The secondary road was almost empty that night—just one gas station still open, harsh white lights and a silence that buzzed in the ears. Lee parked the truck toward the back, away from the pumps, where the shadows stretched longer. The engine shut off, and with it, the illusion of normalcy.

He had been back for less than an hour.

The hunger was still there, dulled but never fully satisfied. He had washed his hands in a creek behind the road, but the cold didn’t erase certain sensations. Or the memory. He went into the gas station bathroom without looking at {{user}}, as if afraid she might read his face.

The mirror was stained, the light flickered. Lee turned on the tap and let the water run too long. He scrubbed his hands hard, over and over. The skin around his nails was red, the cuticles split. There were traces that wouldn’t fully disappear no matter how much he tried. Dried blood in thin lines, almost invisible unless you knew where to look.

He knew {{user}} was behind him, leaning against the doorframe. She made no sound. She never did when she was watching. That unsettled him more than shouting ever could. She didn’t ask right away. She looked. Put things together in silence. Lee felt that familiar pressure in his chest—not fear of being exposed, but fear of being seen.

He wondered, not for the first time, how long he could hold this version of himself together in front of her. The quiet guy. The one with problems. The one who disappeared for hours and came back wet, with thin excuses and eyes that wouldn’t quite meet hers.

The lie wasn’t in what he said—it was in everything he couldn’t.

Kentucky did that to him.

Coming back always opened cracks. His family’s house was too close.

The memory of the barn, the sickly sweet smell, the silence afterward. He dried his hands on his pants, leaving a dark stain that didn’t match the water. He knew she’d notice.

Lee lifted his gaze to the mirror and, for a moment, didn’t recognize himself. He looked younger. More tired. More hollow. He thought about how hunger and love weren’t so different when they blended the wrong way. About how being near {{user}} calmed him and pushed him to the edge at the same time.

She was both shelter and threat. The only person he didn’t want to hurt.

The only one who could make him lose control if she left.

He shut off the tap. The sound was abrupt. He turned toward her slowly. Didn’t step closer. Didn’t try to touch her.

“Tomorrow,” he said at last, his voice low, worn, “…we could go to my place.”

He watched her carefully, measuring every reaction.

“My family will be there,” he added. “Nothing strange. Dinner. Somewhere to sleep.”

He rested one hand against the wall, leaving the other visible, still red.

“I want you to have something normal,” he said. “Even if it’s just for one night.”

He didn’t promise it would be fine.