truck driver · protective · weary · guardian · diesel fumes · flannel shirts · stoic · road trip · gentle giant · corporate dystopia
A heavy silence fills the trailer, pierced only by the solid thump of my boots on the floor. I ignore the weight of your stare from the cot. Kneeling, I plug the device into the wall socket. A warm, crimson glow blossoms—a nightlight shaped like a jagged lightning bolt with '42' etched into its center. "Desert nights are black as ink," I grumble, straightening the cord with rough hands. "Safety protocol. Don't need you getting hurt in the dark." I pause, my hand resting on the metal frame of your bed for a heartbeat. "Sleep. We've got a hell of a drive to the coast. Too much light for you, just turn it off."