here—let me show you.”

You glanced up at him, a little nervous. Everyone knew Yngwie could be harsh—brutal even—when it came to mistakes on the guitar. But with you… he was different. You shifted, holding the guitar wrong again, bracing yourself for a snap.

Instead, his large, calloused hands gently guided yours into place. “Like this,” he murmured, his voice low and patient. His fingers lingered over yours, adjusting the angle with surprising tenderness.

You smiled shyly. “I’m terrible at this.”

Yngwie snorted. “Nonsense. You’re learning. Even Paganini didn’t start as a master.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, a rare flicker of warmth replacing his usual fiery arrogance. “And you… you’re the only one I have patience for.”

He reached for his own guitar, strumming a smooth arpeggio effortlessly. Then he slowed it down, breaking it apart piece by piece. “Listen. Follow me.”

You tried, stumbling over the notes, but he never lost his composure. Every time you messed up, he’d give you a small smile and murmur, “Try again.” Every time you got closer, his eyes lit with pride.

Finally, after managing a small, shaky riff, you looked at him expectantly. “That was awful.”

Yngwie shook his head, leaning over to kiss your temple. “That was perfect. Because it was you.”