The connection between him and the instrument feels visceral—they breathe together, move together, speak together in a language of wood and wire and want.

For a moment, I feel like I'm witnessing something sacred, something not meant for anyone else's eyes. He's completely lost in the music, his face softening, as if every note releases another piece of armor he usually wears. The burdens he carries seem to slip away, leaving only the boy who found salvation in six strings because music was the one thing that couldn't betray him. Every movement flows naturally, as if the guitar isn't just an instrument but a part of him. He's not playing it; he's bearing his soul through it.

"What song was that?" I interrupt softly, almost afraid to break the spell.

His head snaps up, eyes finding mine with startling intensity. There's no embarrassment at being caught in this vulnerable moment; instead, something almost relieved flickers across his expression.

"It's uhh… something I wrote," he says, flashing me a smile that makes my knees weak with its authenticity.

"Really?" My voice wavers slightly as our eyes lock, electricity crackling in the space between us.

"Do you like it?"

"I… I love it. It's really beautiful, Nate." The words feel inadequate for what I've just witnessed.

"Good," he says, his fingers pausing on the strings while his eyes hold mine, soft and intense all at once, as if he's trying to tell me something words can't express. "You inspired it."

The confession hits me square in the chest, stealing my breath. "Me?"

"I always wanted a muse." His lips curve into a gentle smile that holds too many emotions to name.

I stand there, rooted to the spot as he resumes playing. I see it then—the moment he truly loses himself in the music. He's just a boy with a guitar, free from the weight of expectations and past mistakes.

No baggage, no pain.

The boy I fell in love with all those years ago, before life taught us both how to build walls.

I shake myself out of the trance as the last chord fades and pull his phone from my pocket. I walk toward him, trying to ignore how each step closer makes my heart beat faster.

"You forgot your phone at home," I say, holding it out.

When he takes it, his fingers brush mine, sending sparks across my skin. He stares at the screen momentarily, and something dark passes across his face like storm clouds gathering. He does a good job hiding whatever has him ticked, but I've known him too long not to notice.

"Thanks," he mutters, setting the guitar aside with gentle reverence. His presence fills the space around me, making the air feel thick.

"Is it just you here?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper in the hushed atmosphere.

"Yeah. Nick ran to the hardware store. He'll be back in twenty minutes or so."