Page 20 of New Year's Faye

Final Note: This is getting out of hand

Despite the concussion, my internal body clock woke me up at 5am. The bus hummed quietly beneath us as we rolled through the pre-dawn darkness, and for a moment, I forgot about marriages and media storms as I lay there, listening to the soft snores and sniffles of the sleeping people around me.

At least I did until I touched the bandage on my head.

Time to get to work.

Sliding from my bunk, I opened the small cupboard beside it, quietly pulling out some clothes before making my way to the full bathroom at the rear of the bus.

Dressed, I made my way downstairs and found Sam in the small kitchen area, his back to me as he worked the coffee maker with practiced movements. He wore low-slung sweatpants and a soft grey t-shirt that had seen better days, his dark hair still messy from sleep.

"Extra hot, triple shot," he said without turning. "Give me two minutes."

"How did you know it was me?"

He glanced over his shoulder, a soft smile playing at his lips. "You're the only one who gets up this early. Plus," his eyes tracked down my body, "I recognize the shuffle of those ridiculous unicorn slippers."

"Hey, don't mock Mr. Sparkles and Sir Glitter." I hoisted myself onto the counter, watching as he moved around the tiny kitchen with familiar ease. "They're very dignified."

"Keep telling yourself that, wife."

The title sent a shiver down my spine that I chose to blame on the early morning chill. "About that..."

"Breakfast first." He placed a steaming mug in my hands – the oversized one with music notes that had somehow become 'mine' over the years. "You're always grumpy before coffee."

"I am not—" I caught his knowing look and took a sip instead. Perfect, as always. "Fine. Feed me."

His laugh was quiet in deference to our sleeping bandmates. "The usual?"

"Please.”

He pulled eggs and a loaf of bread from the mini-fridge and began to crack eggs into a pan with practiced ease.

"Did you sleep well?”

I raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “It was fine.”

He cocked an eyebrow in question.

“The bus movement was a little much,” I admitted. “Sometimes it was okay, sometimes I rolled and felt a little nausea.”

“I’ll make sure we stop for tonight and the guys lock the bus down extra tight. Unless you want a hotel?”

“No, don’t I’ll be fine.”

“Faye.” He stopped whisking the eggs to glare at me. “Let me do this.”

I hid a smile behind my mug. “Fine. But I don’t need a hotel. The extra straps on the bus will be fine.”

Sam poured my eggs into the pan, spinning it until the mess covered the bottom. “Is that why you’re stressed?”

“I’m not stressed.”

“No? Then why are you stealing my hoodie?"

I glanced down at the worn fabric drowning my frame – definitely his. I hated that he knew one of my stress tells. "This isn’t yours."

"It has my name on the back."

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