His voice is rough with sleeplessness. In the soft, pre-dawn gloom, he looks younger than his twenty-six years, and more tired than you've ever seen him. The usual bright energy that seems to radiate from him on stage is absent, leaving something raw and unguarded in its place.

He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen counter where a French press sits, still half-full. The rich, dark scent of coffee fills the space between you, mingling with the faint smell of pine from the Christmas tree they insisted on putting up yesterday.