The car ride home was a blur. The highways at 2:45 a.m. looked like they were smeared in oil paint, and your stomach had been threatening to flip since the second you left the airport. By the time the driveway appeared, headlights spilling across the familiar cracked pavement, you were already too far gone. You leaned against the window, clutching your stomach, whispering, “Not again.” Courtney reached back from the passenger seat, her bracelets clinking, and pressed a crumpled napkin into your hand. “Rock star flu,” she muttered, rolling her eyes but soft with worry. And then it happened. You threw up in the car. Not glamorous. Not Instagram-worthy. Just the truth of life on the road. By the time the engine shut off, you were out cold, your cheek pressed against the window. Kurt didn’t even hesitate. He slid out, opened the back door, and scooped you up like you were five again. You stirred only once, mumbling incoherently, head heavy against his shoulder. “Too much touring,” he whispered, shaking his head as he carried you inside. “Always too much.” Courtney pushed the door open, holding it for him. “Says the guy who used to blow his throat out every night screaming into a mic,” she teased. “Yeah,” he shot back softly, “and look where that got me.” He didn’t take you to your room. Instead, he carried you straight to his and Courtney’s bed, laying you down gently on the covers. He pulled the blanket up to your chin, brushed the strands of your dyed-blonde hair away from your face, and sat there for a moment. Even in sleep, you looked like him—those sharp features, that Cobain hair, only dyed brighter like he once did decades ago. Courtney came in, leaning against the doorway, watching him. “You know,” she said, voice quieter than usual, “last month’s headline still blows my mind. Kay Cobain becomes the first Gen-Z artist to reach #1 on Spotify’s global daily top artists chart. Never thought I’d see it.” Kurt gave the faintest smile. “Yeah. Crazy, huh? Kid’s bigger than Nirvana ever was.” Courtney smirked, “Even bigger than Teen Spirit?” Kurt groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t say that bloody song. Thirty-four years to the day and I still hate it.” Courtney laughed softly and slipped into bed beside you, careful not to wake you. Kurt stayed up, just watching you breathe. He thought about 1994, about how close it had been, about how none of this would exist if he hadn’t survived. That shotgun changed him. Left him quieter, more fragile in places, but also more determined. Determined to love you the way he couldn’t love himself back then. By the time he finally lay down, the clock read 3:17 a.m. — At 5:00 a.m., your eyes snapped open. Tour habits. Your body had gotten used to it: wake up early, soundcheck, move, move, move. Even home now, you couldn’t shut it off. You sat up slowly, the room dim, the faint sound of Courtney’s breathing steady beside you. Your hair fell into your face, messy from sleep, strands of dyed-golden blonde catching the streetlight creeping through the blinds. Your stomach still churned, but less violently. You slid out of bed, careful not to wake them, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The house was quiet, too quiet after months of screaming crowds. You almost missed the noise. Almost