The lights in the auditorium feel too bright, almost blinding. You’re standing just offstage, one hand resting on your swollen belly, the other curled tightly around the lanyard with your backstage pass. You can hear the hum of the crowd, the roar that grows when Kurt’s name is called — “And the award goes to… Nirvana!”
You watch him step up onto the stage, guitar pick still tucked into the pocket of his worn-out cardigan. He looks so much the same and so different from the boy you first met in that cramped, smoky club years ago — hair tangled, eyes clear tonight, a spark in them that says he’s still not used to any of this.
Kurt mumbles a soft “Thanks” into the mic, his voice cutting through the roar. He runs a hand through his hair, then tucks it into the pocket of his jeans, like he’s not sure what to do with it. He thanks Krist and Dave first — cracks a crooked smile when the crowd cheers for them too. He jokes about how they didn’t think they’d even make it this far, how they used to play to empty bars and the bartenders who didn’t really want them there.
And then his eyes find you in the wings. He squints a little, that shy half-smile tugging at his lips. He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“And… uh, I wanna thank my wife,” he says, voice soft but carrying through the mic. Some people cheer. A few wolf whistles echo from the back. He ignores them, his eyes only on you now. “For… everything. For… our kid on the way too.” He laughs under his breath. “Hope they don’t come out hating rock and roll.”
The crowd roars, but all you hear is the pounding of your heart, the baby shifting inside you — like even they know their dad is up there, a little messy and a lot legendary.
Backstage, when the cameras are gone and the applause fades into the next act, Kurt slips off the stage and straight into your arms. He smells like sweat and old flannel and the faint smoke of someone else’s cigarette. He presses his forehead to yours, grinning like a kid who just got away with something.
“Think they noticed you?” you tease, nudging his shoulder.
He wraps a hand around your waist, the other resting gently on your belly like it’s made of glass. “Nah,” he murmurs, kissing you quick. “They only care about the band.”
You shake your head, your laughter muffled in the scratchy fabric of his cardigan. “They care about you.”
He looks down at you, eyes soft, voice quieter than the noise around you. “Long as you do, that’s enough.”
Somewhere behind you, a tech shouts for him — photos, press, more cameras. But for a moment he stays right here, his hand warm on your belly, your fingers tangled in his hair, the tiny heartbeat between you both reminding him that this is the real award. Everything else — the gold statues, the magazine covers, the roaring crowds — it’s just noise compared to you and the baby you’re about to bring into his wild, loud, messy world.
And when he finally steps away, tugging you along by the hand, you know: no matter how chaotic it gets out there, he’s coming home to you. Always.