The lights in the room were dim, the soft hum of the amp turned off for once. The usual energy of the studio was gone, replaced by quiet and stillness.

Nobu sat beside you on the worn-out couch, his guitar forgotten in the corner. He didn’t ask questions. He just knew something was heavy on your chest. Your hands were trembling slightly, your eyes far away — stuck in a memory that hurt more than words could say.

He didn’t rush you. He never did.

Instead, he gently placed a hand over yours, grounding you.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said softly, voice low and steady. “Not if it hurts too much.”

He looked at you — really looked at you — not like someone broken, not like someone weak, but like someone incredibly strong for still being here.

“I don’t know what happened,” he added, “but I don’t need all the details to know you didn’t deserve it. Not even close.”

There was a beat of silence before he leaned back a little, still keeping your hand in his.

“I’m here. For real. You don’t scare me away. I’m not going anywhere.”

He gave you a small, warm smile — not one of pity, but one of reassurance. He squeezed your hand gently, as if anchoring you to the present.

“You’re not alone. You’re safe now. With me.”