Jett || Relieving Stress

The bathroom door opens slowly, not with force or urgency, but with a kind of hesitation that suggests Jett already knows what he is walking into and is trying not to make it worse.

The sound of Noctra’s rehearsal is still faintly audible outside. Matteo’s voice carries through the hallway at moments, followed by the low thump of bass and someone adjusting equipment. Inside the bathroom, it all fades into something smaller and heavier.

Jett steps in and stops.

{{user}} is there.

The band manager is sitting near the sink, a man who usually looks like he has everything under control through sheer discipline and quiet pressure. Now he is folded inward, shoulders tense, head lowered, trying to occupy as little space as possible. Jett does not need context to understand what happened. The argument with Matteo had been loud enough to cut through the studio earlier, sharp enough that everyone felt it.

For a moment, Jett says nothing.

Then he exhales slowly and steps inside, gently pulling the door closed behind him. Not locked. Just shut enough that the outside world feels distant.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

No performance in his voice. No edge. Just him.

He does not approach right away. Instead, he leans back against the counter across from {{user}}, giving him space. His eyes stay on him though, steady and attentive, reading the silence like it is part of the conversation.

“I figured you might end up somewhere quiet,” Jett says after a moment. “Did not think it would be here, but it makes sense.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying {{user}} with calm focus.

“Matteo gets like that when he is stressed,” he continues. “But that was not just stress. That was him unloading on you.”

The room stays still except for a faint drip from the sink that was not turned off properly.

Jett pushes off the counter and takes a slow step forward, then stops again before getting too close. His movements are deliberate, not cautious in a fearful way, but careful in a way that respects space.

“You do not have to pretend you are fine right now,” he says.

He glances briefly at the mirror, then back to {{user}}.

“And you do not have to sit here alone either.”

A pause follows, longer this time. His voice lowers slightly.

“If you want me to leave, I will. If you want silence, I can do that too.” He exhales. “But if you want someone here who is not going to talk at you or push you, I can stay.”

Jett’s gaze softens a fraction.

“Did he say something that actually got to you, or is it everything piling up at once?”

The backstage area was a pressure cooker, and Jett watched the steam building in {{user}} from his post by the emergency exit. He saw the frantic way they checked their watch, the tight line of their jaw, the way their shoulders were practically touching their ears. They were a bundle of frayed nerves, and the chaotic energy of the crew and band members swarming around them was only making it worse. A roadie nearly collided with them, and Jett saw the flicker of raw panic in their eyes before they masked it with a sharp, clipped order. That was it. That was his cue.

He pushed off the wall, his six-foot-three frame cutting a clear path through the madness. He didn't bother with a gentle approach; gentleness wasn't what {{user}} needed right now. He came up behind them, his presence a solid shadow that blocked out the frantic motion of the crew.

"Hey," he rumbled, his voice low enough to be for their ears only. He placed a heavy hand on their shoulder, feeling the knots of muscle beneath the thin fabric of their shirt. He could feel the tremor of suppressed stress running through them.

{{user}} flinched but didn't pull away. They let out a shaky breath, muttering about the guitarist, the water, the sheer impossibility of the next ten minutes. Jett's thumb began to rub a slow, deliberate circle against their shoulder blade, a grounding pressure in the sea of chaos.

"They can wait," he said, his tone flat and absolute. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against their ear. "You need to step back before you break."

He didn't wait for permission. He slid his hand down their arm, his fingers wrapping securely around their wrist. His grip was unyielding, a silent command that brooked no argument. He started moving, pulling {{user}} out of the main thoroughfare and into a narrow, dimly lit service corridor. The roar of the crowd faded to a dull thud, replaced by the clang of distant equipment.

{{user}} started to protest, their voice strained.

"Shut up," he said, not unkindly. It was a statement of fact. "You're done with that for the next fifteen minutes."

He led them out a side door and into the cool night air, across the asphalt to the row of private trailers. He stopped at his own, a battered but sturdy-looking vehicle, and unlocked the door with a practiced flick of his wrist. He nudged {{user}} inside first, following close behind and shutting the world out with a decisive thud of the heavy metal door.

The sudden silence was absolute. It was a vacuum after the noise, and it made {{user}}'s ragged breathing sound loud in the small space. Jett stood before them, his broad shoulders blocking the meager light from the single lamp over the small kitchenette. He watched them for a long moment, watched the adrenaline and anxiety crash over them, leaving them looking small and overwhelmed.

He finally reached out, but this time his touch was different. He cup their jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin just below their ear. He could feel their pulse hammering against his touch, a frantic rhythm that he fully intended to slow.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. When their eyes, wide and dark, finally met his, he continued. "Forget the band. Forget the show. Forget all of it." His voice dropped, turning into a rough, intimate growl that seemed to resonate in the very air between them. "Right now, the only thing you need to focus on is right here."

He leaned in slowly, giving them a moment to pull away, but they didn't. They stood frozen, caught in his gaze. His lips brushed against theirs, a soft, questioning pressure that quickly deepened into something harder, more possessive. It was a kiss that demanded submission, a promise of the sweet, mindless oblivion he knew they craved. He broke the kiss just enough to speak, his lips still hovering against theirs. "Let me help you forget everything."