Riffs in Time

We climbed off the tour bus and shuffled into the hotel lobby, still reeling from tonight. The place was buzzing with late-night travelers, the hum of quiet conversations blending with the mechanical drone of a vending machine in the corner.

"Man, this is nuts," I muttered under my breath, not expecting anyone to hear me. 

To my surprise, Frank let out a dry chuckle beside me, lugging his bag around. "No kidding. I feel like I just lived through a goddamn sci-fi movie."

After a quick scramble to find an available room for me—since, apparently, every single one was already booked—we finally gave up. The others bid us tired goodnights before disappearing into their rooms, leaving Gerard and me to trudge down the long, dimly lit hallway toward his.

Gerard nudged me lightly with his elbow as we walked. "I can't believe how packed this place is. Feels like half the city decided to crash here tonight."

I huffed out a tired laugh. "Yeah, it's been one hell of a night. I just hope I can actually sleep."

Finally, we reached the room. The second Gerard pushed open the door, a wave of stale, musty air hit us, like the place hadn't been aired out in weeks. The space was bare—just a single bed with sheets that looked one wash away from disintegrating, a battered armchair shoved in the corner, and a lamp with a crooked shade casting weak, yellow light.

As soon as the door shut behind us, the atmosphere shifted. For the first time since this whole whirlwind of a night started, we were alone. The silence stretched between us, thick with exhaustion and unspoken thoughts.

I moved to sit on the bed, but as I lifted my knee to fold one leg over the other, the stinging sensation I'd been ignoring all night made itself known.

Gerard's gaze flickered down, and his brows furrowed. "Shit. Your knees."

I followed his line of sight and sighed. The dark smudges of dirt and faint streaks of dried blood from my earlier fall stood out against my skin. "Oh. Yeah. Guess I scraped up my knees bad."

"You guess?" His voice was laced with disbelief. Before I could stop him, he was already heading toward the bathroom. I heard the rustle of plastic, then the faucet running.

"Gerard, seriously, I'm fine—"

"Just shut up and let me fix it," he called out, emerging with a damp washcloth and what looked like a small first aid kit.

I groaned, shifting uncomfortably as he knelt in front of me. "You really don't have to—"

"Do you ever just... accept help?" He shot me a pointed look as he grabbed my ankle gently, shifting my leg so he could get a better look at the scrapes.

I pressed my lips together. "Not really, no."

"Yeah, I figured." He shook his head but didn't press the issue. Instead, he carefully dabbed at the dried blood, his touch surprisingly gentle.

I tensed at first, but as the cold washcloth pressed against my scraped skin, the sharp sting faded into something dull and manageable.

"You do this a lot?" I asked, watching as he reached for a tube of antiseptic.

"What, play nurse?" He smirked but kept his focus on my knee. "Nah. I just grew up with a little brother who had a habit of falling 'cause of his clumsiness. Got pretty good at patching people up."

Something about that answer made my chest tighten—not in a bad way, just... unexpectedly warm.

I let out a small, resigned sigh. "Fine. You win."