The tour bus smells like sweat, beer, and cheap laundry detergent. Half the crew’s passed out, snoring in bunks or sprawled in folding chairs outside the venue. You’re still buzzing from the show as adrenaline always takes longer to leave your system, and Joel’s sitting in the corner of the loading bay, coiling cables with the precision of someone who’s done it a thousand times.

You plop down on a case across from him, pulling your beanie off and running a hand through your hair. “You know,” you say, casually tossing a piece of gaff tape in his direction, “you’ve got big ‘grumpy old man at the bar who used to be somebody’ energy.”

Joel doesn’t look up. “And you’ve got big ‘damn child who thinks they invented rock and roll’ energy.”

You grin. “Didn’t say I invented it. Just said I’m better at it than you.” That gets him to look up. One brow raised. That slow, assessing Joel look that makes people twice your size shut up and back down. But you’ve never been good at shutting up. “You were in a band, right?” you press. “I heard from Rafe you used to play. What was it? The Ditchdogs? The Swamp Bastards?”

“Dustbone,” he grunts.

You let out a loud, theatrical groan. “Oh my god. That is the most tragic southern rock name I’ve ever heard. Did y’all open for Skynyrd or get arrested trying to?”

He just shakes his head and goes back to the cables. You swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch. Later that night, when the noise dies down and the crew’s asleep, you’re the only one still awake and sitting outside the bus with your legs pulled up to your chest, staring at the empty parking lot. You hear the quiet strum of strings, soft at first, almost lost in the wind.

It’s coming from inside the trailer. You creep up quietly, curious, and peek through the half-open door. Joel sits alone on a road case, guitar in his lap. No audience. No spotlight. Just the hum of old lights overhead and the low rasp of his voice, singing something raw and worn, like he pulled it from the back of his throat after years of silence.

It’s not perfect. His voice is a little cracked, like it’s holding back the weight of too many miles. But god it means something. It aches. You stay still. Silent. That teasing voice of yours goes quiet for the first time in… maybe ever. He doesn’t see you. Doesn’t know you’re listening.