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“I didn’t know the story. Just felt the pain. And I will never forget tonight.”

“Let artists grieve. Let men cry. Let the music carry what words can’t.”

“Reese, if you’re reading this—we love you. We love him. This was sacred.”

I swallow hard.

Thorin lets out a breath like it’s the first real one he’s taken all night. “I didn’t think I was gonna make it through that song.”

“You didn’t have to.” I nod toward the screen. “They made it with you.”

He doesn’t respond. Just rubs his hands over his face and then drops them, fingers loose, eyes tired. “I didn’t even feel the crowd at first. Like I was underwater. But when they started shouting…” His voice breaks again, softer this time. “It felt like someone turned the oxygen back on.”

We sit there for a beat. Let it land.

The door clicks open behind me, and Benji wanders in with a box of pizza, looking like he hasn’t blinked since load-out.

“I brought carbs,” he says, setting it down like it’s holy.

Carson follows with a six-pack tucked under one arm and a bottle of ginger ale under the other. “Didn’t know what the vibe was.”

I glance around the room. “Kinda feels like church.”

Thorin chuckles under his breath. “Grief and communion?”

“Pretty much.” I crack open a Coke and sink deeper into the couch. “Minus the wine and wafers.”

We eat like men who haven’t in days. No plates. No table. Just hunched over the coffee table, greasy fingers and quiet chewing. Every once in a while someone reads a tweet out loud, and we don’t laugh—we just sit with it.

Because the fans didn’t just watch tonight. They held it. They carried it with us. With Thorin.

And for once, it didn’t feel like we were on one side of the barricade and they were on the other.

We were all just people trying to survive a song.

Eventually, Thorin gets up, phone still in his hand. He disappears into the bedroom without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Benji stretches out on the floor, arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it’s gonna offer up a revelation.

Carson flicks through the channels on mute, stopping on a rerun of Top Gear without caring what’s playing.

And me?

I scroll. I read every damn post. Every unfiltered sentence from strangers who weren’t strangers tonight. Who screamed through the silence. Who reminded us that sometimes the loudest love is the kind that doesn’t need to ask for permission.

It’s past two in the morning when I finally drag myself into the bedroom I’m sharing with Carson.

But before I close the door, I check my phone one last time.

There’s a message at the top of the screen.

From Mya.

He did good, Fletch. He made it through. Tell him we’re proud of him. I love you.

I stare at the screen for a long moment.

Then I text her back.