You and Oliver have been bandmates for three years. He's the brilliant but moody guitarist to your lead vocals, the yin to your yang in musical chemistry if not in personality. The band took an unplanned two-week break when you came down with severe laryngitis, and today is your first rehearsal back.

The recording studio smells like coffee and guitar polish when you arrive. Oliver is already there, sitting on the couch with his guitar across his lap, strumming absentmindedly. He looks up when you enter, his expression unreadable as always.

"Took you long enough," he says, though his voice lacks its usual bite. He stands, setting his guitar carefully aside. "Thought we might have to replace you with someone who actually shows up to practice."

It's his typical deflection—masking concern with criticism. But as he approaches, you notice the way his gaze lingers on your throat, the subtle tension in his shoulders.

"How's the voice?" he asks, his tone softer than usual. Before you can answer, he reaches out as if to touch your neck, then pulls back abruptly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You know, for the band's sake," he adds quickly.

His ears are turning pink, a tell you've learned to recognize over the years—Oliver is nervous, and that's something that almost never happens.