~REVERIE~
Nash lifts the third box into the bed of his truck with easy strength, settling it beside the other two like he's handling precious cargo instead of my hodgepodge collection of belongings packed into cardboard boxes I scavenged from the liquor store.
The November morning is crisp and cold—the kind of cold that makes your nose go numb and your fingers ache even inside gloves. My breath comes out in visible puffs that dissipate in the air like little ghosts. Frost covers every surface—the windows of the apartment building behind us, the cars parked in the lot, even the dead grass poking through patches of snow.
It's barely nine in the morning on a Sunday, and Oakridge Hollow is just waking up.
Somewhere down the street a neighbor is putting up more Christmas lights despite having plenty already—the ladder propped against their house, colorful strands trailing from their hands. A dog barks in the distance. Someone starts their car, the engine coughing in protest against the cold.
Nash turns back to me, brushing his hands off on his jeans—dark denim worn soft with age and use. His dark hair is slightly tousled from the morning wind, falling across his forehead in a way that probably looks effortless but is unfairly attractive. His leather jacket makes him look every bit the bad boy Alpha he probably was in his younger days—all sharp edges and contained danger.
The motor oil and leather scent coming off him mixes with the cold morning air, creating this combination that's oddly appealing. Masculine and mechanical with an undercurrent of expensive cologne he must have put on this morning.
"Is that really everything you have?"
I smile, trying to make it seem casual. Like this is normal. Like having my entire life fit into three medium-sized boxes is perfectly fine.
"Yeah, that's it." I shrug. "I don't have a lot."
His frown deepens. Those blue eyes study me like he's trying to solve a complicated puzzle.
"Why?" he asks. Then his expression shifts—understanding dawning. "Did your ex-pack not offer you clothes either?"
The question hangs in the cold air between us.
They did give me clothes.Technically.Things that made me look the part they wanted me to play—demure, presentable, forgettable. Nothing was mine though. Everything belonged to them, on loan as long as I behaved.
I don't answer.
Just stand there in my worn jeans and oversized sweater that's seen better days, holding my purse like it's a shield.
Nash sighs—not frustrated, more resigned.Like he's confirming something he already suspected.
He walks around to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door. The hinges creak slightly in the quiet morning.
"Get in," he says, his voice gentler now. "And don't answer that question. I already know."
I climb into the truck, the interior still warm from the drive over. The seats are leather, well-worn but clean—the kind that molds to your body after years of use. There's a faint smell of coffee lingering in the air mixed with something mechanical—probably from whatever project he's been working on in his garage.
The dashboard has a few scratches and the radio looks like it's original to the truck, but everything works and feels solid.
Lived-in. Loved.
Nash leans against the open door frame, not closing it yet.
"We're passing through the next town over anyway. We'll stop and get you some clothes."
"Really?" The word comes out more surprised than I intend.
Higher pitched. Almost squeaky.
He raises an eyebrow, those blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.
"Why do you sound shocked? Like I just offered to buy you a car instead of some clothes."
"I just—" I fidget with the strap of my purse—a worn crossbody bag I've had for three years that's starting to fray at the seams. "I can wait until the payout comes from Evergreen Media. The twenty-five thousand dollars. We don't need to go shopping now. I have enough to get by for a few weeks."
Enough to get by. That's generous.
