“Yep,” I snark back, popping the P in the way I know annoys him.
He’s grinning like he just won a bet with the universe. His hair falls into his eyes, sleeves still pushed up with veins weaving paths down his exposed forearms.The light from the window catches the edge of his jaw, and for a second I forget how to blink.
He notices. Of course he does.
“What?” he asks with a quiet laugh, his smile turning curious.
“Nothing.” I look back at the kit, cheeks warm. “Just… didn’t think drums would be this hard.”
“Liar. Admit it—you’re hooked.”
I huff a laugh. “Maybe a little.”
“Only a little?” He steps closer, tapping the snare with one finger. “You love it. Say it.”
“Fine. It’s amazing. The most musically enrapt I’ve ever been. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He grins wider. “Now get up. It’s my turn to show you how it’s done.”
I stand, legs stiff from sitting in that position too long. He slides onto the throne like it was made for him and picks up the sticks. “Watch and learn, grasshopper.”
He starts slow, letting me observe as he moves through the pattern. Then he layers in more notes, adding in pieces until his arms fly around the drums. It’s effortless, and he moves like the kit is an extension of him.
I watch his hands move and his wrists flick, and follow the way his shoulders roll with each hit. His foot is steady as a heartbeat, never missing the kick,and every time he hits that perfect pocket, his eyes close for a second. It’s like he’s listening to something only he can hear.
He catches me staring again.
“Still hooked?” he asks, voice low over the fading ring of the cymbal.
I swallow. “Yeah. Still hooked.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than he needs to, then breaks it with a grin. “Good. It’s your turn again, and this time, I don’t want you to hold back.”
I sit back down, and he steps behind me once more, hands settling over mine on the sticks. “Ready?” he asks, breath warm against my ear.
“Yeah,” I breathe with a nod, even though my pulse is suddenly too loud in my own ears.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
I take a breath, and play.
He laughs softly when I miss the hi-hat opening. “Close. You’re rushing… let me help.”
His hands cover mine again, chest pressing lightly against my back as he guides the motion. “Do you feel that? It’s not about force. It’s about timing. You hit when I hit.”
Our wrists move together, slowly deliberate, and everything lands on beat when he’s guiding me this way.
“Better,” he murmurs, right at my ear. “You’re getting it.”
“Only because you’re cheating,” I say, my voice rougher than I expect.
“This is called hands-on instruction, Eric,” he says as his fingers squeeze around mine. “You want me to stop?”
I should say yes.
Ishouldpull away, because I’m already confused enough.
Instead I mutter, “No. Keep going.”
