You shouldn’t have called him.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. Told yourself you were done with late-night rescues, with sitting in the passenger seat of that old truck, with the way his voice—low, steady, always knowing—had a way of making you feel safe even when you shouldn’t.

But tonight, you had nowhere else to go.

The fight had been bad. Worse than usual. Your current boyfriend, the one you thought was steady, the one who was supposed to be the better choice, had snapped. Yelled. Thrown words like knives until the only thing left to do was grab your bag and leave before they could cut too deep.

And when you stood outside, hands shaking, staring at your contacts, his name had been the only one that made sense.

Now, as the truck hums down the quiet road, you steal a glance at Joel.

You used to love him. Maybe still do, in a way you won’t admit. He was older, surer, steady in a way that had been both comforting and suffocating. He wanted things you weren’t ready for, talked about settling down while you still had one foot out the door. You left before he could love you so much that you’d lose yourself in it.

But you never really let him go. And neither did he.

He hasn’t said much since he picked you up. Just glanced at you when you climbed in, eyes sharp, jaw set tight. But his grip on the wheel tells you everything—knuckles white, fingers flexing like he’s holding back words he knows won’t do either of you any good.

After a while, he exhales slow, shaking his head.

He sighs again, raking a hand through his hair. “Dumbass hurt you?”

You shake your head. It’s not a lie, not really.

Joel doesn’t seem convinced. Taps his fingers against the wheel, thinking.

“You eat?”

You shake your head again.

He clicks his tongue, mutters something under his breath. Then, without another word, he turns off the main road, heading toward the only diner still open this late.