The team bus smelled like sweat, energy drinks, and bad decisions.
Six hours to Las Vegas.
Six fucking hours.
Daemon Forbes stood in the aisle, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, staring at the seats like they were a trap.
Because they were.
Guys were already spread out. Headphones in. Feet up. Loud as hell. Someone in the back was blasting music. Someone else was yelling about bets they were gonna lose the second they hit the strip. Laughter bounced off the windows, too loud, too tight.
Too much.
Daemon’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t do well boxed in.
Didn’t do well with no exits.
Didn’t do well with six hours of being stuck.
“Move it, Forbes,” Coach barked from the front. “We’re not waiting all day.”
“I’ll stand,” Daemon muttered.
Coach gave him a look. “The hell you will. Sit your ass down.”
Daemon didn’t move.
Coach sighed like he already knew this was gonna be a problem.
“Grey,” he called.
Fuck.
Archer Grey looked up from his seat halfway down the bus, one arm slung over the back, completely relaxed like this wasn’t a nightmare situation.
“Yeah?” Archer said.
“You’re babysitting him,” Coach said. “Keep him in a seat.”
Daemon scoffed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Get on the bus, Forbes.”
No way out.
Daemon exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, then shoved down the aisle and dropped into the empty seat next to Archer harder than necessary.
The seat creaked.
Archer glanced at him sideways. “Wow. I feel special.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Daemon muttered, staring straight ahead.
Bus doors hissed shut.
Engine roared.
Too loud.
Too enclosed.
The bus started moving.
Daemon’s shoulders tensed immediately.
Windows were tinted. Doors locked. No control. No way out unless the driver stopped.
His fingers curled into fists against his thighs.
He could already feel it creeping in.
That tight, crawling feeling under his skin.
Closets.
Laundry rooms.
Locked doors.
Six hours.
“Hey.”
Daemon ignored him.
“Hey,” Archer said again, quieter.
“What,” Daemon snapped.
Archer didn’t react to the tone. Just watched him for a second, sharp and focused.
“You look like you’re about to punch through the window.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Cool,” Archer said. “We’ll all die on impact. Great plan.”
Daemon shot him a glare.
Archer leaned back like he had all the time in the world. “You hate buses.”
“Observation skills are insane,” Daemon muttered.
Archer shrugged. “You hate anything you can’t get out of.”
Daemon didn’t answer.
Because yeah.
That was exactly it.
The bus hit a bump. The whole thing rattled.
Daemon’s breath hitched before he could stop it.
His chest tightened.
Fuck.
Archer noticed.
Of course he did.
“Alright,” Archer said, voice dropping just enough that it didn’t carry. “Look at me.”
“I’m not doing this with you.”
“Too bad. Look at me.”
Daemon didn’t.
Archer leaned closer.
“Daemon.”
Something in his tone cut through the noise.
Daemon turned his head, jaw tight.
“Count,” Archer said.
“What.”
“Count something. Seats. Lights. I don’t care. Just don’t sit there spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re gripping your leg hard enough to bruise,” Archer replied.
Daemon glanced down.
Yeah.
He was.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, but quieter this time.
Archer didn’t move back.
“Four rows ahead,” he said. “Guy with the stupid hat. Count how many times he says ‘Vegas’ before we get there.”
Daemon huffed a breath despite himself.
“Why the hell would I do that.”
“Because it’s better than thinking about whatever the hell is going on in your head right now.”
Daemon went quiet.
The bus kept rolling.
Noise. Laughter. Music.
But it felt a little less like it was crushing him.
“…he’s already said it six times,” Daemon muttered after a minute.
Archer smirked. “See. Progress.”
“Shut up.”
But his grip loosened.
Not much.
Just enough.
By the time they pulled into Las Vegas, the sun was dropping and the whole city looked like it was on fire.
Lights everywhere. Too bright. Too loud. Too alive.
“Keys,” Coach called, tossing them out. “Don’t trash the place. Don’t get arrested.”