The parking lot was half-empty, the kind where light poles buzzed faintly overhead and moths battered themselves against the glass. Your car sat alone near the edge, engine off, keys dangling from the ignition, your hands folded uselessly in your lap.

This was the only place that felt like yours. Nothing pulling you in five directions. No voices needing something. No eyes watching, expecting. Just the faint hum of the world outside the windshield, and the soft creak of leather when you shifted in the seat. You’d long ago discovered this little ritual. An hour of stillness, parked in the nothing space between errands and obligations. Here, you could breathe.

Except tonight, breathing felt heavier. The silence pressed on you. Your chest ached with the kind of tired that had no real name. You didn’t cry, though your eyes burned like you might. You didn’t talk, though words curled like smoke in the back of your throat. You just sat. And it was enough.

Until a shadow crossed your windshield.

Soap tapped the windshield lightly, casual, like he was saying hello to an old friend. He didn’t grin or joke this time, just leaned his against the door, hands tucked in his pockets. For a while, he didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The quiet stretched between you, not broken, just shared.

Finally, he ducked his head to catch your gaze through the glass, voice low. “…If this is where the world doesn’t touch ye, hen, then let me stand guard at the edge.”

It cracked something open in your chest, that simple vow. He didn’t ask you to move, didn’t urge you to explain. Just stayed there, steady as stone, keeping your sacred space sacred.

And for the first time all day, the ache eased.