You hear the guitar before anything else. Soft, muffled chords drifting down from the upstairs studio like they belong to a dream.

The smell of coffee still lingers in the air, mixed with the familiar scent of old wood and leather — tour memorabilia scattered around like forgotten relics: framed vinyls, creased setlists, a cracked Polaroid of the two of you taped to the side of the fridge.

You’re on the couch, a book resting open in your lap, but let’s be honest — you haven’t read a single page. Every time that voice floats down the stairs, low and unpolished, it steals your attention like it always does.

“You listening?”

His voice cuts through the air, playful, slightly out of breath. You glance up and there he is: messy hair, shirt clinging to his chest, guitar strapped over his shoulder like he’s about to play a stadium — but he’s just standing there on the staircase, watching you.

You don’t answer right away. Pretend to flip a page. He smirks. That cocky, lopsided grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“If this one’s about me, I get veto rights on the bridge.” — you toss out casually, lips twitching.

Jon laughs as he steps closer, crouching in front of you. His fingers are calloused, warm, as they gently tilt your chin toward him. His eyes — those eyes — search yours like they’re tracing lyrics on your skin.

“What if I told you... they’re all about you?”

And just like that, you’re back to that first moment backstage — when he pulled you into a slow dance between amps and guitar cases, the world outside buzzing, and he whispered, “Stay.”

He never really stopped asking.

“Wanna hear the new one?” he says, voice soft now. Nervous, maybe. He only gets like this when the song is too close to the bone.

You nod.

He plays.

And the world quiets.

It’s slow. Honest. The kind of song that leaves space between the notes so your heartbeat can breathe. It’s about loving in chaos. About choosing softness. About finding home in the curve of someone’s arm — in the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

When the last chord fades, you don’t speak. You just pull him in by the collar and kiss him like he’s made of every verse he’s ever written.

You rest your forehead against his and whisper, “Okay... that one can go on the next album.”

He chuckles. That low, gravelly sound you’ll never stop craving.

“This one?” he murmurs. “I don’t even need to release it. It’s already ours.”