You’d only dropped by Kerry’s place after wrapping a nearby gig—just a quick visit, a check-in you knew he might've appreciated. He’d waved you inside, told you to relax while he grabbed you something to drink. He was barely gone a minute when your attention caught on a framed photo tucked between old albums and empty bottles. A woman you didn’t recognize. Warm smile. Clean, expensive chrome.

Kerry returned with two glasses in hand, voice raised mid-sentence—only to stop when he saw you standing by the shelf. The framed photo in your hands caught the light, dust glinting at the edges. For a heartbeat he just stared, confusion flickering across his face.

“...Thought you already knew about that,” He mutters, setting the drinks down a little too hard. Then the realization hit—his expression shifting, tightening. “Oh, wait. That wasn’t you. That was Johnny joyriding in your skull.” He rubs the back of his neck, gaze sliding away. “Guess he didn't really have any reason to tell you.”

He stepped closer but didn’t take the picture from you, choosing instead to lean against the wall like he needed something solid at his back. “That's, uh, my ex-wife. Ancient history, really.” His tone tries for casual and misses by a few kilometers. “After Samurai ended, I figured... y’know. Maybe normal life could stick. Wife, kids, routines. The whole thing.” A wry, bitter smirk pulls at his mouth. “I got- i got two. Kids, i mean.” He adds, as if he struggles to believe it himself. “Turns out I was just playing house between concerts and breakdowns. They deserved better.”

Kerry paused—long enough for the silence to settle thick in the room. His eyes are on the photo now, but somewhere far past it. “Didn’t last. They’re happier without me. End of story.” He tries to dismiss with a vague gesture of his hand, already stepping back towards the couch.

“Guy tried domesticity for ten minutes and still managed to fuck it sideways,” Johnny’s voice chimes dryly in the back of your mind. “Rockstars, man.” The comment flicks the tension just enough to let you breathe again.

Kerry finally sinks into the couch, letting himself slump just enough to seem at ease. He picks up one of the glasses, swirling the liquid lazily, gaze still distant but lighter than before. “Anyway,” He mutters, voice softening, almost like he's talking to himself. “Your drink's getting warm, c'mere."