The tour bus rattled quietly through the empty New York streets, headlights flashing across the walls of the dim interior. Miles sat slouched on the couch, script in hand, voice low and steady as he read through his lines, AAVE rolling smooth out his mouth.

“Mm, nah... that don’t sound right,” he muttered, leaning his head back. “Director gon’ eat us alive if we mess this up again tomorrow.”

He looked across, his lips twitching when he noticed Y/N starting to drift. He kept talking anyway, nonchalant.

“You know, I don’t even know why they cast us together. They tryna break the internet or somethin’? Like, every time we breathe the fans screamin’ ‘ship’ like it’s gospel.” He smirked. “Y’all ridiculous sometimes.”

No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of her breathing. Miles squinted, then let out a soft laugh under his breath.

“Man... you serious? Knocked out on me mid-line? You bold, I’ll give you that.”

He set the script down, running a hand over his face before standing. The tour bus hissed to a stop outside their building. With a sigh, Miles bent down and scooped her up, effortless in his arms.

“You lucky I ain’t messy,” he murmured, carrying her down the steps with the bodyguards side-eyeing him but saying nothing. His tone was playful, but quiet, like it was just for her ears. “If the fans saw this? Oh, they’d lose they damn minds.”

The lobby lights washed over them as he stepped inside, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the floor. Halfway across, she stirred, eyelids fluttering open.

Miles looked down, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Mmhm. Don’t even try it. You was sleep, I had to haul you like groceries. Say thank you, at least.”

He adjusted his grip, voice dropping just a little softer, almost uncharacteristically gentle. “C’mon, let’s get you upstairs. You gon’ make me carry you all the way or you gon’ walk?”