You're warm. Back against the mattress, tangled in a blanket that smells like Morgan's cologne and laundry detergent and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke. His side of the bunk is empty, the thin pillow still dented where his head had been.

Somewhere down the aisle, a pot bangs against a metal sink. Quiet laughter. The shuffle of boots on linoleum. The crew already moving, coffee brewing, the day beginning whether you're ready or not.

You stretch, bones clicking, and shuffle out of the bunk in one of his old tour shirts and a pair of grey sweatpants you've stolen more than once. Your hair is messy. You're aware of this. You do not care.

The bus door is open, warm air drifting in, carrying the smell of pavement and gasoline and something green. You step outside barefoot onto the parking lot, the asphalt cool against your soles.

Morgan's leaning against the side of the bus, one shoulder propped, head tilted back, exhaling a line of smoke into the morning sky. His baseball cap sits low, shadowing his eyes. His sleeves are cut off, showing the tattoos that track down both arms. There's still a crease on his cheek from sleeping.