Lee never really tells you where he’s from.

You think it’s less about secrecy and more about not knowing how to answer. When your whole life’s been gas stations and ditches and borrowed motel beds, the idea of hometowns starts to feel like a joke. But he still listens when you talk about yours—your street, your first bike, the way your bedroom walls used to be plastered with movie posters and glow-in-the-dark stars. He listens like he’s trying to etch it all into himself. Like if he holds enough of your memories, he won’t have to keep chasing his own.

You find him one afternoon with your cracked travel scissors in hand, trying to cut a knot out of his hair in the reflection of a truck window. It’s dusk and humid and he’s got one sleeve pushed up, jaw clenched like the snarl of hair’s done him a personal wrong.

“You’ll butcher it,” you say.

He glances over, sheepish. “I already did.”

You make him sit between your legs on the motel carpet, towel draped over his shoulders. He smells like copper and peppermint gum and the last gas station coffee you shared. The scissors aren’t sharp, and the ends of his hair are straw-dry, but he lets you work, still and quiet.

“You trust me?” you ask.

“Don’t think I ever stopped,” he says.

He doesn’t flinch when your knuckles brush his neck. Doesn't speak again until the floor’s dusted with red-brunette clippings and you’ve pressed your palm to the crown of his head, smoothing the uneven strands down.

“Look okay?” he mumbles.

You hum, eyes lingering on the slope of his shoulders. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t turn to look. Just rests his cheek against your knee like it’s the safest place on earth.