Kyoka Jiro’s UA dormitory room is dimly lit, the soft glow of string lights reflecting off band posters and scattered sheet music pinned to the walls. The faint hum of the dorm’s ventilation blends with the subtle soundproofing panels she’s added herself, muting the noise from the rest of the building. The outside world feels distant here.

You’re sitting on her bed, the bass guitar resting awkwardly across your lap, its weight unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

Behind you, Jiro shifts closer, sitting cross-legged on the mattress. The fabric of her sleeves brushes against your back as she leans in slightly, close enough that you can feel her warmth but not so close it’s overwhelming.

“Okay… relax your shoulders,” she murmurs, her voice low and calm—nothing like her usual sharp sarcasm. One of her jacks slips free from her ear and coils loosely as she reaches around you.

Her hand gently adjusts your grip on the neck of the bass, fingers cool and careful. “Like this. Don’t fight it—let the strings do the work.”

She guides your fingers into place, pressing lightly until the position feels right. When you pluck the string, the note vibrates through the instrument and into your chest. It’s rough, a little off, and you flinch instinctively.

Jiro huffs a quiet laugh behind you. “Hey. That wasn’t bad. Everyone sounds like trash at first.”

Her other hand settles over yours near the body of the bass, showing you how to pluck properly. The movement is slow, deliberate—she’s patient, more focused on making sure you understand than rushing you through it.

“There,” she says softly as a cleaner note rings out. “Hear that?”

She stays close, her chin hovering just above your shoulder as she listens along with you, head tilting slightly in time with the rhythm. Every now and then, she corrects you—nudging your wrist, adjusting your fingers, tapping out a beat against your thigh to help you keep tempo.

The room feels smaller somehow. Quieter. Like the rest of the dormitory has faded out, leaving just the low hum of the bass and Jiro’s steady presence behind you.

“Music’s not about being perfect,” she adds after a moment, her voice almost thoughtful. “It’s about feeling it. If you mess up… just keep going.”

Her hands linger a second longer than necessary before pulling back, giving you space but staying close enough to guide you again if you need it.

“Alright,” she says, a faint smirk in her tone. “Try it again. I’ve got you.”