I’m not asleep. Not really. My head’s against the seat, eyes closed, but I can feel her watching me. I can always feel it.

The hum of the car and the glow of the purple lights make it easy to pretend I’m too tired to notice, but the truth is… I’m stalling. If I look at her now, I might say something I shouldn’t. Or worse, do something I can’t take back.

Her knee brushes mine — accident, probably. Still, my fingers curl against my blanket like I’m holding myself together.

“Comfortable?” she whispers, like she’s afraid to wake me.

“Mhm,” I murmur without opening my eyes. But in my head, it’s loud — Tell her. Tell her. Tell her.

Tell her that this is my favorite part of every tour. Not the stage. Not the lights. Not the screaming crowds. This. Sitting in the dark, miles from anywhere, with her so close I can hear her breathe.

I finally crack one eye open and catch her staring before she looks away. My lips pull into the smallest smile. “You could sit closer, you know,” I say, my voice low. “It’s cold.”

She doesn’t say anything — just takes the pillow from behind me, tucks it behind her own back, and shifts so she’s leaning against the door. Then she reaches for me, pulling me into her chest. My body slides naturally into the space between her legs, and I settle there without thinking.

The blanket falls over both of us, sealing us away from the rest of the world. Her heartbeat is steady against my ear, and for once, I let myself stay right where I want to be.