Lee had never been good at staying in one place too long.

There was something about permanence that set him on edge, like an itch beneath the skin he couldn’t quite scratch. Ever since you met him—under the blistering haze of an Ohio summer, dust clinging to your sneakers and blood already drying under your fingernails—you knew he wasn’t meant for stillness.

He’d invited you along with a shrug, like it wasn’t a decision that could tear the earth off its axis. A beat-up, stolen truck, half a tank of gas, a bag of clothes, and a pack of Marlboros tucked in the glove compartment. It was all he had to offer you. It was enough.

The first night you’d ridden with him, he hadn’t spoken much. He just let the static-filled radio hum low between you, his hand lazily draped over the wheel, tapping out a rhythm only he knew. The sky had been bleeding out into shades of violet and orange, and he hadn’t even flinched when your hand brushed against his as you both reached for a crushed-up map.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he’d asked, voice hoarse, the words almost swallowed by the engine’s groan.

You hadn’t answered with words. Just nodded, once. Solid.

And that was that.

Lee wasn’t like other people. He didn’t look at you like he was trying to figure out what he could get from you. He didn’t flinch when you talked about the things you had to do to survive. He just listened, really listened, in a way that made your chest ache.

Sometimes, he would pull off the highway without warning, find a patch of trees or an abandoned barn, and he’d disappear for a while. You knew better than to follow him. When he came back, there’d be something different about his eyes—something harder, something heavier. But he’d still sit across from you, cross-legged in the dirt, and he’d tear open a can of cold beans with a pocketknife like you were just two kids on a terrible camping trip.

Sleeping near Lee was an act of trust. Most nights you didn’t even talk about it—you just ended up next to each other, sharing the pathetic warmth of a threadbare blanket, your heartbeat syncing with the low rumble of his breathing.

One night, when the air was too thick and the stars too bright, you woke to find him watching you. Not like a predator. Not like someone weighing their options.

Just watching. Like he was trying to memorize you.

“you ever think about stopping?” you’d whispered, your throat raw from sleep and the truth.

He had smiled then, a flash of teeth and sadness.

“What would we even be, if we stopped?”

There were moments when you caught glimpses of a boy Lee might have been, in another life. A boy who hadn’t learned to run. A boy who hadn’t learned to bite.

Sometimes, when the world got too heavy and the hunger too loud, he’d lean his forehead against yours and just breathe, like he could anchor himself to you, like you could tether him to something that wasn’t survival.

You didn’t have words for what you were to each other. You didn’t need them.

Out there, in the empty spaces between towns, in the echoes of your shared silence, you were something ancient. Something feral. Something free.

When he smiled—really smiled—it was rare and wild and so painfully beautiful you thought your chest might crack open.

And you knew, no matter how far you ran, no matter what you became—

You’d never find a home like the one you found in Lee.