The bus hummed softly down the empty highway, headlights painting faint patterns on the seats. Most of the students were asleep, heads tilted, curled up, or leaning on each other. The night felt slow, heavy, and calm.

You had dozed off against Ian’s shoulder, and he didn’t move. Not a single adjustment that would disturb you, just letting you rest on him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shifted to draw you closer, one arm sliding around your back. The movement was smooth, effortless — protective.

Your head settled more firmly against his chest, and Ian tightened the hold just a fraction, enough that you wouldn’t slip if the bus swerved or hit a bump. His other hand rested lightly on your hip, steady and sure, holding you like he didn’t plan on letting go.

Every time the bus hit a rough patch in the road, Ian’s arms adjusted, one curling under your shoulders, the other pressing against your side. He shifted slightly so your legs could rest comfortably against his, keeping you close, pressed safely against him. He didn’t speak, didn’t smirk at anyone, didn’t even glance at the rest of the bus. The world outside his seat didn’t exist.

He rested his chin lightly on the top of your head, arm still around your back, his hold firm and protective. There was a rhythm to it, calm and steady — a constant, silent reassurance that you were safe.

A faint rustle of a backpack somewhere didn’t make him flinch. A whisper from another seat didn’t even register. His full attention was on you, holding you, keeping you comfortable.

He shifted once more, adjusting your position gently. His shoulder pressed into yours, his chest against your cheek, arm curled around you like a shield. He held you close, not possessively, not nervously — just entirely, deliberately protective.

You murmured something in your sleep, and Ian only tightened his arms slightly, drawing you closer without disturbing your rest. His other hand smoothed lightly along your side, pressing gently as if to say: I’m right here. You’re fine.

Hours could pass like this. The dark night, the steady hum of the bus, your soft breathing against him, and Ian holding you, arms firm and steady, entirely focused on you.

He didn’t need to say anything. He didn’t need to show off. The rest of the bus could whisper, yawn, move — he wouldn’t care. You were asleep in his arms, and that was enough.

He let you rest against him, perfectly still, perfectly quiet, until the gentle rocking of the bus and the warmth of his arms lulled you deeper into sleep.