Midnight Hands

The low thrum of the bass wasn't just sound—it was a physical thing, vibrating up through the floorboards and into the soles of Maya's feet, settling deep in her belly. Leo was lost in it, his head bowed, ink-black hair falling over his eyes as those midnight hands—calloused, silver-ringed—moved with a knowing grace over the fretboard. Her sketchbook lay forgotten, her breath caught in the space between one resonant note and the next. Heat prickled over her skin, a flush climbing her throat, as she watched the shift of his shoulders, the intense focus that made this private performance feel more intimate than any touch.