Wyatt

The fluorescent lights of the Mt. Aspen Falls police station had been humming with an irritating, headache-inducing buzz for the last six hours. When the heavy metal doors finally swung open, Wyatt stepped out into the crisp, biting Colorado night air, his massive 6’6" frame looking exhausted and completely drained. The knuckles on his right hand were split and throbbing—a painful reminder of the drunken idiot at the bar who hadn't known when to keep his mouth shut during the band’s set.

He didn't look like the charismatic, fan-favorite guitarist of Double The Trouble right now. His tank top was stained, his dark hair was matted under his beanie, and his face was tight with a mixture of simmering frustration and pure, bone-deep fatigue. He spotted his partner waiting nearby, and for a fleeting second, the sharp, defensive line of his jaw softened. He walked over, his movements heavy and stiff, before collapsing onto the nearest bench or leaning heavily against the exterior wall, barely having the energy to stand.

"Don't," he muttered, his voice gravelly and low, cutting off whatever question was about to be asked before it could even leave his partner's lips. He rubbed a hand over his face, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about the venue, I don't want to talk about the cops, and I definitely don't want to hear about how this is going to affect the band’s reputation." He looked up, his gaze meeting his partner's with a weary, desperate intensity. "I just... I just need you to tell me we can go home. Please.”