𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

You Know You're Right

The studio lights were dim, casting long shadows across the scratched floorboards and battered soundproofing foam. Kurt stood back in the vocal booth, hunched over the mic with his headphones slanted crooked on his head, hair tangled like seaweed in storm water. His voice bled through the glass in jagged bursts—each take more exhausted, more hollow than the last.

Krist sat near the console, leaning back in the producer's chair with one ankle on his knee, nodding along to the playback. The sound engineer, an older guy named Rick with a permanent frown and a Motorhead shirt older than any of them, twisted knobs and muttered things like "raw take" and "leave that bleed in."

Dave had slipped onto the beat-up couch in the back corner of the room, where an old coffee table was buried beneath empty Red Bull cans, setlists, and half-broken guitar picks. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing toward the vocal booth.

Then he felt her sit beside him.

Iris.

She smelled like cold air and vanilla, her coat unbuttoned now, revealing a threadbare hoodie with a faded "Sonic Youth" logo on the front. Her guitar sat in the corner, untouched, like it knew its time hadn't come yet.

She looked toward the booth, eyes narrowed slightly. "He always did write like he was trying to save himself."

Dave glanced at her, then at Kurt's hunched form through the glass. "Yeah. Except now it feels like maybe he doesn't want saving."

Iris didn't answer right away. She just nodded slowly, her eyes locked on the booth. "He used to burn bright. Now it's more like... flickering."

They sat in silence for a moment, just listening. Kurt's voice cracked through the monitors,"You know you're right...", and there was so much resignation in it that Dave looked away.

"You ever record with him?" Dave asked finally, just to fill the quiet.

"A couple times in high school," she said, resting her chin in her hand. "Mostly basement demos. He used to scream into a pillow to keep the neighbors from calling the cops."

Dave chuckled. "Sounds about right."

She turned toward him then, eyes dark and curious. "And you? How'd you end up in this beautiful disaster?"

"Drumming for Scream," he said. "Got a call from Kurt one day, said they needed someone. I flew up and... never really flew back."

"Scream, damn." she smiled, a quiet kind of smile, "You were in that scene, huh?" she questioned, chuckling. Dave smiled, "Absolutely."

"I could sense it from a mile away." She stated, the two then laughing together. "You all seem like brothers." she then observed.

"More like feral cousins who occasionally don't kill each other."

She laughed at that, soft and real, and for the first time since she'd walked through the studio door, something loosened in Dave's chest. It was subtle, but it was there.

"Do you ever worry it's all gonna fall apart?" she asked, almost a whisper.

He looked down at his hands, callused from years of playing. "Every day."

They sat quietly, the hum of Kurt's guitar bleeding softly through the walls.

"You wanna hang out after this?" Iris asked, suddenly casual, but there was something fragile behind her voice. "Like... get food or something?"

Dave blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

She nodded, looking relieved. "Cool. You look like you could use a burger."

He smirked. "You trying to say I look malnourished?"

"I'm saying you look like a guy who forgets meals when the snare sounds right."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Okay, that's fair."

Through the glass, Kurt gave a signal, two fingers up, then a wave. Session over. Krist leaned over the console and spoke into the intercom, "Got it. That one was the take."

Kurt didn't smile. Just gave a half-nod and disappeared into the hallway behind the booth.

Iris stood and grabbed her guitar case, slinging it over her shoulder.

Krist turned around, eyebrows raised. "You heading out?"

She smiled at him. "Yeah. Gonna grab food with Dave."

Krist looked between the two with a smug look forming on his face before he stood up to hug her again. "Feels good having you back."

"You sure it's not the beer talking?"

"Could be both," he said with a shrug.

Kurt reappeared in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His eyes found hers.

"Thanks for coming today," he said, voice quiet.

"I meant it when I said I'm staying," she said. "You're not getting rid of me this time."

A flicker of something passed over his face. Gratitude? Sadness? Guilt? Maybe all of it.

"I'm glad," he said finally. "Really."

She stepped toward him and wrapped her arms around his thin frame. He tensed, then relaxed, slowly. The hug lasted three seconds. Maybe four.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" she said.

He didn't answer. Just nodded once.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she turned to Dave and said, "Ready?"

He slung on his jacket. "Always."

They left together, the door creaking closed behind them as the weight of the session lingered in the air like old smoke.

Outside, the cold hit like a slap, but it was clean, honest, refreshing. The kind of cold that made you breathe deeper.

They walked side by side down the street, boots crunching in leftover snow. Neither of them said anything for a moment, until Iris nudged him with her shoulder.

"So," she said, "you more of a greasy diner guy or a sketchy food truck guy?"

Dave grinned. "Diner. Every time."

She nodded. "Good. Then we'll get along just fine."

---

A/N

Date night date night

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