The night doesn’t move.
It just watches us.
The garage breathes around us—metal ticking as it cools, oil and dust and cold December air slipping in through cracks in the walls. Somewhere far off, a train horn moans like it’s lost. Somewhere closer, Adrian shifts beside me, careful not to touch.
We’re lying on opposite sides of a narrow cot meant for one person who doesn’t flinch at loneliness.
We’re flinching.
I stare at the ceiling, at the spiderweb of old pipes and shadows, counting breaths like they’re mile markers. My fingers curl into the blanket, gripping fabric the way I grip a steering wheel before a turn I’m not sure I’ll survive.
“You’re still awake,” Adrian murmurs.
It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
A pause. Then the truth, quiet and unguarded.
“I don’t sleep
