It was well past midnight when Liam shifted again — not subtle about it. His arm dragged tighter around your waist like he was afraid you might vanish in your sleep. His leg hooked over yours, pulling, then nudging until your knees tangled just right. One of his feet found yours, cold and annoying, and he didn’t care.

You stirred, half-smiling. “What now?”

“Tryin’ to become part of your actual body, thanks for askin’.”

You cracked one eye open, catching the faint streetlight tracing the edge of his face. His eyes were wide, blinking slow, heavy-lidded but stubbornly awake.

“You alright?”

“Not remotely,” he muttered. “I’m in the trenches.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, soft at the back of his neck. “What’s wrong?”

He exhaled through his nose, then shifted again, dragging his hand up your back and under your shirt, spreading his palm against your spine like he was making sure you were real.

“Just don’t wanna go,” he said. “Hate this bit. The night before going on tour. I get all weird. Feel like my body knows I’ve gotta leave before my brain does. Like it’s pre-grieving.”