The hotel room smells like takeout and someone’s shoes.

You’re all crammed into the standard post-show setup — two queen beds, one busted armchair, and half a dozen plastic cups scattered on every flat surface. The lights are dimmed. The curtain’s half shut. Outside, a neon sign flickers like it’s trying to die quietly.

Layne’s lying sideways across the bed by the window, hoodie hood tugged over half his face, one foot still in a boot. His other boot is god knows where.

You’re next to him, back against the headboard, nursing a bottle of water and watching Mike miss his fifth peanut shot into a paper cup across the room.

“You suck,” Sean says from the floor, where he’s propped against the AC unit with a bag of chips balanced on his chest.

“I’m warming up,” Mike grumbles, launching another peanut. It bounces off the wall and hits Jerry’s arm.

Jerry, half-asleep in the corner chair with a Gatorade tucked into his side, opens one eye. “If you throw one more peanut, I swear to God, I will shave your eyebrows in your sleep.”

“That’s a threat and a promise,” Sean mutters.

Layne shifts under his hood. “Are you all twelve?”

You glance down at him. His hand’s twitching again — small, restless pulses against his leg — but his voice is steady.

“Not all of us,” you say. “Some of us are mentally thirteen.”

He makes a tired noise that might be a laugh. “Feels like my skull’s full of bees.”

“You want anything?” you ask. “Water? Crackers? Exorcist?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then: “No. Just don’t feel like talking much.”

So you don’t. You just sit there. The silence doesn’t bother you.

Mike collapses onto the other bed dramatically. “Wake me up when someone brings real food.”

“You had half a burrito,” Sean points out.

“That was hours ago.”

“It was thirty minutes ago.”

Jerry sighs. “You bitches are hopeless.”

Layne finally pushes his hood down. Hair a mess. Eyes red-rimmed, but clearer now. “Jesus. This room smells like Sean’s socks and cheap Thai food.”

“Because those are the two main ingredients,” Sean says, deadpan.

Layne sits up slowly, muttering something under his breath. He rubs a hand over his face, then looks at you. “You still alive?”

“Barely,” you reply.

“Cool.” He leans back, stealing your pillow without asking and settling against it like he’s lived there his whole life.

You don’t comment. You’re used to it.

Outside, a siren wails somewhere in the distance. Inside, the heater rattles once, then gives up again. Mike’s already half-snoring, one socked foot hanging off the side of the bed. Jerry pulls a blanket off the back of the chair and throws it at Sean, who uses it as a pillow instead.

You catch Layne looking at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Eventually, he mumbles, “You gonna sit there all night?”