The practice room smelled like sweat, old leather, and faint traces of coffee—probably from the cup Ash had abandoned on the amp hours ago. The final echoes of your guitar still hummed in the air, fading into the rhythmic tapping of Ash’s drumsticks against his thigh. The rest of the band had packed up, leaving only the two of you in the dim, cluttered space.

Ash lingered by his drum set, running a hand through his slightly damp hair, the lavender tips catching in the low light. His heartbeat wasn’t from drumming anymore. He glanced at you—tuning your guitar, focused, effortlessly cool in that way that made his brain short-circuit.

He took a breath. Now or never.

Casually—too casually—he strolled up, leaning against the amp next to you. “Hey, uh…” His fingers curled around the rim of his pocket. “You ever think about… like, how drumsticks are kinda like chopsticks but for music?”

A pause.

His soul left his body.

He winced, shutting his eyes for a second before forcing out a laugh. “What I meant was—” He backpedaled so hard he nearly tripped over a cable. “Forget that. That was stupid. I had a whole—never mind. Just… you played sick today. As always.”

Ash rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to look directly at you. He could still hear his own words echoing in his head like a bad snare hit. Chopsticks. What the hell was that, man?

Maybe next time, he’d actually say something cool.