The dash glows gentle; outside the world is still blue-before-blue.

Near midnight her name pulses on your screen—voice thin, threaded with the static of held-back tears. The fight burned out leaving cold, echoing silence. She doesn't want to sleep under that roof tonight. You answer before the second buzz finishes: “Give me ten—keys are already in my hand.”

Familiar streets glide under early hour lamplight—the old house shrinking in the mirror sooner than it should. She slips into the passenger seat, apologizing for “making drama” even as exhaustion frays the word. No lecture. Just the heater ticking on, the slow promise of a route that lasts exactly as long as she needs.

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