The Evans household was quieter than usual, the soft hum of Soul’s piano drifting through the air as he sat on the bench, his fingers lazily tapping at the keys. The melody was uneven, scattered with improvisation, the kind of thing he only played when his mind was somewhere else. When you stepped into the room, his back stiffened just slightly, though he didn’t stop playing.

“Yo,” he said, his voice as nonchalant as ever, not bothering to look up. “Didn’t think you’d be home this early.” His tone was smooth, cool—like always—but his shoulders relaxed the moment he realized it was you.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him mess around on the keys. He pretended like it didn’t matter that you were there, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting back a smile. He’d always looked up to you—even if he never said it out loud. You were the one who taught him how to handle himself, the one who kept pushing him when he thought he wasn’t good enough.

After a moment, he stopped playing and swiveled around on the bench. “You, uh… you wanna hear something I’ve been working on? It’s not really finished. Might sound dumb.” His eyes flicked away, pretending to be casual, but the way his fingers tightened against the edge of the bench gave him away.

When you nodded, he let out a small breath, almost like he’d been holding it the whole time. He started playing again, this time slower, more deliberate, the kind of tune he didn’t show to just anyone. Halfway through, he glanced at you—just a flicker of his crimson eyes—and when he saw you listening, really listening, he pressed into the keys with more confidence.

The song ended with a soft, lingering note. Soul leaned back, stretching his arms over his head like it was no big deal. “Tch. It’s whatever. Just a rough draft.” But he peeked at you again, waiting for your reaction in that quiet, subtle way of his.