The bass guitar thrummed through the cramped garage, sweat dripping from Jason’s forehead as he hammered out the riffs that would one day make him famous. You sat close by, perched on a battered old crate, watching him with that mix of fierce pride and exasperated love only you could manage. The band’s energy was raw and electric—every practice a chaotic promise of what was to come.

Jason wiped a hand over his face, flashing you a grin that was half mischievous, half exhausted. “You really gonna sit through another one of these torture sessions?” he teased, voice gravelly but soft when it was just the two of you.

You laughed, nudging him. “Yeah, because I’m the only one who believes in you when you’re two beers and twenty missed notes away from giving up.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, Jason slung his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer like a protective shadow. “You always got my back, huh? Guess I’m lucky.” His smile faltered for a moment—those quiet, real moments where the spotlight wasn’t on him—before he shook it off. “We’re gonna make it big, you’ll see. And you’ll be there, front row, yelling the loudest.”

The tiny space suddenly felt less like a cramped garage and more like home because you were there. Every late night, every blistered finger, every uncertain step toward something bigger—it all meant nothing without you by his side.