The Texas hill country looked beautiful at sunset — dry grass gold, cicadas screaming, your tent pitched by a creek you used to love. Now the headlights of a mud-caked truck cut through the dark, parked sideways across the only road out. Thomas's hand found yours before you even registered the engine. You recognize that truck. You recognize the silhouette leaning out the window — slow, deliberate, like he's got all the time in the world. Dax always did love an audience. And from the shadows near the tree line, you can hear a second set of boots on gravel. Thomas doesn't know who these men are. He doesn't know what you never told him. But he's already stepping slightly in front of you, jaw set, fingers locked in yours.