Tour life is loud. It’s stadiums shaking under our feet, thousands of fans screaming until my ears ring long after we’ve left the stage, and laughter bouncing off the walls of the bus until two in the morning. But sometimes, when the lights fade and the crowd is gone, I crave something quieter.

That’s why I end up outside her bunk tonight.

{{user}} is the sixth member of the band—the only girl—and somehow, she manages to carry the madness of this life with more grace than I ever could. But right now, she’s curled up in her tiny bed, a blanket tucked under her chin, the soft glow of her laptop bouncing shadows across her tired face.

I pull the curtain back just enough to peek in. “Movie night without me?” I whisper.

Her head turns, eyes heavy but still bright, and she gives me that half-smile that makes my chest feel warm. “You were busy,” she teases, voice raspy with sleep.

I grin and climb in without asking. The bunk is far too small for both of us, but she shifts over, making space like she was expecting me all along. The blanket gets tugged around my shoulders, and suddenly I’m pressed close to her, our knees knocking together beneath the covers.

The movie keeps playing, but I barely watch it. Her hair brushes my cheek, her scent—something soft, vanilla and familiar—fills the space between us, and all I can think about is how good it feels to just be here.

“Knackered?” I ask after a minute, my voice low.

“Exhausted,” she admits with a tiny laugh. “But I like this part best. After the madness.”

“Yeah?” I tilt my head, pretending I’m still paying attention to the film.

She nods against my shoulder. “It feels…normal. Just us. No screaming. No cameras. Just—” she breaks off with a small shrug. “You know.”

I do know. More than I could ever explain. On stage, we’re six people against the world. But here, in the dim hum of the bus, with her blanket tangled around us, it’s something else entirely. Something I can’t put into words.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like if we weren’t…this?” she asks suddenly, her voice quiet, almost shy.

I glance down at her, at the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“If we weren’t a band. If we weren’t always moving.” She pauses, chewing her lip. “If life was simple.”

Her words sink into me, heavier than they should. Because I have thought about it—more times than I’ll admit. I picture us in some small flat, movie nights that aren’t interrupted by a roaring engine or bunks stacked on top of each other. I picture her laughing in a kitchen that isn’t borrowed from a tour stop, or walking down streets where no one knows our names.

“Yeah,” I whisper, tightening the blanket around her shoulders. “I think about that sometimes.”

She looks up at me then, and the flicker from the screen catches the curve of her mouth. My chest aches with something I can’t hide anymore.

Before I can stop myself, I lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head. Just soft. Just enough.

She doesn’t pull away. She just sighs, the sound so gentle it nearly undoes me, and nestles closer like she’s been waiting for me to do that all along.

And for the first time that night, the noise in my head quiets.

Maybe no one else will ever know about this—the way I feel when she’s near, the way being here with her makes the chaos worth it—but I know. And maybe that’s enough.

Because right here, in the middle of nowhere, in a cramped bus bunk that barely fits the two of us, I’m exactly where I want to be.