A flickering streetlight hums over the wet asphalt. The rain hasn’t stopped all night.

The backseat of your car is filled with toys and a pink blanket, your daughter’s small silhouette curled up, sleeping, unaware.

You’re angry. Bone-deep tired. You’ve just handed over the cash for his bail. Again.

Your fingers tap against the steering wheel, that slow rhythm of someone holding too much in.

You think about the first time you saw him. Clint Flood, all heat and danger, the kind of man your parents called trouble. You called it freedom. You married him anyway, because when you were with him, the world didn’t scare you.

But that was years ago. Now there’s a mortgage, a kid, bills piling up on the kitchen counter and Clint’s jobs, the ones he never quite explains. The ones that always end with a phone call like the one tonight.

“Babe… I need you to get me out of this.”

The words still ring in your head. You almost didn’t go. Almost.

The station door buzzes. Clint steps out, shoulders hunched against the rain. Blood crusted on his knuckles. His eyes find you through the downpour, and for a moment, you hate that it still does something to you.

He walks up to the car, then gestures toward the driver’s side. You slide over without a word, jaw tight.

He gets in, bringing the rain with him, the smell of smoke, sweat, and trouble. That mix of swagger and shame, the only thing he’s ever managed to keep consistent.

He glances at the backseat. At her.

“She didn’t wake up, did she?”

You shake your head.

He nods once, jaw tightening. Then his hand drags down his face, slow, tired. He doesn’t argue. Just looks at you that bruised eye, that flicker of guilt he tries to bury.