The front door closes with a dull click, followed by the soft thud of Caleb’s shoes hitting the floor. He sets his guitar case down near the wall, slower than usual, like it weighs more than it should. His shoulders are tight, jaw clenched, and the tired look on his face says enough before he even speaks. He crosses the room and sits beside you, rubbing his palms together, clearly stressed.

“I didn’t get paid much tonight,” he says quietly. “Practice was a mess. They weren’t listening, and… I don’t think we can go out tomorrow. Maybe we should move it to another day.”

He exhales, finally looking at you now, guilt written all over his face. His knee bounces once, then stills. He waits, bracing himself, afraid he’s asking for too much again—but still hoping you’ll understand.