We finish loading out just after eleven.

The crowd thinned fast once we stopped playing. People moved on—back to their drinks, their games, their hookups and high school drama. Which is fine. We weren’t here to be the main event. Just the noise between it all.

Eli’s rolling up cords, careful like always. Preston’s talking to some girl by the porch who looks like she might actually know what a bassline is. I finish coiling the last mic cable and snap the case shut.

“Decent crowd,” Eli says, wiping sweat off his neck with his shirt.

“Better than last week’s dive bar,” I say. “At least no one threw a chicken wing at me this time.”

“Give it time.”

I crack a smile, toss the last case into the van, and shut the doors.

That’s it. Another gig, another backyard, another blur of faces I don’t care to remember. No weirdness, no drama. Just music and out.

Still—there was that one moment.

Not important. Just a flicker. A face in the crowd that didn’t fit the usual background noise. Tall guy, athletic build, watched like he was listening for something instead of just hearing it.

I only noticed because most people don’t look like that. Like they’re paying attention.

But whatever. Doesn’t matter.

“Heading out?” Preston asks, breaking away from the porch.

“Yeah. I’m fried.”

“Cool. You riding with Eli?”

“Always.”

He nods. “Thanks for playing. Might actually be the most sober show we’ve ever done.”

“New record,” I say, deadpan.

We bump fists, and I head for the van.

The air’s cooler now. Quieter. A few stars up there if you squint past the porch lights. I slide into the passenger seat while Eli finishes his goodbyes.

I don’t look back.

Nothing to look back at.

It’s past midnight by the time Eli drops me off.

The porch light’s still on, because Mom doesn’t care what time I get back—just that I make it. I let myself in quiet, shutting the door soft so it doesn’t click too loud. The house smells like leftover pasta and dryer sheets.

I kick off my boots, drop my guitar case in the corner of the hallway, and head for the kitchen. There’s a note on the fridge in Mom’s handwriting: Eat. Water. Sleep.

She underlined sleep twice.

I grab the water bottle she packed and a cold piece of garlic bread wrapped in foil. Good enough.

I’m halfway through it when I hear a thump upstairs.

Then a soft voice.

“Jace?”

I freeze for a second, then set the bread down and head for the stairs.

Gavin’s standing in the hallway outside his room, hair sticking up, clutching his stuffed octopus under one arm. His cheeks are red, eyes a little watery.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, kneeling down. “What’s up?”

He rubs at his eyes. “I had a nightmare.”

I nod. “Wanna tell me about it?”

He shakes his head fast. “It was dumb.”

“Still scared you, though.”

He shrugs but steps closer. I pick him up without saying anything else, carry him back into his room, and sit on the edge of the bed with him in my lap. His sheets are tangled. The nightlight in the corner glows blue.

“It was the one with the monster at the window,” he mumbles into my shirt. “The one with the teeth.”

“Okay,” I say softly. “But he’s not real. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. But he feels real.”

I get that.

I run a hand through his hair. “You want me to stay till you fall asleep?”

He nods once, already yawning.

I tuck him in and lie down on top of the covers beside him. He grips my shirt with one hand like I might disappear if he lets go.

His breathing evens out in under five minutes.

I stay longer.

Not because he needs it—but because I don’t mind.

I wake up to the smell of pancakes and the sound of someone singing badly down the hall.

Zoe, probably.

My back’s stiff from sleeping on top of Gavin’s blanket, one leg half off the bed. He’s still out cold, mouth open, one arm flopped over his head like he’s been through something serious.

I ease out from under the covers, pull the blanket up around him, and slip out of the room.

The hallway’s warm with sunlight and chaos. Chloe’s got her music blasting in the bathroom—something poppy and overproduced—and Zoe’s arguing with Mom in the kitchen about how many chocolate chips are acceptable in one pancake.

“Not the entire bag, Zoe,” Mom says, laughing.

I walk in, rubbing at my eyes.

“You’re up early,” she says, flipping something golden onto a plate.

“Gavin had a rough night,” I mumble.

She softens. “Nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he sleeps best when you’re home. Always has.”

I grab a cup from the cabinet and pour coffee, black. Dad’s already out front, judging by the open garage door and the muffled sound of classic rock playing from his workshop.

Chloe breezes through in gym shorts and one of my old band tees. “Hey loser. You sounded decent last night.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I saw videos.”

I grunt, but I’m smiling.

Zoe hands me a pancake with exactly eight chocolate chips arranged in a smiley face.

“I made it for you,” she says, proud.

“Looks like it’s judging me.”

“It is.”

I sit down at the table, the house humming around me—Saturday cartoons in the background, the coffee pot gurgling, Gavin’s soft footsteps upstairs as he finally wakes up.

It’s loud. It’s messy.

It’s home.

And right now, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

By mid-afternoon, the house has finally calmed down.

Dad’s out running errands. Chloe’s working a shift at the bookstore. Zoe and Gavin are in the living room building a pillow fort and arguing over what constitutes a “structurally sound entrance.” Mom’s reading on the porch, coffee in hand even though it’s past two.

I’m upstairs in my room, stretched out on my bed, guitar resting on my stomach. Just picking through half-finished chords and half-finished thoughts. No pressure. No deadline. Just noise for myself.

My phone buzzes.

Preston (3:42 PM):

Yo. Cole just texted me.

Mind if I give him your number?

I stare at it for a second, thumb hovering over the screen.

Cole? The quarterback’s best friend?

Weird. But not suspicious.

I tap back.

Sure. What for?

A moment later:

No idea. Didn’t ask.

Probably something about the party. Chill guy though.

I shrug to myself and drop the phone face-down on the bed.

Not like I care who texts me. If it’s about the set, whatever. If it’s about another party, probably a no.

I go back to playing, fingers moving without thinking.

The day rolls on quiet, sunlight streaking across the floor, the faint sound of cartoons still drifting in from the other room.

No pressure.

No reason to think too hard.