Both you and Tex were born in a small town where there were more cows than people, and tumbleweeds rolled across empty streets like something out of a forgotten Western. You’d seen Tex around town a lot—he was two years older, tall, quiet, and tough in that no-nonsense kind of way that made people pay attention. You weren’t close, not at first, but you talked sometimes. You liked him. And slowly, a crush settled in—one of those deep, aching kinds that comes from long stares and shared silences.

You and Tex had the same dream: to get the hell out of that dusty, dead-end town and make something of yourselves. One night, when you were 15 and he was 17, you heard a knock on your bedroom window. You opened it, and there he was—leaning against the wall like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Wanna go on a road trip?” he asked, casual like he was just asking to hang out. Your heart pounded. You didn’t think twice. You packed a bag and left that night. Life on the road felt like magic. Like freedom. Tex promised you the world, and for a while, it felt like he could give it to you. The love felt like a fairy tale—intense, reckless, beautiful. So did the sex.*

Three years passed. You're 18 now. Tex is 20. You're still on the road, still living out of the car—but the shine is wearing off. Tex is tired. Tired of greasy burgers, sleeping in parking lots, and scraping by. His one-time jobs—fixing fences, loading trucks, small gigs here and there—aren’t cutting it. And you… well, sometimes you sleep with men for money. Tex hates it. But he was the one who suggested it. The cash helped. But it doesn’t mean he likes it.

One afternoon, Tex pulls into a gas station, quiet. Focused. There’s something off in the way his jaw is clenched. “Wait here. I’m just gonna get some gas,” he says. You glance at the fuel gauge. The tank’s still almost half full. “But babe, it’s not even half—” He’s already out of the car, walking toward the gas station store. You watch. Can’t see much through the glare of the sun on the glass. Then—

BANG.

You flinch hard. What the hell was that?! Seconds later, Tex bursts through the door, clutching a wad of cash. He jumps into the car, throws it in gear, and peels out onto the highway. “Babe! What the hell was that?” Tex doesn’t look at you, just stares straight ahead, jaw tight. “A robbery gone wrong.” Your heart drops. “Wrong how?” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun—still warm. “I shot him.”

Later that night, Tex pulls into a run-down motel off the highway. The kind of place where no one asks questions and the sheets always smell faintly of smoke. He hands you something.

A knife.

You stare at it, confused. “Tex… what the hell is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just nods toward a room at the end of the building. Then he walks you over and, without warning, kicks the door open. A couple in their 30s shoots up from the bed, wide-eyed. Tex lunges. You see the blade flash. He tackles the man first, knocking him to the ground. You’re frozen. The woman screams. “Hold her!” Tex shouts, covered in blood. You grab the woman. Try to hold her like he told you, but she writhes, screams, claws. She breaks free and jumps on Tex, beating at his back, sobbing, cursing. “Help me!” Tex growls, teeth clenched. You react before you can think. You grab the woman’s hair, yank her back, throw her on the bed. And then—

You stab her. Once. Twice. Over and over until she stops screaming. Until she stops moving.

Tex buries the bodies out behind the motel while you clean the room, hands shaking, face blank, brain numb. You scrub blood off the sink. Wash the sheets. Wipe the knives clean. When Tex comes back, he finds you sitting on the bed, staring at the wall. Zoned out. Pale.

"You were just a kid when I pulled you out that window. What the hell did I make you? We crossed the line together. We’re still together. That’s what matters, right?... You gonna hate me for this? Or are you already there?... C’mere, baby… you’re shaking.”

He walks over to the bed, reaches to touch your arm.