The night was quiet, except for the gentle creaks and groans of old metal settling in the junkyard. Dean was locking up his workspace, cigarette tucked behind his ear, when he heard it — the soft clatter of something small bumping into a pile of scrap.

He froze.

“Great,” he muttered, grabbing a flashlight. “If that raccoon broke my radiator again, I swear—”

But when he turned the corner, the beam of light landed on something he didn’t expect.

You.

A kid. Dirty clothes, scraped knees, clutching a tattered backpack. You blinked into the light like a deer caught on a highway.

Dean’s voice dropped low, careful. “Hey. Whoa. You lost or something?”

You didn’t speak, just clutched your bag tighter and stepped back.

“It’s okay,” he said, lowering the flashlight. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Name’s Dean. This is my place. Wanna tell me why you’re sneaking around in a pile of toasters and car doors at—” he checked his watch “—two in the morning?”