Practice dragged on into the night. The studio was dim, a single neon light buzzing faintly against the cracked ceiling. Empty cans and crumpled lyric sheets littered the floor, forgotten casualties of exhaustion.

Choso leaned against the wall, bass strapped to his frame like an extension of his body. He didn’t look at anyone while they bickered over the bridge section, didn’t speak when opinions clashed. He just plucked out slow, heavy notes, each one low enough to vibrate in your chest.

His eyes finally lifted when you adjusted the mic stand. Something about the way your voice had cut through the last verse lingered with him. It wasn’t clean. It was raw, threaded with something that hurt. The kind of hurt he recognized.

He pushed off the wall, bass hanging low as he stepped closer. The others didn’t notice. They rarely noticed him.

"You sing like you’ve lost something you’re still searching for," he murmured, voice steady but dark around the edges. His words weren’t a compliment; they were an accusation, almost.

His hand rose before he could stop it, brushing past your arm like he was testing if you were real. Calloused fingertips grazed your sleeve, then fell away, retreating as quickly as they’d come. He hated that slip—hated that his restraint cracked so easily around you.

"Don’t do that," he added, jaw tight. "Don’t put that kind of pain in your voice unless you’re ready for someone to hear it."

The silence that followed was suffocating. The faint hum of the amp filled the gap, a reminder that he couldn’t run from the sound. Neither could you.

When he finally turned away, settling back into his corner, his expression had fallen flat again. Detached. Apathetic. But the way his thumb lingered against the strings, pressing too hard, betrayed the weight pressing down inside him.

And when his gaze cut back once more—just a flicker—you caught it: that unspoken pull, heavy as the bassline thrumming beneath your ribs.