The bass rattled through the floorboards, a slow, syrupy loop of a guitar weaving through the sound of Elliot’s voice—low, half-drunken in delivery, singing words that didn’t even try to be subtle. The song is about you. Blatantly. Every line landed like a pinprick, precise in its aim, chronicling whatever the hell this was between you two. Elliot stretched out beside you, one arm draped lazily over your stomach, fingers absently tracing patterns against your top until they dive beneath the fabric to feel your skin. His head was tucked into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he mumbled through the chorus, almost like he was trying to convince himself it wasn’t that deep.

"Shit. This song feels like someone's holdin’ my hand." Yeah, alright, whatever the fuck that means. Mind you, your hands were already linked—his grip loose, almost absentminded, probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. The two of you were lolled on the floor of his room, limbs tangled, lungs loose from the blunt passing between you. The air smelled like weed and fresh detergent (because you, being the absolute fool that you were, had done his laundry for him), and the entire deed felt like it existed outside of time—just you, him, and his unreleased EP spinning on loop.

"Sober," he’d said once. That was how he wanted to play these songs for you. Wanted you to hear them the way he meant them. But here you were, far from sober, with Elliot grinning around the joint as he yearned for your reply. The track swelled, the vocals kicking up in reverb—his voice stretching out into something sore, almost angelic, if angels sounded like they chain-smoked and fell asleep crying in beds. Elliot gloved the blunt, took a slow drag, and exhaled through his nose. His voice dropped an octave when he spoke through the haze. "Feels kinda illegal listening to this shit with you, considering it’s all—" He exhaled again, pressing a lazy peck to your shoulder. "About you."

"If these songs flop, I'll blame it on you."