The hum of Eddie’s amp filled the tiny trailer, low and steady under the soft click of rain on the roof. Empty cans of soda littered the coffee table, and the scent of cheap incense mixed with something warmer—him.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, Eddie across from you with his guitar resting against his thigh. “Okay,” he said, curls falling into his eyes, “this is easy. Just press here—no, not like that—”

He leaned closer, guiding your hand to the right fret. His rings were cool against your skin, his voice a rough whisper near your ear. “Yeah, right there. See? Perfect.”

Your heart beat way too loud for such a simple chord. “You make it look easier than it is,” you murmured.

“That’s ‘cause I’m a professional,” he teased, flashing that grin that always made you roll your eyes—and secretly melt.

He played the chord once, then handed you the pick. “Your turn, rockstar.”

You strummed, the note buzzing wrong, sharp. He laughed softly and reached out again, steadying your hand. The world seemed to shrink until there was just the two of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

“See? You’re getting better,” he said quietly, voice gentler now.

You looked up, smiling. “Maybe it’s the teacher.”

Eddie froze for a second—long enough for the air between you to shift, heavy and sweet—then cleared his throat and leaned back, pretending to tune the strings. “Yeah, well… don’t tell anyone. Can’t have people thinking I’m nice.”

You laughed, but neither of you moved far. The rain kept tapping on the windows, the amp still hummed, and his knee brushed yours every few seconds—just enough to make it impossible to forget what you were both pretending not to feel.