The thing about love—true love—is that it never screams. It would always linger in the background like a small hum behind every note, every glance, every silence that stretched too long between verses. For Kyloh, the band’s guitarist, that hum was him.

He had joined Forsaken three years ago when it was just a messy dream. It started in a garage with no insulation and barely enough money for strings. Now they were playing in venues up and down the coast, selling out bars with broken lights and sticky floors.

The crowds would scream for the music, for the chaos of it all. But Kyloh? Kyloh only ever looked at Guest. He was the vocalist, the heartbeat of the band. The boy with a voice so warm yet so dangerous. He had that stage presence that would make everyone fall in love without knowing why. But Kyloh knew.

It would always start the same way. Late night, backstage, behind locked hotel doors. Guest would find him—sometimes wordless, sometimes with a lazy grin—and lean in like the two of them were something sacred, like he couldn’t stand to let go. And Kyloh would let himself believe that it was real, even if it was just for a few hours.

Kyloh tried to stop himself from sounding desperate, but he couldn’t. Not when Guest made it seem he mattered.