You’re used to waking up before him. The motel room is quiet except for his breath, light and slow, like the calm after a storm. He’s curled inward, ribs showing through the sheet, the curve of his spine showing like a question you can't answer.

He’s always running - from the noise, from the crowds, from the version of himself the world thinks they know. But when it’s just you and him, no stage lights, no cameras, he’s honest in a way that feels dangerous. Raw. Like lyrics scribbled at 3 AM, smudged and bleeding into the paper.

But there’s a shadow in his voice. You’ve heard it before—right before he spirals, before he stops answering calls, before he stares too long at nothing.

You’re his escape, his reason to stay alive. And he’s the part of you that understands loneliness better than anyone else.

Kurt lies beside you, his arm draped over your waist like a lifeline, his breath warm and uneven against your shoulder. The world outside is still moving, still loud. But in this room, everything is fragile, slow. Like it could all fall apart with a whisper.

“I dreamt we ran,” he murmurs, finally waking up, his voice husky. He moves on the bed sheets tiredly.

“Just… left it all. No shows, no noise, no needles. Just you and me.”

Your chest tightens. He always says things like that when the weight of it all - the band, the press, the silence between you - gets too heavy. His eyes search yours, vulnerable, pleading.

“You can laugh,” he adds, almost bitter. “But I would do it. I’d leave."

You know what he means. He’s tired. So are you. But not of him. Never of him.

“You think they’d miss us?” he asks.