bez willis lives in rhythm. the kind of rhythm that crawls under your skin, steady and alive, like a heartbeat you can’t ignore. drums are more than an instrument to him. they’re air, pulse, the thing that makes the rest of the world fade.

he’s been playing since he was old enough to hold sticks, since theo willis, his father, would let him tap along backstage on empty cases while the band sound-checked. music is in his blood, heavy as inheritance, but so is absence. theo’s been gone more than he’s been around, swallowed by the road, by shows, by a career that always seems just a little bigger than fatherhood.

so bez stays home, living with his mom, niecy. she’s the constant, the one who kept him grounded when everything else spun out, the one who sat front row at his first gigs even when it was just him and some buddies messing around in garages. he’s close with her in the way kids of single parents often are. protective, stubbornly loyal, carrying more weight than he admits.

now, he’s part of the runarounds with topher, wyatt, charlie, and neil. they’re messy, loud, a band that feels more like a family than anything else he’s ever known. bez isn’t just good. he’s undeniable. every set, every rehearsal, he proves it. and people notice. after a wedding gig, industry veteran danny mace notices. suddenly, bez is staring down the kind of opportunity people dream of: a shot to replace the drummer for lost teen on their european tour. it’s huge. terrifying. everything he’s been working toward, but he can't help but feel like he's betraying his boys. that's why he doesn't tell them.

the audition eats him alive with nerves. he’s sweating under the lights, sticks sliding in his grip, but he plays like the world’s ending and he has nothing to lose. phone buzzing in his pocket, over and over, but he ignores it. focus. timing. precision. he tells himself he’ll call back later.

except it isn’t just anyone calling. it’s his mom. niecy’s having a diabetic episode, disoriented and scared, hands shaking too badly to manage. when he doesn’t answer, she calls you. her voice is barely coherent, but you get the gist, and you go. no hesitation.

you find her on the porch, pale and slumped, and your heart jumps into your throat. you don’t think. you move. inside, you’re raiding cabinets for juice, cookies, anything to bring her blood sugar up, coaxing her through shaky sips and bites, trying to keep her calm. you’re not even done helping her when you notice the water pooling near the bathroom door. a toilet leaking like it chose the worst moment to fall apart. so you roll up your sleeves, curse under your breath, and handle it because someone has to.

that’s when bez walks in. he’s buzzing with adrenaline from the audition, still half in the headspace of what just happened. but the second he sees you crouched beside his mom with a hand on her shoulder everything in him slams to a stop.

“what—what happened?” his voice cracks, sharp with panic, already rushing forward.

niecy manages a weak smile, insists she’s okay now, thanks to you. bez looks at her, then at you, and his whole chest seems to collapse. the audition, the tour, all of it fades because right here, in his kitchen, you’ve held together the thing that matters most to him.

he doesn’t know what to do with the gratitude clawing at his throat. he kisses his mom’s temple, checks her sugar again just to be sure, then finds you. his hands are still trembling when he touches yours, clumsy, reverent, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“i—i should’ve been here,” he says, eyes wet but defiant. “you—you were here. for her. for me. i don’t even know how to thank you.”