𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

Post-Session

The session wrapped sometime after nine. The sky was already dark when they emerged from the basement, the smell of dust and tape still lingering on their clothes. Barrett offered a lazy wave as he disappeared into his room, claiming he needed to "reintroduce himself to horizontal living."

Dave and Iris lingered by the kitchen. The house was dimly lit, just one lamp glowing in the corner of the living room, casting a golden wash over the hardwood. Dave poured two glasses of water, handing one to Iris. She accepted it with a small smile.

They didn't say much at first.

They sat down on the couch, side by side, their knees almost touching. Dave leaned back, tilting his head to rest against the cushion, his eyes staring at the ceiling like it held answers.

"I didn't think I'd do it again," he said after a long silence.

Iris turned to him. "Make music?"

He nodded, a small breath leaving him. "Not like this. Not with heart."

The room hummed with stillness. Dave's voice was quiet, his eyes fixed forward. "For a while, I really thought that part of me had died with him."

Iris watched him, her throat tight.

"But today," he continued, "for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like I was chasing ghosts. It felt like... I was doing something for me."

She reached out slowly, her fingers resting on his hand. "I'm glad you're finding that again."

Dave looked down at their hands. Her touch wasn't heavy, just enough to say I'm here. Enough to ground him.

"I kept thinking about calling you," he said softly. "In Ireland. Every time I thought about writing or playing, your name came into my head. I mean, we didn't even talk much. But it was like, you were a light of hope among everything else going on back here."

"I would've come," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head toward her, his expression open, bare. "I know that now."

They sat like that for a while, the quiet not uncomfortable but alive with something unspoken.

"You make it easier," he said.

"What do you mean?"

Dave gave her a small smile, tired but real. "To be okay with starting over. To not feel like I have to be okay yet."

Her thumb moved gently over his knuckle. "You don't. You're allowed to still be hurting."

He looked at her, really looked. Her eyes were soft but strong, holding his without flinching. There was a moment there between breath and heartbeat where he could only focus on her blue irises, beautiful.

But instead, he said, "Thanks for staying."

Iris smiled. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

The silence that followed wasn't hollow. It was full—of shared memories, quiet healing, and something that might not have a name yet, but was slowly taking shape.

Eventually, she shifted to lean her head gently on his shoulder. Dave didn't move, only exhaled, his cheek resting lightly against her hair. The music was done for the day, but the feeling hadn't ended.

The air in the living room had settled into a kind of hush. The world outside Dave's window was pitch black, quiet except for the occasional whoosh of a car on wet pavement. Inside, it felt like time had slowed. The two realized that the day had started to soften the edges of everything. The grief. The distance. Even the fear.

After a while, Iris finally broke the silence, still thoughtful and quiet.

"What do you think you're going to do with the music you're making?" she asked.

Dave blinked slowly, then exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

"That's the part I don't know," he said, grimacing. "Writing it, playing it; that I can do. But putting it out into the world? That's something else."

Iris sat up a little, facing him fully now. He still couldn't quite meet her eyes.

"I mean, people know me as the drummer," he continued. "The goofy guy at the back of the stage. I'm not Kurt. I'm not a frontman. If I try to put something out, what's everyone gonna think? That I'm trying to replace him?"

His voice cracked a bit on that last part, and he winced, as if the words themselves were too much.

Iris didn't speak right away. She let the quiet sit there, let the weight of what he'd said settle. Then, gently:

"You're not trying to replace anyone. You're trying to live."

Dave's eyes flicked to hers—reluctant, guarded, but searching.

"You've got music in your veins, Dave. Anyone who hears you play can feel it. Doesn't matter if you're behind a drum kit or standing at the mic. You have something to say."

He looked down at his hands. "But what if no one wants to hear it?"

She smiled softly. "Then we'll play it for ourselves. And for Kurt. For the people who do want to hear it. Even if it's just a few."

He didn't respond. Just sat there, staring at the callouses on his fingertips, thinking about everything she said. Letting the idea exist without trying to crush it.

Eventually, Iris stood, smoothing down her jeans and grabbing her jacket from the arm of the couch.

Dave's brow furrowed. "You really have to go?"

She hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant smile. "Yeah. I wasn't planning to stay out this late. I've got no change of clothes, no toothbrush... I'd be a mess tomorrow."

He looked up at her, sheepish. "I wouldn't mind."

She raised an eyebrow. "I would."

Dave chuckled under his breath, standing with her. "Next time, then?"

She nodded, walking to the door with him trailing just behind. "Next time. I'll come prepared."

He opened the door for her, and the cool night air slipped inside. She stepped out onto the porch, then turned to face him.

"Sleep, Grohl. You've got songs to write."

He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. "Thanks for being here."

Her eyes lingered on his for a moment longer than necessary. "Always."

And then she was gone, her footsteps disappearing into the dark, leaving Dave in the doorway with the echo of her words and the feel of something just beginning.

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A/N

little intimate moment you're welcome

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