Zia wasn't just moving into the bus. She was fortifying it.
I stood in the corridor, leaning against the kitchenette counter, watching her work. She moved with the same economy she used on the mixing board. Precise. Efficient. Deadly serious.
She laid a stripe of white gaffer tape across the floor tile in front of her bunk. The soundproof curtain Euan had installed was drawn back, revealing the cave she’d constructed. Blackout fabric pinned tight. A white noise machine hooked into the USB port. A stack of blankets that looked less like comfort and more like insulation.
She marked a drawer with a piece of blue tape. Z. DO NOT OPEN.
It stung. Proper stung. My instinct was to pad that bunk with the softest duvets money could buy, fill the drawers with snacks, and stand guard until she slept.
Instead, she was building a panic room inside a tour bus.
"Structural integrity looks sound," I said, keeping my voice low, rumbling in my chest so I wouldn't startle her.
She didn't jump, but her shoulders went rigid. She capped her marker and turned. The oversized hoodie she wore swallowed her hands.
"It’s a boundary," she said. "Visual marker. Nobody crosses the tape."
"Understood. Tape is law." I kept my hands visible, gripping the counter edge. "Effective. Punk."
She eyed me warily. "It’s not punk. It’s survival."
She went back to organizing. She was sorting protein bars into a neat row on her little shelf. The cheap, chalky ones she’d had in her go-bag. I’d seen her eating them like penance during load-in.
I reached into the pocket of my cargo pants. I pulled out three bars. Not the chalk. The good ones. The ones with actual macronutrients and chocolate that didn't taste like despair. I’d sent a runner three streets over to find the specific brand she’d glanced at in the service station but didn't buy.
I slid them onto the counter. Just inside the neutral zone.
"Re-supply," I said. "If you want ‘em."
She looked at the bars. Then at me. Her scent, that neon citrus and ozone, spiked with suspicion. It hit me like a snare drum to the chest.
"I’m not helpless," she said, voice tight. "I can feed myself. I don't need a caretaker."
The rejection was a physical thing. A slap. My Alpha brain screamedProvide. Protect. Feed.
I shoved my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching out.
"Copy," I said. "Options on offer. You pick. Bin ‘em if you want. Or eat ‘em. Your call."
She stared at the wrappers. Shiny foil under the LED strip lights.
"Why?"
"Because you’re working eighteen-hour days fixing our mess," I said. "And because chalk assumes you don't have taste buds."
She snatched them up. Quick. Like she thought I’d take them back.
"Thanks," she muttered. Then she retreated behind her white tape line and pulled the curtain shut.
"You’re welcome," I whispered to the empty corridor.
Three hours later, we were in the venue. Another cavernous brick boat of a place, smelling of stale lager and dust.
Euan was rewiring the venue’s air system again, he was obsessed, muttering about particulate counts, while Alfie was vibrating on stage, testing sightlines. I was up on the riser, securing the lighting truss. One of the house rigs was dodgy; the clamp looked like it had been chewed on by a relentless terrier.
"Zia!" I called down. "Cable drop, stage left. Heads up."
She was down there, tablet in hand, verifying Euan’s airflow modifications. She looked up, nodding, and stepped clear.
