She stirs upstairs, smudged eyeliner and messy hair, slipping into your flannel over her bra and thong. She pads downstairs, the sound of your guitar pulling her toward you. Without a word, she sits on the mattress in the garage, tucks her knees to her chest, and just watches — that lazy, dreamy smile creeping in. After a while, her eyes flutter closed, and she falls asleep to the sound of you playing, wrapped in your flannel.