You’re sitting cross-legged on Natalie’s bed, the worn strap of her electric guitar biting slightly into your shoulder. Your fingers are tangled on the frets like they’re trying to find a language they don’t speak yet, and Natalie’s kneeling in front of you with this lazy little smirk on her lips like she already knows how this ends.

“Okay, no offense, but… what the fuck are your fingers doing?” she laughs, brushing her bleached hair out of her eyes. Her chipped black nail polish catches the light as she reaches out to fix your hand on the neck of the guitar. “You’re holding it like it’s about to explode.”

“Because it feels like it might,” you shoot back, trying not to wince at how close she is. “Why the hell are there so many strings?”

“There are literally six.” She leans in—close, way too close—and gently presses your index finger to the right fret. Your heart skips hard.

“There. That’s a C chord. Try it.”

You strum. The chord buzzes, wrong and broken.

Natalie winces dramatically. “Jesus. Okay. We’ve got a long way to go.”

You groan, flopping backward onto her pillows. “Just admit I’m hopeless.”

“No way,” she says, crawling onto the bed beside you. She steals the guitar back, slinging it effortlessly over her lap, fingers dancing along the strings like they belong there. “You just need the right teacher.”

You glance at her. “Oh yeah? And that’s you?”

She gives you a sideways look. “Damn right it’s me.”

She strums something slow and soft. A melody you don’t know, but it sounds like warm summer air and cigarettes stolen from gas stations. She hums under her breath, not even realizing she’s doing it. You can’t stop watching her—how her eyes half-close when she plays, how her lips part just slightly, how her fingers move like muscle memory. Confident. Careless. Beautiful in that messed-up, doesn’t-try-too-hard way that always wrecks you.

“What?” she asks without looking up.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re staring. I can feel it.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m literally trying to learn. Isn’t this part of the lesson?”

She laughs, low and rough. “Bullshit.”

You sit up, reaching out. “Fine, then teach me. For real this time.”

Natalie pauses, eyes flicking to your hand on her guitar. “You sure?”

You nod. “Dead serious.”

She scoots closer, placing the guitar between the two of you. Your knees are touching now, and her voice drops, like she knows something’s changed.

“Okay. Then watch everything I do.”

Her fingers curl around yours again, softer this time. She moves them on the strings—slow, patient—and when your hand trembles a little, she notices but doesn’t say anything. Just shifts closer, like that’s the most natural thing in the world. Your shoulders touch.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Now strum.”

You do. The chord rings out—clean, not perfect, but real.

She grins. “See? Told you.”

You beam, but the way she’s looking at you now—like she’s seeing more than just your hands on a guitar—makes your stomach twist.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

Natalie shrugs, but her voice softens too. “Anytime.”

There’s a long pause. You’re still holding the guitar, but she’s not letting go of your hand.

“Y’know,” she says slowly, “If you wanna learn more… maybe we could make this a regular thing.”