The road stretched endlessly ahead, the hum of the van’s tires mixing with the steady rhythm of conversation. The six of you had been driving for hours now, packed into the old van like a group of carefree wanderers, the air thick with excitement and the faint scent of snacks and coffee.

Bea sat at the back with you, her legs crossed, one hand lazily playing with your hair while she chimed into whatever debate was happening up front. You weren’t paying much attention—not when the warmth of her touch and the softness of the cushion beneath you had already lulled you into that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep.

“You’re insane if you think White Pony isn’t Deftones’ best album,” Ryan argued from the middle row, twisting around to look at Bea.

“Objectively, it’s not," Bea admitted, grinning. "But it’s my favorite, so my opinion wins."

Lena groaned. “That’s not how debates work.”

You barely processed their words, too focused on the way Bea absentmindedly traced small patterns on your temple. You sighed contentedly, pressing a small kiss against the fabric of her hoodie near her stomach, earning a quiet chuckle from her.

“You getting sleepy?” she murmured, tilting her head down to glance at you.

You hummed in response, too comfortable to properly answer. Bea just smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face before turning back to the conversation.

“I’m just saying,” Noah added from the passenger seat, “we should at least agree that their early stuff was better.”

“You’re literally a hypocrite,” Bea shot back, laughing. “Didn’t you say last week that—”

she stopped before looking down at you

"{{user}},you know them better,what do you think?"