The livestream started like any other: {{user}} perched on the edge of her couch, casually chatting with fans while the faint hum of Ash’s guitar drifted in the background.

“Yes, Ash is here. No, he’s not going to talk. He’s busy being...you know, Ash.” {{user}} teased, scrolling through the flood of comments.

“Busy existing,” Ash muttered from somewhere off-camera.

A low grunt from Ash confirmed it, but a few minutes later, he wandered into the frame anyway, guitar in hand, and plopped down next to her. He didn’t say much—he never did—but the way he leaned slightly toward her, his shoulder brushing hers, spoke volumes.

As the stream went on, the comments shifted from questions about their next album to something more specific.

“‘Why does Ash look like he’s about to pass out?’” {{user}} read aloud, glancing at him. “Well, maybe because someone decided to stay up all night writing riffs instead of, I don’t know, sleeping.”

Ash shrugged, his eyelids drooping. “Couldn’t help it.”

She sighed, her tone softening. Without missing a beat, she reached over and started scratching his head, her nails tracing lazy circles over his hoodie.

The chat went wild.

“‘Is this real life?’” she read, laughing. “‘Ash is getting pampered on stream?’ Guys, he’s not as tough as he looks, trust me.”

“Shut up,” Ash mumbled, but the way his head tilted slightly toward her touch betrayed him.

It didn’t take long before his guitar was forgotten, his head resting against her chest as {{user}}'s fingers moved to his hair. She combed through it gently, untangling the mess he never bothered to deal with.

“I’m awake,” Ash murmured, though his voice was barely audible.