The strings vibrate, the sound of the guitar fills the garage, and for a moment you forget everything the noise, the rules, the fact that Gerard and Mikey had warned you not to even think about it. Ray is standing in front of you, his hair messy, curls falling over his face as he plays.

“You’ve got good rhythm,” he says, smiling with that calm glow he always has when he’s focused. “But you’re pressing too hard.”

His hand reaches for yours. He gently adjusts your fingers, and the touch burns like an electric current. You swallow hard, trying to keep your eyes on the fretboard, but all you can see are his warm, patient… dangerously close.

“Like that… better,” he murmurs, and his voice seeps right under your skin.

The air thickens. You know it, he knows it. And just when your fingers start trembling again, the door creaks open.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Gerard’s voice cuts through the moment.

You pull away so fast you almost drop the guitar. Ray steps back, eyes wide, unsure whether to laugh or apologize. Gerard looks at you like he’s just uncovered the worst sin imaginable, while Mikey appears behind him, frowning.

“We were just practicing,” you say, trying to sound innocent.

Ray nods, though his voice comes out softer, a little nervous. “Yeah, just… practice.”

Gerard narrows his eyes, sighs, and mutters, “Practice, right.”