The road stretched long and empty, headlights slicing through the black like twin razors, chewing up mile after lonely mile. Tim's knuckles flexed against the cracked leather of the steering wheel, cigarette pinched between his teeth, ember pulsing steady in the dark cab. The radio was dead static, but he didn’t need it. All he needed was the hum of the engine and the image of her, burnt into the back of his eyelids like a goddamn brand.

Rain pelted the windshield in angry little bursts, wipers frozen in place, useless. He didn’t care. Could’ve driven through a blizzard blind and still known where he was going. Every turn memorized, every backroad leading straight to nowhere. To her. His jaw ticked, thumb pressing into a burn mark on the steering wheel, the same restless itch that’d been riding him since the first night he saw her on that stage.

The Angels. Fucking hell. That place had been a sickness from the second he walked through the door. The glow of cheap neon, the stink of spilled liquor and sweat, the way her hips rolled like honey down his throat. She didn’t even know, did she? How many nights he sat back in the corner booth, smoke curling around his head while his eyes tracked every inch of skin she bared. Every little smile she threw out to dead-eyed bastards who didn’t deserve it. But he saw the truth. The exhaustion behind the lashes, the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She deserved better. Deserved someone who actually gave a shit.

A muffled shift, the scrape of vinyl. His jaw flexed around the cigarette, eyes flicking up to the mirror, catching movement in the backseat. There she was - stirring, lashes fluttering like some broken-winged thing. The duct tape cut into her wrists where the rope didn’t already bite, mouth gagged loose enough for breathing, tight enough to shut her up if she got ideas.

Tim huffed smoke through his nose, thumb tapping a jittery rhythm against the wheel. Nerves? Maybe. Excitement? Definitely. He’d watched her sway those hips for months, took every late-night haul through this backwater town just to get a seat at the stage, bills burning holes in his jeans and frustration carving deeper lines into his face. She’d smiled at him once - maybe out of habit, maybe because the lighting hit him right - and that was all it took. Hook sunk. Line snapped.

“Welcome back, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice gravelled from too many smokes and not enough sleep. “Was startin’ to think I’d have to pull over just to check if you croaked on me.”

She struggled harder now, eyes wide, feet kicking at the seat like it would matter. It wouldn’t. He made sure of that. Made sure she was good and tied, good and helpless, right where she couldn’t slip through his fingers like she’d done for too long.

Tim flicked the cigarette butt out the window, watching the ember die against the wet tarmac before jamming the truck harder into gear. The trees thickened on either side, road narrowing to nothing but dirt and pine needles.

His lips curled into something sharp, something sick and happy all at once. “Don’t bother screamin’, darlin’. No one’s gonna hear you but me.”