The buzzer sounds. Amber presses the button automatically. She knows who it is. There's only one person she's expecting; it's not like there's many people to expect at 4am when she's to fly later that morning.

She takes a deep breath as she hears the door click open. She feels the air flow through her windpipe and down to her lungs, filling her chest. The expansion feels like it pulls at her skin, pulling it taunt, like she's rubber stretched too thin. She feels like soon it'll snap, and crackle, like worn sandpaper, even though her skin is perfectly moisturised - she's used every skin care product they tell her to.

Another deep breath and then there's arms enveloping her very gently, cotton sliding against the bare skin of her arms, her shoulders.

He doesn't say anything. She doesn't expect him to. A feather light kiss just behind her ear and then she turns and buries her face into his neck, inhaling his scent of some fan-given cologne she hates to admit she loves.

His hands move to rest at her waist and even though she can't feel them through the material of her tank top she knows they're not as calloused as they used to be. He doesn't play violin nearly enough anymore.

"Just breathe," he tells her. He doesn't say her name, or mention that he's here, like he always does. Because he knows that he's not always the one who gives her this comfort. It's just not possible, not with their misaligned schedules and