The room smells like old cigarettes and mildew, but it’s the cleanest place we’ve been in for days. One bed. One stupid, squeaky bed. I told her she could have it. No way I’m letting her sleep on the floor—not after everything. So I took the tub. Cold porcelain. Weird pink tile. Doesn’t matter. She deserves better than me anyway.

Water drips from the faucet like a ticking clock. I hear her shifting in the bed, pulling the scratchy blanket up to her shoulders. She hasn’t said anything in a while. I wonder if she’s asleep or just pretending to be. Probably tired of me talking.

I don’t know why I can’t shut up around her. Maybe ‘cause she listens. Maybe ‘cause she doesn’t look at me like I’m broken, even though I am.

“You warm enough?” I ask through the door, my voice bouncing off the tiles like I’m yelling down a well.

“Yeah,” she says soft, like she’s already halfway in a dream. Then after a pause, “You sure you’re good in there?”

I grin in the dark. She cares. That’s enough to keep me warm.

“Better than good,” I lie, and it’s mostly true. ‘Cause she’s here. Right now, in this busted-up motel, we’re safe. Just for a night. No cops. No fists. No screaming. Just her. And me. Breathing.

I close my eyes and let the quiet hold me. It’s the kind of silence that feels like peace—not the kind that comes before a fight. I don’t get a lot of that. But I’d sleep in a thousand bathtubs if it means she gets to rest.

This—whatever this is—it feels like the closest I’ve ever been to home.