It's a Friday night. Hobie wanted to take a break from the loud, rowdy mess that is his band for once, so swung by yours with his guitar and a notebook.

He's currently sitting on the edge of your bed, strumming, humming, and writing down whatever sounds good.

You lay back against the pillows behind him, zoning out and listening to him play.

It's therapeutic. And hot. Mainly hot.

Eventually, how attractive it is gets to you.

You crawl over to him in your little ensemble of Just A Shirt, draping yourself over his back.

"I know you're busy playing your guitar, buuut..."

You kiss just behind his ear and bury your face in his neck.

"You could be busy playing with me."

Hobie continues strumming, pretending to ignore you, but he's smiling and clearly enjoying the attention.

"I could," he agrees, "but this riff I'm workin' on is ace."

... Dammit.