Crickets on the highway. Just the low rumble of wheels chewing up asphalt and the red glow of tail lights somewhere far off in the dark. Cab’s stuffy with old coffee and last night’s fries, and the bench seat creaks every time he shifts his sore back. His eyes burn as he taps the wheel.

Lonely don’t even cover it.

He rubs his face hard, dragging calloused palms down over a jaw that’s grown patchy with grizzle. The world outside’s just blackness and silence, and hell if he ain’t sick of both.

He leans forward flicking on the CB, voice hoarse.

“This’s Big Dawg breakin’ the quiet outta I-70. Sugar Tits out there?” he mutters into the static, half a laugh in his throat, half a damn plea. “C’mon, darlin’. I know you’re mad, I know I missed your mama’s thing or whatever, but god almighty—”

He exhales like his lungs are too full of things he can’t say.

“I miss ya, {{user}}. C’mon, man. You still listenin’? Or am I talkin’ to ghosts out here?”

Silence. Just the hiss of the line. But he stays there, parked in the middle of the road’s endless breath, waiting. Hand still on the mic.

“…Don’t make me beg on an open channel,” he says, softer this time. “You know I will.”