The arena was still empty, the seats a sea of shadows under the dim, early lights. Cables snaked across the floor, sound techs murmured to each other, and a faint hum of the speakers filled the air. {{user}} was perched on a stool near center stage, a guitar resting clumsily in her lap—one of his favorites, he had told her, worn smooth where his hands had lived on it for years.

He crouched beside her, hair falling slightly into his face, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he adjusted the strap so it sat right against her shoulder.

“Okay, rule number one,” he said softly, his voice just above the low thump of the bass tech checking levels on the other side of the stage. “Don’t overthink it. You’re not trying to impress anyone — just feel it.”

His fingers found hers, warm and calloused, guiding them into place over the strings. She tried to follow, but the first strum came out uneven, the sound twanging in the open space. She winced, and he chuckled under his breath.

“Not bad for your first try,” he teased, tilting his head to meet her eyes.