closer. (Camren one-shot)

tour bus bunk blues.

It's late at night when the curtain to your bunk slides open and she silently crawls in. You don't even fight it. You just scoot closer to the wall to make room for her. She lies there for a while just staring up, not a single word spoken, and you have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from asking what she is doing there.

(You're afraid that question might scare her away.)

You mimic her and look up at the ceiling, but you're far too aware of her presence next to you to string together a coherent line of thoughts of your own — her fingers graze yours and your right arm is pressed against her left one in a way that lets you feel her body vibrate with each intake and outtake of air. You wonder if your proximity affects her just as much it does you, but she seems unfazed.

Several more moments pass and nothing happens, so you just resign yourself to listening to her steady breathing. You think maybe she has fallen asleep and you convince yourself to take a glance at her, just to make sure. Deep down, you know that's a bad idea because whenever your gaze is on her, you can't look away. And right now it isn't any different. It never is.

(She's always been a sight for your sore eyes.)

The dim light of your bunk is enough for you to see her face — her profile, because she's still not looking at you — and you let your eyes wander, taking in every detail as if this is the first time you look at her from such a close distance. Her eyelashes are not very long, but they seem to brush her cheeks every time she blinks. Her nose is straight and delicate and you didn't know noses could be cute until you met her; her tiny piercing might have something to do with it.

Your eyes move down to her mouth of their own volition and you feel an all-too-familiar flutter in your stomach, but you've learned to ignore it. You just admire the fullness of her lips and the little curve they make, like she's constantly pouting, and you can't help but wonder if they really are as soft as they look. Before your thoughts can head further in that direction, you shift your gaze back up and notice a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows; she's overthinking.

You would trade all the stars in the sky for each thought of hers.

(Her mind has always fascinated you.)

She suddenly turns her head and you know you were busted staring. Her eyes are intense as they pierce into yours, but you hold her gaze anyway; you couldn't look away even if you tried. You think to yourself it's unfair how unreadable her expression is, when she seems to be unveiling all your secrets just by looking into your eyes. Your staring contest stretches on for minutes, or maybe hours. You're not keeping track and you honestly don't care.

(It's always been easy for you to get lost in those green eyes.)

The tiniest sigh escape her lips, and that's when her blank demeanor cracks. Several emotions cross her face at once, the wrinkle between her brows is back, and she bites down on her bottom lip with seemingly too much force. It's now clear in her eyes the inner turmoil she is so caught up on; you wish you could calm down the storm in her mind, but you're a mess yourself.

Hesitantly, like she is debating with herself whether to do it or not, she hooks her middle finger around yours, still not breaking eye contact. Your heartbeat quickens and it's loud in your ears; you're afraid she can hear it too, in the almost sepulchral silence that engulfs the two of you. But maybe, just maybe, her own pulse is racing just as frantically and echoing in her ears, and she can't hear yours. You wonder, for a brief moment, if your hearts could be in tandem.

(People always said you two are in the same wavelength, after all.)

You lick your lips, because they feel so dry right now, and you think you see her eyes dart to your mouth for a split second, but the moment is gone so fast that you might have imagined it — it wouldn't be the first time you daydream about her. She presses her lips in a thin line and you recognize that look; she's shutting off again, shielding her emotions from you. You only watch as her expression changes back into the blank one that gives nothing away.

You can't help but let out a disappointed sigh. It's always like this. Whenever it seems like she's gonna cross the line she drew herself, she retreats into her shell; you never dare crossing it, because you respect her too much. It's hard though, and if there were a prize for best self-control, you would have already won, because in these moments the only thought spinning in your mind is how easy it would be to close the two-inch gap between you two and seal your lips together.

You entertain the idea that you're hallucinating, because she's leaning in. She rests her forehead against yours, closes her eyes, and you do the same. Even now, with your breaths mingling and noses brushing, you don't kiss her. She has never been this close and you're surprised you still remember how to breathe properly, and that your heart hasn't leapt straight out of your chest. The rush you're feeling is what you imagine a runner feels after a marathon.

After God knows how long — it dawns on you that the concept of time completely evades you whenever you're around her — she moves her head, raising it slightly so she can press a kiss to your forehead. It's the softest and saddest touch you two ever shared, and you reckon it's a great metaphor for how bittersweet this entire moment feels. She lets her lips linger for a bit longer before pulling away, and maybe it's the light from your bunk playing tricks on you, but you think you see tears glistening in her eyes.

(You feel like crying too.)

She swallows hard before letting go of your hand, and rolls one leg out of your bunk, then the other. Now standing, she scans your face intensely for a few seconds, and you don't know what she's looking for, but you're sure she's gonna find it, because you were never good at masking your feelings. One corner of her mouth twitches up very briefly and with one last glance at you, she turns around and leaves as quietly as she came.

You slide the curtain around your bunk back to its place and take a few breaths, willing your heartbeat to return to its normal rate. It's almost overwhelming how easily she took over your senses. Inhaling deeply is a huge mistake, because her scent is everywhere, and you only realize it now that she is gone. Your skin still tingles where she touched you; your fingers, your arm, your forehead, they all seem to carry the ghost of her. When you close your eyes, her image dances in front of them, replaying the instant when all her emotions were naked on her face. You know she will haunt your dreams tonight.

You're still trying to calm yourself down and figure out what really happened, why she was there, when your phone buzzes inside a pocket on the wall. Someone's texted you. You read the screen.

L (1:22): some day?

You smile to yourself as you finally understand what that moment was: a promise. A maybe.

(It's enough. You seem to have a bit of luck with 1% chances.)