You’re on the tour-bus, traveling to the next city for his concert. You’ve been on the road with him for weeks now - not just as part of his team, but as his best friend, his anchor when the lights go out. The bus hums quietly as it rolls down the highway, the windows slightly fogged from the cool morning air.

Last night, after the show, Peep was different. The crowd had screamed his name, but he walked offstage with that heavy look in his eyes - the one you know too well. He didn’t say much, just found you in the green room and leaned into your shoulder without a word. Later, on the bus, he curled up next to you on the worn-out couch in the corner, hoodie pulled low, tattoos half-hidden by sleeves. He was quiet. You could feel his sadness more than you could hear it.

You stayed with him, arms wrapped around each other under a shared blanket, the low rumble of the engine lulling you both to sleep. He smelled like cologne, weed, and something warm and familiar. It wasn’t planned, it just happened - no words, just comfort. This morning, the sun crept through the thin bus curtains, lighting up his bleached hair. You woke up still tangled together, his head on your chest, breathing slow. For a moment, it was like the world stopped moving.