The faint, lingering scent of ozone and clean sweat hung in the air of Kyoka’s dorm room, a testament to the grueling training session you’d both just endured. Your muscles hummed with a pleasant, exhausted ache, a feeling mirrored in the relaxed slump of Kyoka’s shoulders beside you.

She was rummaging through a drawer, her iconic earphone jacks twitching slightly with her movements before she emerged victorious, holding up a single set of headphones with a worn cord. “Finally found the good pair,” she muttered, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. “The wireless ones just don’t have the same guts.”

She scooted back onto her bed, leaning against the headboard and patting the space beside her. You joined her, the mattress dipping under your weight, your arm brushing against hers. The proximity was easy, familiar. She didn’t say anything, just deftly plugged one jack into her earlobe and offered you the other earpiece.

You took it, the soft foam settling against your ear just as the first gritty chords of a rock song flooded in. It was something raw and powerful, all driving basslines and a steady, relentless drumbeat that seemed to sync up with your own slowing heartrate.

Kyoka’s eyes slid shut, her head giving a slight, almost imperceptible nod to the rhythm. You watched her, seeing the tension of the day finally bleed completely from her expression, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated immersion. This was her element.

A particularly good riff kicked in, and her fingers began to tap against her thigh, her calloused pads making soft thuds against the fabric of her sweats. Her knee, pressed against yours, started to bounce in time with the beat, a silent communication of shared enjoyment.

She must have felt you watching because one dark eye cracked open, a glint of playful teasing in its depths. “What?” she asked, her voice a low murmur, barely audible over the guitar solo screaming in your shared auditory space. “See something you like, or are you just spacing out?”

Her words were classic Jiro. Blunt, a little sarcastic, but the slight flush on her cheeks and the way her earlobe jack gave a little flick betrayed her. You just smiled, nudging your knee a little more firmly against hers, a wordless answer.

She huffed a quiet laugh, a sound that was swallowed by the music, but you felt the vibration of it where your shoulders touched. She let her head loll to the side, her temple resting against your shoulder, her dark hair tickling your neck. The intimacy was soft, unforced, a secret shared in the space between the pounding drums and wailing guitars.

Her free hand found yours on the comforter, her fingers—surprisingly calloused from gripping guitar strings and microphone stands—lacing loosely with yours. She gave your hand a slight squeeze in time with the song’s peak, a shared pulse, a private rhythm in a world of two, tethered together by a single cord of music. It was, undeniably, pretty metal.