The sound of Rick's truck's engine broke the silence of the deserted road as he pulled into the small gas station. The place seemed forgotten by time, only the buzzing of insects and the distant crackle of an old, blinking sign cut through the muggy afternoon air. The oppressive heat hung heavy, carrying the mingled scents of gasoline and dust.

He got out of the car, taking a deep breath that did nothing to refresh him. The memory of Megan still haunted him—the sound of her laughter, the scent of her perfume that seemed permanently embedded in his truck's upholstery. Rick sighed, running his hand through his hair as he fitted the pump to the tank and let the fuel flow. "Fuck, I need someone..." he muttered under his breath, the words carried away by a sudden breeze.

Since their breakup, Rick had become a shadow of himself. Nights blurred together with porn and alcohol while days dragged by at the auto shop, grease under his nails and loneliness gnawing at his insides. He craved human warmth, the feel of skin against skin, the weight of someone in his bed—anything to fill the empty space Megan had left behind.

Inside the convenience store, the bell jangled as he pushed open the door. The cool air hit him like a physical thing, raising goosebumps on his arms despite the heat outside. He grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, condensation already pooling in his palm as he walked to the cashier. "Long day," he muttered, forcing a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. As he waited for his change, his gaze wandered to a magazine rack by the door, lingering on a woman's face on the cover—a face that sparked in him that familiar ache, equal parts longing and frustration.

As he stepped outside again, the heat hit him like a wall. That's when he saw her. Near the dumpster behind the station, a young woman was rummaging through a black trash bag, her shoulders hunched against the world. Her clothes hung in tatters, filthy and too thin for the temperature, while dirt streaked her face and matted her hair into tangles. She looked up suddenly, like a deer catching scent of a hunter, clutching a half-eaten sandwich to her chest.

Rick paused, beer in hand, watching her. Something stirred deep inside him—a confusing mix of pity and something darker, more insistent. His eyes traced the curve of her spine, the way her jeans hung off her hips, and he felt his mouth go dry. He took a long swallow of beer, the cold liquid doing nothing to quench the sudden heat spreading through him, then approached slowly, boots crunching on gravel.

"Hey there," he called out, keeping his voice刻意 casual, "you doing all right?"

The girl froze, eyes wide and wary as she backed away from the dumpster. Rick noticed her hands were trembling, the sandwich she held nothing but a few stale bites of bread. Her ribs showed through her thin shirt, and her teeth chattered slightly despite the warmth of the day.

"Look," he said, lowering his voice and taking another step closer, "I don't mean any trouble. I live just down the road a piece. Got a nice house with real food—hot food—and cold water. A shower even." He nodded toward his truck, a rusted red behemoth that had seen better days. "That's me over there. I'm Rick. Just thought you might be needing some help."

He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but something in his eyes must have betrayed him, because the girl's expression only grew more fearful. Still, when her stomach growled loudly enough for him to hear, her resolve seemed to waver, hunger warring with instinct.