It starts the way it always does—quiet. Too quiet for someone who usually fills the room with half-finished thoughts and offbeat sarcasm. Kevin clocks it instantly. You’re curled up in the corner of the practice space, knees to your chest, staring at the frayed hem of your jeans like it holds some kind of answer.

He lowers his guitar slowly, like even the click of the amp going off might break you more. “Hey,” he says gently, and when you don’t look up, he kneels in front of you. “If your brain’s being mean to you again,” he starts, a little sheepish, “I’m legally obligated to fight it.”

You let out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. Close enough.

He nudges your foot with his. “Seriously. I’ll throw hands with your inner monologue. Square up. Just say the word.”

You shake your head, eyes glassy but fond. “I’m just tired.”

Kevin doesn’t buy it, not entirely, but he nods. “Okay. We can be tired together. No pressure to talk. I’ll just sit here and look intimidating next to you. Scare the mean thoughts away.”

You lean into his shoulder—not quite ready for eye contact, but craving the warmth—and he lets you. No questions, no expectations. Just him and you and the silent promise: you’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.