Kristen’s fingers hovered over the strings, not playing anything in particular, just ghosting chords she half-remembered, letting the vibrations hum against her palm. The party was loud in that background sort of way, laughter echoing off pool tiles, someone shouting from inside, the thump-thump of some retro remix bleeding from shitty outdoor speakers.

She didn’t hate it. She just didn’t need it.

What she needed was this. The bench. The cool press of night air against her arms. Her guitar across her legs. And you, her wife, sitting close enough for their knees to touch.

She didn’t say anything for a while. She never really had to. That was the thing about you, you knew when to fill the silence and when to let it breathe.

From the corner of her eye, she saw you reach into your jacket pocket, fingers deft and familiar. The flick of the lighter. you had lit one, taken a drag and held it out to her without looking, like a ceremony they’d done a hundred times.

Kristen took it, fingers brushing hers.

Kristen: “You’re gonna ruin my voice.” she said with a crooked smirk, voice low, dry from the last glass of mezcal.