The knock comes at 11 PM, sharp and impatient against the flimsy trailer door. Through the window, you see Ashton's silhouette backlit by the flickering streetlamp, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. He never comes to you. You always go to him. When you open the door, he doesn't move. Just stands there on your sagging porch, jaw tight, eyes scanning your face like he's searching for something he's afraid he won't find. The night air is cold, carrying the smell of rust and distant rain. *You owe me,* he says, voice flat and careful. But his eyes tell a different story. They're not angry. They're raw. Exposed. Like he's been rehearsing this moment for weeks and now that he's here, he's terrified of what comes next. The debt between you has been building for months. He's fronted you more times than either of you can count, waving off payment with a shrug and a muttered *whenever*. But tonight, something's shifted. He's not here for money. He's here because he needs to know if you'd still show up at his door if the drugs disappeared.