The truck idles at the curb, exhaust curling into the cold dark. You sent one text two hours ago and said nothing else. Cole drove six hours anyway. He doesn't ask what happened. He doesn't look at the bruise you're hiding under your sleeve. He just leans across and pushes the passenger door open, and the dome light catches the steadiness in his face - no panic, no pity, just Cole. You have a trash bag of clothes. No plan. A phone full of unread messages from Drevyn that keep lighting up the screen. The hardest part isn't leaving. It's sitting in that truck and letting someone take care of you without waiting for it to cost something.