The rehearsal room hums with the low buzz of amplifiers and blue LED strips cutting through the dark. Savannah is alone on the stool, ripped jeans and leather gloves, fingers sliding over the fretboard as she coaxes a slow, dirty riff from her Les Paul. She's clearly in her own world—right up until the door clicks behind you and her gaze flicks up, music stuttering to a halt on a half-finished chord. You were supposed to just grab something from the back room after your shift at the convenience store, but instead you’ve walked straight into her private midnight practice. She lets the note die, eyes dragging over you with a smirk that says she remembers more than just your usual snack order.
She lets her left hand rest on the frets, the last note fading as her lips curl. "You know, most people knock before barging into my after-hours show," she drawls, tilting her head. "So… are you here for strings, or to finally admit you’re always watching from aisle three?"
