Signals Crossed

16

The rehearsal space smelled like dust, sweat, and something faintly electrical—amps humming low even when no one was playing.

Mike D was sprawled across the beat-up couch, flipping a drumstick between his fingers while arguing about tempo no one else cared about.

"I'm telling you, it drags if you come in that late."

"It doesn't drag," Ad shot back, not even looking at him. "You just rush everything."

"I don't rush—"

The door creaked open.

Everything shifted.

Not obviously. Not all at once. But enough.

Mel stepped inside, letting it close behind her with a soft click.

She still looked like herself—same worn-in jeans, same boots—but something about her had... settled. Her hair fell a little differently, less thrown together. The oversized flannel she used to disappear in was gone, replaced with something that actually fit her frame.

Not trying.

Just... not hiding.

Ad noticed immediately.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking over her once before snapping away like it didn't matter.

"Look who finally showed up," Mike said, grinning. "Thought you ditched us for good."

"Please," Mel scoffed, tossing her bag down. "You'd fall apart without me."

"Emotionally, yeah," Mike said. "Musically? We'd thrive."

She laughed—and it came easier now. Lighter.

Ad's jaw tightened, just slightly.

Then he finally said, "Hey."

Yauch had been quieter than usual, sitting on the edge of a chair with a notebook in his lap. But the second she walked in, his whole posture shifted. Softer. Open.

Mel's expression changed too when she looked at him.

Not big. Not dramatic.

Just... warm.

"Hey," she echoed.

There was a pause—half a second too long to be nothing.

Then she drifted toward him without thinking, perching on the arm of his chair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ad saw that.

Of course he did.

He grabbed a cassette off the table, turning it over in his hands like he had somewhere else to look.

"You miss anything?" Mel asked.

"Mike being wrong," Ad muttered.

"I'm never wrong."

"You're wrong right now."

"About what?"

"Everything."

Mel smirked, shaking her head. Same dynamic. Same rhythm.

Except it wasn't.

Because when she laughed, Yauch's hand came up—absentminded, gentle—and rested against her knee.

And she didn't even flinch.

Didn't joke about it.

Didn't shove him off.

Nothing.

It was easy.

That's what hit Ad.

Not the hand. Not the closeness.