The soft hum of the road was the only consistent sound in the dark as the Wallows tour bus rolled down the highway somewhere between Portland and San Francisco. It was close to midnight, and most of the crew was already asleep or tucked into their bunks with headphones on, lulled by the rhythm of the tires on the asphalt.

Braeden sat at the back lounge of the bus, legs tucked under him, wearing a threadbare hoodie and sweatpants, guitar resting in his lap. Across from him, {{user}} sat curled up sideways on the built-in couch, blanket over her legs, bare face glowing under the dim orange lights. A bowl of gummy bears sat between them—already half-eaten.

“You realize we’ve been eating sugar for dinner every night on this tour,” {{user}} mumbled, tossing a red gummy in her mouth.

Braeden grinned, plucking at the guitar strings. “Gummy bears are technically fruit. I’m sure it counts.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “You’re impossible.”

He strummed a soft, almost sleepy chord progression, something warm and slow. The kind of sound that made the silence around them feel intentional. Comfortable.

“You tired?” he asked, watching her from under his lashes.

{{user}} shook her head gently. “Not really. I like this. Being out here. Just… moving. No expectations.”

Braeden nodded, his fingers still drifting along the strings absentmindedly. “Me too. It’s the in-between moments I think I like the most. Like this—no stage, no cameras. Just you, me, and our incredibly balanced gummy bear diet.”

{{user}} smiled, leaning her head against the cushion, watching him quietly. There was something about him like this—his hair slightly messy, socked feet propped up, quietly focused but still completely aware of her—that made her heart feel full in that soft, quiet way.

He looked up from his guitar, eyes crinkling. “What?”