He, what?
Okay, I take it back—he’s not a Flanders. He’s Moe. Or maybe Troy McClure, the one who was allegedly into fish. Great, now all I can think about isSimpson characters.
“Keeping her warm?” I echo, eyebrows shooting up.
“She was in a state when she got here,” Dean explains, tone still maddeningly calm. “Starting to get hypothermia. Clay was about to call 911, but she begged us not to.”
I nod, barely aware of the words. My legs move before my brain does, carrying me across the threshold, up the few steps, and into the kitchen.
And there she is.
She’s curled into herself in a chair by the stove, blanket wrapped tight around her thin frame, red curls spilling down her back, wet strands clinging to pale skin. Her hands clutch a crumpled scrap of paper—my name and this address. Her storm grey eyes, wide and hollow, flick up at me, and my heart twists. So small. So fragile. My hands itch to touch her, to make sure she’s real, but I don’t want to scare her. Her face looks sickly pale.
“Christ, we should get you to a hospital.” I breathe, dropping to my knees in front of her. “Are you okay? You hurt?”
Her lips part, voice trembling.
“You said… you said I’d be safe here.” Her cheeks look thinner than I remember, a little hollow, like she’s been running from more than just the cold.
The blanket slips slightly from her shoulders, and I notice the damp cotton of her dress clinging to her frame. My chest tightens. She’s smaller than I remember, but even more—she’s been through hell, and it shows in the tension coiled throughher. I track every tremble, every micro-flinch at the smallest noise: the faint hum of Portland traffic, the distant drip of rain from the eaves.
“What happened? Can you talk about it?” I ask, jaw tight, anger sharp but controlled. My fists are on my knees. The kitchen smells of hot chocolate, toast, and a faint tinge of bacon. I force myself to inhale slowly, I want to lose my shit, but it won’t help.
She shifts slightly, eyes darting, body still curled inward. “I…I can’t…” Her voice is weak, breathless. I want to hold her; I want yell and just fucking lose it… but I can’t…I…I don’t really know her. I don’t want to overstep.
The words come out softer than I mean them to.
“It’s okay, just rest,” I murmur, watching her eyes fight sleep. “I’ll help get a room set up, chuck you in a couple of extra blankets, yeah? Maybe…maybe you could have a hot bath? Dean, you guys got a room with a bath, yeah? I’ll cover it.”
Dean hesitates. “I mean…of course.”
She’s barely hanging on. Her fingers tremble around the mug, eyelids heavy.
“Finish your cocoa,” I tell her, crouching down beside her chair. “Then I’ll carry you upstairs if I have to, okay?” She gives a tiny nod, a ghost of a smile flickering before she sips again. But she’s fading fast, her chin dipping lower…until the mug slips from her hand, hot liquid spilling across the table and down her blanket.
She jerks awake with a gasp.
“I am so sorry, father. I didn’t mean to—”
Father.
The word cuts like a blade.
I am going to fuck that motherfucker up.
She fumbles for the blanket, trying to dab at the spill, panic in every movement. I’m already there, reaching for her, but the second she looks up and sees me—really sees me—she freezes. Her breath catches, and her wide eyes fill with something raw.
Her voice breaks on a whisper.
“You’re here.”
Everything fades. The noise. The room. The people.
She leans into me, forehead resting against my chest like she’s trying to hide in the beat of my heart. I wrap my arms wrap around her, hold her so fierce it feels like I could shield her from the world with my ribs. She’s painfully small. I draw the blanket tighter around her shoulders, fingers finding the soft point at her wrist, squeezing just enough to be steady.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her, low and sure. “I’ve got you.”
Her voice is a tremor. “What if they find me?”
