You don’t even make it past lunch before the headache kicks in.

At first, it’s just pressure behind your eyes. Then it creeps up the side of your head, goes full throb mode, and suddenly every sound is the loudest thing that’s ever existed. By the time you’re halfway back to the bus, your vision’s doing that weird thing where the light looks like it’s rippling.

You manage to text Spencer one-handed:

“migraine. dead.”

Then you crawl into the dark lounge in the back of the bus, yank your hoodie over your head, and pray for death or darkness—whichever shows up first.

You don’t hear the door open, but you feel the air shift. Then a warm hand lands gently on your ankle and gives it a little squeeze.

“Hi, babe,” Spencer says, voice way softer than usual. “Heard you’re dying.”

You groan. That’s all he needs.

He disappears for like thirty seconds, then comes back with water, meds, and one of his worn-in band tees that smells like cologne and cigarettes.

You’re already curled on your side, hoodie half-eating your face, so he doesn’t say anything. Just sits on the edge of the couch and taps the water bottle against your hand.

“Here. Slow sips, here’s some Tylenol. You got it?”

You nod, barely cracking your eyes open to take the meds and sip at the water like a dehydrated Victorian child. He waits until you’re done, then pulls the bottle from your hand and trades it for his shirt.

“Change into this,” he says, still whispering. “You’ll overheat in that hoodie.”

You grumble something about being cold, but he just grins and helps you out of it anyway. Once you’re in his shirt, he tugs a blanket over you and slips in behind you without another word.

The second he’s curled around you, arm over your waist, it’s like your body finally lets go. Not of the pain, but of the tension. He’s so warm. And quiet. And his thumb starts tracing lazy little shapes on your stomach, not trying to distract you—just being there.

Eventually, you mumble, “Sorry I’m like this.”

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Like what? Human?”

You smile, eyes still closed.

He keeps whispering like it’s a secret between you. “If I could take it for you, I would. But since I can’t, I’ll just be annoying and cuddle you until it passes.”

You snort. That hurts. He immediately kisses your shoulder like it’ll fix it.

“Okay. No more jokes,” he says. “Only cuddles. Doctor’s orders.”

He stays like that for the next hour, humming random bits of your favorite songs under his breath when he thinks you’re falling asleep, occasionally reaching for your hand and kissing your knuckles just to check in. At one point, he whispers, “Love you,” real soft like he doesn’t expect you to answer.

You don’t. You’re half asleep. But you smile, and he sees it.