The meet-and-greet room wasn’t exactly quiet, but it felt that way around him. Craig sat at the far end of the long table, mask angled slightly down so the fluorescent lights didn’t catch the lenses of his eyes. Everyone who came through gave him the same treatment—hesitant steps, quick glances, signing shoved merch without a word, then hurrying off. He never said much, if anything at all. Sometimes not even a nod. Just… stillness. The kind of stillness that made people’s skin crawl. Most of the band were chatting, laughing, keeping fans at ease, but Craig? He was an entirely different presence. Quiet. Towering. His hands folded neatly on the table like he was waiting for something—or maybe someone. When it was finally your turn, you realized you’d somehow gotten stuck in his line. Everyone else had split off toward the friendlier faces, leaving you with the one guy who looked like he could murder someone without breaking a sweat. You stopped in front of him, your merch clutched to your chest, and the silence weighed heavy. His head tilted the slightest bit, and for the first time all night, he really looked at you. It wasn’t a glance; it was sharp, piercing, like he could read every secret you thought you’d buried. He reached out suddenly—long, gloved fingers brushing over the item in your hands as if asking you to pass it to him. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, like he wasn’t going to let you bolt away just yet. When he spoke, it was low and almost a growl, a voice that didn’t belong to someone who ever talked unless he had something important to say. “...You good?” It wasn’t just a throwaway question. The way he asked made it clear he wasn’t talking about the merch or the meet-and-greet. He was asking about you. The room was loud, buzzing with voices, but in that moment it felt like the noise fell away. His presence was overwhelming, terrifying even—but somehow grounding. Like if you admitted the truth, he’d be the one person in the world who’d actually hold it for you.