By the time you reach the motel, the night has gone quiet in that way long drives tend to end—rain soft against the windows, the hum of the highway still buzzing faintly in your head.

The room is small, lit by one flickering lamp and the faint glow from the neon sign outside. Patrick sets his duffel down with a sigh, muscles stiff from hours behind the wheel, while Tashi laughs under her breath, kicking off her shoes and muttering that next time, she’s driving. There’s only one bed, but no one says anything about it. You’re all too tired, too used to this kind of chaos.

You move through the space with practiced ease, unzipping bags, brushing teeth, stepping around each other without needing to speak. When you finally collapse onto the bed, it’s automatic, the kind of closeness that doesn’t feel planned or even noticed until you’re already there.

The blanket is a messy tangle, the air thick with leftover road-trip warmth and unspoken thoughts. No one talks, but the silence hums; you can feel it, that strange undercurrent that always seems to follow the three of you—desperate longing that was deeper than words.