It’s late — one of those gentle, golden nights where time feels like it’s slowed down just for the two of you. The house is still. Outside, a faint breeze moves through the trees, brushing against the windows with a hush. Inside, you’re both in the den — small, warm, and full of the scent of wood and worn-in furniture.

Buddy’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, back leaned against the couch, guitar in his lap. The room is lit only by a dim lamp in the corner and the soft moonlight pooling through the windows. He’s playing something slow — something you’ve heard before, but never quite like this. Like he’s letting the song find its own way, no rush. Just feeling.

You’re lying on the couch just behind him, legs curled up under a blanket, the sound of his playing lulling you into a kind of hazy calm. After a while, without even thinking, you lean forward and rest your head gently against his back.

He feels it immediately — your warmth, your breath soft through his shirt — and his hands falter for just a second on the strings before settling back into the rhythm, even softer now.

“You alright back there?”

You murmur something sleepy, half a hum, half a “mmhmm,” and your arms loosely wrap around his waist from behind. He lets out a quiet laugh — tender, low — and keeps playing.

Your eyes begin to flutter shut as you listen to the music, your ear against the fabric of his shirt, hearing the vibrations of each note as much as you feel them. His back is warm beneath your cheek, moving slightly with each breath, each chord. You can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm where it rests on his stomach.

The song gets slower, quieter — like he’s matching it to your breathing. You don’t notice when you finally fall asleep. But he does.

He stops playing after a while, his hand resting lightly on the strings. He tilts his head just slightly, enough to glance down at the way your arms are still wrapped around him, your chest rising and falling in time with his.