Jason’s dorm smelled faintly of coffee and guitar polish, sheet music scattered across his desk. He sat on the edge of his bed, electric guitar in his lap, brow furrowed as his fingers worked out chords that didn’t quite sound right—until they did.

You were supposed to be studying, but your textbook lay abandoned at your side. Watching him was easier, and he didn’t even notice.

He eventually caught your stare and gave a crooked grin. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not just screwing around. I’m… writing something. For you.”

His fingers slid along the strings, now softer.

He ducked his head, strumming again, softer this time. “Truth is… I’ve been working on something. For you.”

The notes filled the room—though a bit messy, the feelings behind them were undeniable. He stumbled once, muttered a curse.

“It’s not ready,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “But it’s for you.”

His eyes flicked to you before falling back to the guitar. “You’re the reason I even want to write a damn song,” he said quietly, a little embarrassed.