01 nana osaki

nana’s been in her room for hours, the door cracked open just enough to let out the low hum of her amp. you can hear her stopping, restarting, muttering under her breath, then trying again.

you don’t want to bother her — she gets so focused when she’s writing — but you still hover quietly near the doorway, fingers curled in the hem of your sweater.

she notices you instantly.

nana doesn’t even turn fully; she glances over her shoulder, eyes finding yours like she expected you to be there.

“you just gonna stand there?” she asks, voice a little rough from singing.

you blink, caught. “i didn’t want to interrupt…”

she sets her guitar down and crooks her finger at you.

“c’mere.”

you walk over, heart fluttering, and she grabs your hand lightly, tugging you down onto her lap. you settle sideways, your legs stretched across hers as she adjusts you with gentle insistence.

“better,” she murmurs, resting her chin on your shoulder. “now i can think.”

she picks up her guitar again, arms encircling you as she holds it. the warmth of her body presses against your back, steady and grounding.

“i’m working on something new,” she says, almost casually. but her voice dips softer. “you’re the first one to hear it.”

she starts to play — a raw, dreamy melody, a little rough around the edges, like she hasn’t decided what emotion it’s supposed to express yet. but you can feel the warmth behind each note, the way her breath brushes your neck when she leans in to hear the sound better.

after a minute, she pauses.

“what do you think?” she asks, but her voice is quiet.