𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

It's You I Fell Into

The hotel room hummed with the quiet electricity of anticipation. Morning light slipped in through the thin gap between the curtains, casting pale stripes across the rumpled bedspread and the carpet where Dave Grohl sat, knees pulled up, guitar calluses pressed against his palms as he tapped out nervous rhythms only he could hear. The television murmured in the background; MTV hosts chatting, laughing, killing time. Every second felt louder than the last.

Iris Jane sat sideways in the armchair, one leg tucked beneath her, flipping the cardboard sleeve of a room-service coffee cup back and forth between her fingers. She kept glancing at the clock on the nightstand, then at Dave, then back to the screen. Forty-five minutes of waiting had stretched into something elastic and unreal.

"They're doing this on purpose," Dave said, eyes glued to the TV. "They know."

Iris snorted. "Yes, Dave. MTV personally scheduled this just to mess with you."

He huffed out a laugh but didn't look away. "I swear, if they play one more Beavis and Butt-Head clip—"

"You're going to what? Drum them to death?" she teased, nodding toward his hands.

He glanced down, realizing what he was doing, and forced himself to stop. The quiet returned, heavier this time. Dave leaned back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers written across the cracks.

"Can I tell you something without you thinking I'm being dramatic?" he asked.

Iris's teasing expression softened immediately. "Always."

"Some of the stuff people have been saying on tour... it's not just about the music being simple. It's about Kurt." His voice dropped when he said the name, reverent and careful. "They think I'm disgracing his legacy. That I'm disrespecting him by making music that sounds even a little like Nirvana."

The words seemed to hang in the air between them.

Dave swallowed. "Like I'm not allowed to exist musically unless it's completely different. Like anything I do that has distortion or melody automatically means I'm trying to replace him." He shook his head. "It gets in your head, you know? Makes you wonder if you're allowed to move forward at all."

Iris stared at him for a beat, stunned, then her mouth fell open.

"That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard," she said flatly.

Dave blinked. "What?"

She set her coffee down with exaggerated care, stood, and planted her hands on her hips like she was about to address a very stupid courtroom. "So basically, what I'm hearing, is all the punk shows you've gone to since you were like, fucking five years old, just mean nothing. Like you're just supposed to let your whole world end now? All your passion just goes down the drain?"

Dave felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

"And honestly," she added, rolling her eyes, "if Kurt were here, he'd probably tell those people to fuck off."

Dave laughed, "Yeah," he said, "He probably would."

She grinned, pleased. "You making music isn't disrespect. It's survival. It's honesty. If your songs sound like you, then good. They're supposed to."

He looked at her then, warmth spreading through him. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably still make the record," she said lightly, "but you'd be way more miserable about it."

Before he could reply, the TV cut abruptly. The hosts vanished. A beat of silence, then the familiar drum intro burst through the speakers.

Dave froze.