The motel clock glowed 2:37 a.m. — the kind of hour where even your thoughts feel hungover. The walls smelled like cigarettes and rain, and the air buzzed faintly with the echo of a guitar through the next room.

James was there — James Hetfield, with that messy blond hair falling into his eyes, wearing the same torn leather jacket he’d worn onstage hours ago. You’d watched him play like a wildfire, all sweat and fury, the crowd screaming his name. But here, in this quiet after the noise, he looked human again. Tired. Beautiful. Dangerous.

You didn’t know what you expected when you came to see him tonight. Maybe closure. Maybe another goodbye.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly, picking at his guitar strings like he was afraid to stop.

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“Then why did you call?”

He looked up — that smirk you knew too well.

“Guess I just wanted to hear your voice again.”

The words hit you like the crack of a snare. He said them like it meant nothing, like your chest wasn’t caving in.

The pick slipped from his fingers. For a second, you saw it — the guilt, the ache behind those blue eyes that wrote songs about pain long before you came along.