Quietly Yours = Luke Hughes

The bus pulled into the Denver hotel lot just after sunset. Lights from the city blinked lazily through the tinted windows, casting a soft orange glow over the sleepy team.

Margo stirred when the engine cut off. Slowly, groggily.

She blinked hard, trying to shake the fog of sleep—and then immediately froze.

Her head wasn’t resting against the window anymore.

It was on Luke.

More specifically, his shoulder. Her cheek tucked against the edge of his hoodie, one of her hands lightly brushing his forearm.

She hadn’t just dozed off. She had settled in.

Heart skipping, she slowly sat up, careful not to jostle him too hard. He looked over at her, calm as ever, eyes soft.

“Morning,” he said with a tiny smirk, voice low and hoarse.

“It’s… 7 p.m.,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

“Still counts.”

She didn’t say anything for a second, just focused on stuffing her phone and charger into her backpack. Her cheeks were burning, and she hated that it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was worse—it was hope. That maybe he liked it too. That maybe it wasn’t just convenience or comfort, but something else.

Luke stood up beside her and reached to grab both their overnight bags from the compartment above. He handed hers to her without a word, just a little look that said I noticed—but didn’t push it.

The team piled off the bus and into the lobby. She followed Luke to the front desk, waiting to check in. They stood side by side, shoulders brushing every so often, saying nothing. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Like something had shifted on that ride and neither of them wanted to be the first to name it.

When the hotel manager handed them one key card, Margo instinctively reached for it.

“You can have it tonight,” she said, voice too light. “As long as you don’t steal the good pillow.”

Luke glanced sideways at her, lips twitching. “You mean your pillow.”

“I’m a creature of comfort,” she deadpanned.

He let the silence hang between them for a beat too long.

Then, softly, “You sleep easy on my shoulder.”

Her eyes shot to his. He looked tired, calm—and sincere.

“Luke—”

“Not saying it means anything,” he said quickly, but not like he wanted to take it back. “Just… didn’t hate it.”

She didn’t answer.

Because she hadn’t hated it either.

And maybe that was the scariest part.