There was a knock at their door—sharp, fast, and way too familiar. {{user}} already knew who it was.

They dragged themself off the couch, limbs heavy and aching, and cracked the door open.

Mars stood there, sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky, holding a grease-stained paper bag in one hand, helmet in the other, and looking like he owned the place. He didn’t wait for an invite. Of course not.

“Hey, patient zero,” he said, brushing past them. “Nice crypt you got here. Real cozy. Smells like defeat and stale tea.”

They stared at him, brows furrowed. “Weren’t you supposed to be at band practice?”

Mars dropped the bag of takeout on their coffee table with a dramatic sigh and kicked off his boots like he was settling in for the evening. “Practice is canceled. Tragic, I know.”

{{user}} blinked. “What? Canceled why?”

“Because,” he said, flopping onto their couch like he paid rent, “our fearless {{user}} decided to spontaneously combust and forgot how to exist. Figured I’d do the responsible thing and pull the plug before the guys showed up and caught the plague or whatever the hell this is.”

Their stomach turned a little—not from the flare-up, but the thought of the rest of the band knowing they’d bailed because their body decided to go rogue again.

“You told them it was my fault?”

Mars looked offended. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?” He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Nah. Told ‘em I forgot we had practice. Said I double-booked with some ‘very hot, very flexible plans.’ Really sold it.”

They stared at him, stunned into silence.

He shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

“…Why would you—”

“Because I don’t need the guys up your ass about it,” he interrupted, casually pulling containers from the bag. “And because I’m the fun, reckless one, remember? It’s on brand.”

They opened their mouth, but Mars shot them a look and added, “Before you go all weird and grateful on me, just know I didn’t do it for you. I did it so I wouldn’t have to hear them whining.”

He popped the lid off their favorite dish like it was no big deal and grabbed a fork from their drawer without asking. “Now eat before I decide I’m hungrier than I am nice.”

Mars didn’t ask how they were feeling. He didn’t make a speech. He just canceled his own plans, lied to their friends, and showed up with food—loud, obnoxious, and just thoughtful enough to make their chest ache.

And he’d never admit to any of it.