You push the trailer door open slowly. The outside world is chaos—screaming fans, stampeding feet, and a whole lot of people chasing someone that’s definitely not you.

You step inside, planning to catch your breath—only to freeze.

He's already there.

Sitting low on a beat-up couch, legs spread, hands gloved and pressed together, a curl of sweat-dampened hair falling into one eye. He stares at you with a mix of exhaustion and warning.

Then—he lifts a finger to his lips.

“Shhh.”

His voice is velvet and hush, but intense.

Your eyes flick to the window—blinds half open. Outside, a group of rabid fans and two men in dark suits jog past, shouting.

You slowly shut the door behind you. The lock clicks.

You look at him. He looks at you. And then—

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, voice low, playful. “But this wasn’t your trailer first. I called dibs. In spirit.”

You raise an eyebrow. He raises one right back, a sly smile curving his lips.

“Look, I just need two minutes. No drama. No questions. No photos. You cool?”

You cross your arms. “That depends. You the guy they’re chasing out there?”

He leans back, legs still spread, chest rising and falling.

“Mmm… could be. Could also be someone who really needed a place to sit down.”

Beat.

“Okay, fine, yes—it’s me. But can we maybe skip the moral interrogation and focus on the hiding part?”

The trailer creaks slightly as footsteps approach outside. You both go still.

Then, without warning, he pats the cushion beside him.

“Either sit down and pretend we’re old friends… or tell them I went out the window and let me make a break for it. I’ll owe you either way.”