"What will you do now?" I ask, genuinely curious rather than pressing.
She shrugs, the movement almost lost in the oversized sweatshirt. "I don't know yet. I have some money saved, but it isn’t a lot. I need to figure out where to go, what to do about my things at his place." A shadow crosses her face. "I'm sure he's looking for me."
"You can stay here tonight," I offer. "Figure things out in the morning."
"Are you sure? I'm a complete stranger."
I look at her—this woman who had the courage to walk away from a life that was suffocating her, who drove until she couldn't anymore, who is sitting in my kitchen in borrowed clothes with damp hair and tired eyes—and I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.
"I'm sure," I say simply.
After we finish eating, I clear the dishes despite her offers to help. She's swaying slightly with exhaustion, her eyelids heavy.
"You take the bed," I tell her. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"I can't take your bed," she protests.
"You can and you will." My tone is firm but gentle. "You've had a hell of a day. You need real rest."
She starts to argue, then stops herself. "Okay," she concedes. "But just for tonight."
I grab extra blankets from the closet and a pillow from my bed.
As I'm setting up the couch, I hear a small thud followed by a quiet "oops" from the bedroom. I find her standing beside my nightstand, a framed photograph now face-down on the surface.
"I'm sorry," she says quickly. "I was just looking—"
"It's alright." I pick up the frame, glancing at the photo of me in my turnout gear, standing with my crew in front of the station. "Just a picture from work."
"You're a firefighter?" she asks, her expression shifting to something like wonder.
"Yeah. Whitetail Falls Fire Department."
She nods, processing this information. "That explains a lot."
"What does it explain?"
She gestures vaguely at me. "Why you didn't freak out when a woman in a wedding dress appeared at your garage. Why you're so... calm."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her assessment. "The bed's all yours. Bathroom's across the hall if you need it."
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me.
"Arthur?"
I look back at her, framed in the soft light from the bedside lamp. She seems vulnerable but no longer afraid.
"Thank you for helping me," she says.
I nod once, not trusting my voice.
Back in the living room, I settle onto the couch, listening to the quiet sounds of her moving around in my bedroom. The pipes creak as she uses the bathroom one last time. A floorboard groans as she crosses to the bed. Then silence, broken only by the occasional whistle of strong wind outside the windows.
I don't sleep right away. My mind keeps replaying the moment I first saw her standing in the snow, trembling in that ruined wedding dress, her eyes wide with fear and determination.
I wonder about the man she left, about what kind of person tries to cage someone. I wonder what will happen tomorrow when the shock wears off and reality sets in.
The couch is too short for my frame, my feet hanging off the end. I shift, trying to get comfortable, and hear a soft sound fromthe bedroom, a deep sigh, the kind that comes with letting go of something heavy.
