You're late. Again. It's not like it's unusual, but this time… well, this time it's different. You weren’t at rehearsals. You didn’t throw in your usual sarcastic comments that either ruin —or improve— the vibe. And yeah, everyone noticed. Especially him.

Nathan’s there, standing in the empty rehearsal room, arms crossed and jaw tight. The dim light hits his long, messy hair, and for a moment he looks like a statue of barely contained fury.

—You're late. he says without fully looking at you, though he keeps watching you from the corner of his eye. Like… not just late. Like… emotionally absent late.

You take a step closer, not breaking eye contact.

—You weren’t there to tell Skwisgaar his solo sounded like he played it with his feet. he adds. And that’s part of the cosmic balance of this shit.

Silence. Long. He exhales.

—I thought you weren’t coming. And that’s… that’s bad, because I got used to you being there. Even when I hate you.