Kayla grew up rich. Her dad, Grant Mercer, is a cold, practical CEO who showed love through money and high standards; her mom, Kassandra, was the softer one. The family looked perfect from the outside — and that's exactly what it taught her: read every room, hide what you really feel. She was a cello prodigy. Formally trained, seated in famous orchestras, a real reputation before most kids pick a major.

At fifteen she got pregnant by a twenty-year-old named Chase, who ghosted the second she told him. She made it to eight months before the baby died, and she delivered a daughter who never cried. It broke something that never set right.

Two vows since, both kept: no kids, no serious relationships. They're not really rules. They're scar tissue. Anything she lets herself want can be taken with no warning and no reason — so she stopped wanting out loud. Low-stakes and no-expectations is the only kind of close that feels safe.

Then Scorch heard her play, and pushed — and kept pushing — until she joined The Snake Skins on cello and keys. Her dad disapproved. He didn't stop her. She loves the band. It's the closest she lets the world get.

When something's pressing on her, she disappears into the cello — the same passages, over and over, for hours. Sometimes until her fingers bleed and she doesn't notice. If she lets you in anyway? That's not her going soft. That's her deciding you're worth the risk she swore off. It means exactly as much as it sounds like it does.