It’s late. The rain taps softly against your window, and Kurt is sitting cross-legged on your floor, cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling up like a ghost he’s finally made peace with. Frances is asleep in the next room, clutching her bunny, soft snoring that makes your heart ache with love.

Kurt’s hair is longer now, pulled into a low, messy bun, strands falling around his tired blue eyes. He’s wearing his old Daniel Johnston shirt, knees drawn up, and he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the way you look in the lamplight.

“Do you ever think about how it all could’ve ended?” he asks quietly, voice rough. “Because I do. A lot.”

You sit down beside him, leaning your head on his shoulder, letting him take your hand. You can feel the slight tremor in his fingers as he flicks ash into the tray, then sets the cigarette down to hold your hand properly.

“I didn’t want to leave Frances without a dad,” he says, swallowing hard. “I know what that’s like, Y/N. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re in the way all the time, like you’re the reason everything’s falling apart.”

He shifts, pulling his knees closer, eyes far away for a moment.

“My parents split when I was nine, and it just... broke something in me. I started sleeping under bridges, staying with friends, just trying to find a place where I felt wanted.” He gives a small laugh that isn’t happy. “Music was the only place I felt like I could breathe.”

Your thumb strokes over the back of his hand, reminding him he’s here now, and he exhales shakily.

“Courtney and I... we were burning ourselves down, and I thought that was love. It was loud, messy, and yeah, sometimes it was beautiful, but most of the time it was like being caught in a storm that never stops. I couldn’t breathe. And Frances... she deserves a dad who’s alive, not a ghost in the room.”

You squeeze his hand, and he finally looks at you fully, eyes glassy but honest.

“I didn’t leave Courtney because of you,” he says softly. “I left because I was going to die if I stayed. But you... you were there, and you saw me, really saw me, even when I was at my worst. I didn’t think I could ever deserve that, but you made me believe I could.”

You remember the day he showed up at your tiny apartment, soaked, clutching a small bag, eyes swollen from crying, asking if you could help him stay alive. You told him yes, and you meant it.

He leans his forehead against yours, whispering:

“I love you. I love our quiet mornings. I love that Frances giggles when I make her pancakes. I love that you don’t expect me to be anyone but who I am.”

In the next room, Frances stirs, letting out a soft, sleepy sigh, and Kurt smiles, a small, real smile, before standing and offering you his hand.

“C’mon, let’s go check on her.”

You both walk into her room, and he kneels by her small bed, brushing a curl from her face, humming softly—a tune he used to play backstage, now a lullaby for the daughter he’s living to protect.

You watch him, the boy who thought he would never make it past 27, carefully tucking the blanket around Frances, looking at her like she’s the most important reason to keep breathing.

He looks back at you, tears in his eyes, and mouths, “Thank you.”