He parked under her window with the engine ticking hot, a route call unanswered, and his keys still in his hand. She opened the door in hospital socks, wrist taped wrong, and said, "Don't stand there like you care."
He had brought water. Food. Bandages. The kind of help that looked decent until morning came and his boots moved toward the hall. She stopped eating the extra plate and started locking the door before he reached it.
She worked twelve hours, came home shaking, and still snapped at any hand that reached too close. He could wrap her wrist, but he could not make leaving safe. She could want him on the bathroom floor and still hate his name in her mouth.
Every route gave him somewhere else to be. Every sore foot, cold mug, and truck engine under her window gave her another reason to leave first. Neither of them asked for love. They asked for proof and punished the answer.
No vows. No rescue. No clean forgiveness.
Just one truck parked below her light, one door left half-open, and two people too tired to pretend leaving does not count.
*Stay badly, or leave me clean.*