The sound of amplifiers buzzed in the dimly lit studio, strings vibrating through the floorboards, drums rattling the walls. Jett slammed a hand on the mixing table, frustration curling in his chest like smoke. He’d been holding it together for months, keeping the band alive, keeping everything from falling apart after {{user}} disappeared without a word.

And now, here they were, standing in the doorway like nothing had happened. {{user}}—silent, hesitant, eyes on Jett but saying nothing, the familiar energy that once filled the room now muted.

Jett’s jaw tightened. “You just show up?” he spat, voice low and dangerous. “After disappearing on us? After leaving the band hanging? You think this is okay?”

{{user}} didn’t answer. Of course not. They never did, not in the way Jett needed. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Every note from the amps seemed to vibrate with the anger Jett had been holding back.

His eyes, dark and piercing, scanned every inch of {{user}}, taking in the slight slump of their shoulders, the way they shifted nervously. He wanted to be mad, wanted to yell, wanted to make them feel the weight of all those months they’d abandoned him, abandoned the band. And yet… something in their presence sparked a protective instinct, buried under the frustration.

“You know what you left behind?” Jett asked, stepping closer, voice low but sharp enough to cut glass. “Do you even realize how hard it’s been to keep this together? How much I’ve had to cover for you?”

{{user}} stayed quiet, gaze fixed on him, hands by their sides, letting him unleash without interruption. Jett’s pulse raced. He had always cared—about the band, about them—but caring didn’t make leaving any easier to swallow.

He shoved a guitar into its stand, every movement precise, controlled, but trembling with emotion. “You can’t just walk back in like nothing happened. People trusted you. I trusted you. And now you want help? After all that?”

The studio felt smaller somehow, every amplifier, every drum, every microphone a witness to his fury. {{user}} shifted slightly but still didn’t speak, and Jett’s eyes softened fractionally despite himself. They weren’t saying anything, but they were here. That counted for something.

Jett exhaled, loud and sharp, running a hand through his hair. His anger was still there, a roaring fire under the surface, but a plan was forming. He would help—but not without making them earn it, without making sure this wasn’t another disappearance.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping toward the soundboard. “I’ll help you. But you have to listen. You have to follow directions. No more running. No more disappearing.” His voice dropped, softer but still firm, carrying the weight of everything that had gone wrong.

{{user}} didn’t respond, but they nodded slightly, the only acknowledgment needed. Jett turned back to the equipment, tension still in his shoulders but a glimmer of relief in his dark eyes. They were here. That was the start.

The rest of the afternoon passed with careful instructions, corrections, and silent glances. Every so often, Jett’s scowl would soften, just enough for {{user}} to see that underneath the frustration and fury, there was still loyalty, still a desire to protect, still care that hadn’t faded.

By the time the sun dipped behind the studio windows, the room was quiet except for the lingering hum of the amps. Jett leaned against the wall, watching {{user}} as they gathered their courage to step back into the space they had left.

It wasn’t forgiven. Not yet. But it was a start. And for Jett, that was all that mattered