The bus barely feels like it’s moving.

It’s big enough that the motion fades into a distant hum, vibrations softened by layers of insulation and careful design meant for people who live like this for months at a time. Somewhere below, the lounge lights glow low, the kitchen quiet after a long night of laughter and noise. The driver is completely cut off — no footsteps, no voices — only the occasional update through the speaker when it’s needed.

You move through the middle of the bus, past couches still creased from earlier, past the counter scattered with empty cups. There’s space to walk without squeezing past anything. It feels warm. Lived-in.

At the very back, you stop at the solid door.

Inside, Rowan’s room is small but intentional — just wide enough for the double bed that takes up most of it. The bed runs lengthwise, pressed close to the walls, no room to walk around it. A small desk sits at the far end beneath the window, cluttered with a notebook, a lighter, and a half-charged phone. A narrow closet hugs one wall, hoodies spilling out like they were shoved in without much care.

Rowan’s stretched out on the bed, shirtless, one arm tucked behind his head. A cigarette rests between his fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling vent above him. He looks relaxed, content, like the night hasn’t caught up to him at all.

When the door opens, he looks up immediately — and smiles.

“There you are,” he says, warmth bright in his voice. “C’mon in.”

He nods toward the door with the cigarette. “Lock it, yeah?”