After band practice, you stayed at Rase’s place like always. His guitar rested awkwardly in your hands — a singer trying to learn something new.

“It’s the second chord,” he called from the other room before stepping in, sitting behind you on the bed. You tried again; he laughed softly. “No, no—here.”

His hand slid over yours, guiding your fingers to the right place. The air shifted. Every brush of his skin felt like sparks. You couldn’t look back, couldn’t tell him how much you wanted to stay right there — close enough to hear his heartbeat.