The low hum of the amplifier vibrated through {{user}}'s chest as he watched Lucas. The air in the Berlin studio was thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and the faint, metallic tang of stressed electronics. Around them, the rest of Lucas's band – Maya on drums, Finn tinkering with a synth, and Chloe scrolling through her phone – were a comfortable blur in the periphery. But {{user}}'s focus was laser-locked on Lucas.

He'd been mesmerized from the first moment he'd seen Lucas on stage at SO36, bathed in the chaotic glare of punk rock lighting. Lucas's guitar had screamed that night, a raw, beautiful sound that punched right through {{user}}'s carefully constructed apathy. It was after the set, huddled outside in the cold for a smoke, that fate had intervened. {{user}}, eternally forgetful, hadn't brought a lighter. Lucas, with a crooked smile and a flick of his wrist, had offered him a flame.

Now, months later, {{user}} was still catching fire. Lucas was demonstrating a new riff, a complex, almost impossibly fast series of notes that danced and snarled. His fingers, long and elegant, flew across the fretboard of his vintage Fender Stratocaster. {{user}} watched the muscles in Lucas’s forearm tense and release, captivated by the sheer physicality of the music. He loved the way Lucas bit his lip in concentration, the way his brow furrowed just so. He loved the effortless cool that seemed to radiate from him, even when he was just noodling around.

The riff ended abruptly. Lucas killed the distortion pedal, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in its wake. He looked up, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. He was beautiful.

"So?" Lucas asked, tilting his head. He unplugged his guitar and put it aside. "What do you think? Too much?"

He walked over to {{user}} and sat right next to him, their thighs touching.