A finger twitches, hitting the E-flat. “I…ah…I went to the doctor today.”

The words slap down onto the room like a thunderclap, and I know my friends are collectively unsettled. But no one says a thing. So I keep going.

“Been having pain in my hands, wrists—fuck, my whole arms.” Goddamn, that lump is getting too big to manage. “They seize up and I can’t…” I draw a deep breath. “I can’t play sometimes.”

Someone makes a strangled sound. Maybe Jax or Killian. I can’t tell because I’m staring at the black and white keys of the piano. “Turns out, I have acute tendinitis. Nothing for it but to rest and let it heal.”

“Then why the fuck are you playing the piano?” Whip snaps, visibly pale as if he expects my hands to seize up at any second.

“Different angles of motion. Keeps me limber, I guess, and I…” My voice breaks, and I swallow convulsively. “Fuck, Whip, I can’t not make music. I can’t.”

A hand comes down on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s Killian. A world of sorrow darkens his eyes, and it almost does me in. But then he blinks and smiles tightly. “So you play the piano. You rest. You get better.”

Scottie already has his phone out and is typing away. “I’m redoing your schedules. We’ll work this out, mate.”

They’re killing me. It isn’t that I didn’t expect their kindness; we’re best mates, as Scottie likes to say. But the swiftness of it, the way they’re instantly all in…even if I’d do the same for them, being on the receiving end of it is a comfort I didn’t know I needed.

I sit on the bench, unable to form the proper words of gratitude. “Thank you” doesn’t feel adequate.

Whip nudges my other shoulder with his own. “You’ve always healed fast as fuck. Remember how quickly the bone mended that time you broke your ankle diving off the stage in Edinburgh?”

The guys snicker, and I purse my lips, not wanting to laugh, yet also wanting to so badly my chest hurts. “Thanks for the reminder, William.”

“No problem. Although I don’t know how anyone could forget.” He smiles wide and evil. “It was pathetic. No one wanted to catch you.”

Jax starts laughing. “Oh, God, the way that crowd parted.”

“Like the Red Sea,” Killian says with a snort.

“Oh, look.” I lift my hands to flip them off. “I still have the use of my middle fingers. Fancy that.”

But they ignore me.

“They’re no fools, the Scots,” Scottie says dryly. “They bloody well knew a bloke Rye’s size would crush a man like a grape when he landed.”

“My size?” I repeat incredulously.

“Yeah,” Whip confirms. “Mountain-sized.”

“More like a sequoia,” Killian says, eyeing me.

All at once, Whip, Jax, and Killian call out, “Timber!”

They dissolve into childish laugher, while Scottie looks on with twitching lips. And I find myself chuckling. It feels good, but it doesn’t linger. The heaviness is too settled in my chest.

“Maybe…” I clear my throat. “Maybe you should consider finding a replacement for a while.”

The suggestion goes over like a lead balloon.

“Rye,” Jax says, snagging my attention. His jaw is set. “Hear me now. No one is fucking replacing you.”

The lump is back. “And if I don’t get better?”

Fuck, that hurts. But there’s no guarantee that it won’t come back, especially since, if I keep playing bass the same way, I’ll be doing the same repetitive movements that got me here. Part of me is falling into an abyss; it’s fast and endless. If I weren’t sitting on the bench, I’d probably topple over.

There are people with worse problems, worse pain. People fighting for their lives. In the scope of things, my issues are small. Doesn’t stop them from feeling big to me.

“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it,” Killian says firmly.

“We deal with it together,” Whip adds.

Blinking rapidly, I don’t say anything for a moment. “Shit.” A shuddering breath escapes me. “You guys are going to mess me up.”

“There, there.” Jax reaches out and musses my hair. “They’re only feelings. You’ll get used to them.”

“The fuck I will,” I mutter, moving out of his reach.

“I’ve ordered pizza.” Scottie tucks his phone in his pants pocket and then removes his suit coat. “I assume you have beer.”

“You assume correctly.”

He nods and heads to the kitchen. “There’s a Supernatural marathon on. They’re starting from the pilot.”

Killian groans loudly. “It’s like he’s a preteen.”

Whip, on the other hand, is already jumping onto my couch and reaching for the remote. “Okay, the Star Trek thing is annoying but Supernatural, Kills? How can you hate on Dean and Sam?”

Baffled, Killian looks to Jax and me as though seeking help.

Maybe I’m the only one who remembers we offered to watch Supernatural with Scottie when he was falling apart over Sophie. It knocks me on my proverbial ass to realize he’s trying to return the favor. For a thick moment, I’m so damn grateful for my friends, I can’t speak.

Holding up my hands, I affect a casual tone, like I’m not five seconds from bear-hugging all of them. “Hey, it’s Supernatural. Castiel is my boy.”

I head for the couch as Killian gapes in outrage. Jax gives him a slap on the shoulder. “Guess that means you’re getting the door when the pizza arrives.” He jogs over and flops down next to me while Whip cues up the TV.

Scottie comes in carrying a tray—a freaking tray—with a neat pile of napkins, plates, five pilsner glasses, and five bottles of beer. He sets it down and starts pouring the beer in glasses; I honestly didn’t know I had pilsner glasses.

Killian snorts one last time. “Biggest rock band in the world and we’re sitting around drinking beers and watching paranormal melodrama.”

“Yeah,” Whip says, accepting a beer. “Life’s pretty fucking grand, ain’t it?”

In that moment, I feel as close to normal as I’ve been in months. There’s only one thing missing. And while we’re eating pizza and arguing whether Dean’s ’67 Impala is the best muscle car ever, I slip my hand into my pocket and curl my fingers around my phone. I don’t pull it out and text her.

But I want to. I’m aching to. And that’s not good. She’s already dangerously close to becoming an addiction. Add all these tender, protective feelings she’s bringing to the surface, and I’m just asking to have my heart stomped on. I’m not going to become a shadow of my mother, always wanting someone who doesn’t want me in the same way. Not going to happen. I refuse to go down that road with Brenna.

The fact that she’s considering leaving Kill John hit like a hammer to my chest, cracking it open in a way that’s far too exposed. If she leaves, nothing will be the same. And I have this ugly, twisting feeling that she will. That part of her wants to go.

For my own good, I have to keep my distance. Somehow. Some way.