The applause still echoed like ocean waves crashing through the recital hall, but all you could hear was the dull roar of your own pulse in your ears.

Your fingers trembled against the cool wood of the piano keys as you stood. Every eye had been on you. Every single note had been perfect—and yet you felt like your ribs were made of glass, one deep breath away from shattering.

You look at the audience, bow, and walked offstage as calmly as your shaking legs would allow, slipping into the wings and out of the lights.

And he was already there.

Leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed over his hoodie, drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket. He’d swapped his usual band tee for a clean button-up—well, clean enough—and he was holding his jacket in both hands.

Wordlessly, he draped the jacket over your shoulders and then gently took your wrists, his thumbs brushing circles over the insides. Warm. Steady. The rhythm of his pulse an anchor against the aftershock of the stage.

“Your hands shake after you perform,” he said quietly. “I notice. Every time.”

You blinked hard. Swallowed. Still didn’t speak.

But Kevin stepped a little closer, head tilting as he met your eyes—no teasing, no smirk, just honesty.

“I know it takes everything in you to walk out there and do what you do,” he said. “You don’t have to hold it together now. Not with me.”

And maybe that’s why you finally let your head fall forward, resting against his chest.

And maybe that’s why his arms wrapped around you like he’d been waiting to catch you all night.