He reaches for my injured hand again. This time, I let him take it without resistance. He cleans the scrape with quick, efficient movements, his touch firm but gentle. It stings. I bite the inside of my cheek and stay still.
"You ran off the road." Not a question.
"Yes." My voice is steadier now, but barely.
"How far back?"
"I don't know. Maybe a mile?"
He nods, wrapping gauze around my palm with the precision of someone who's done this before. A lot. "You're lucky you found this place."
Lucky. The word almost makes me laugh. Nothing about tonight feels lucky. But I'm alive, and I'm warm, and the man kneeling in front of me hasn't asked why I'm driving through a blizzard alone or what I'm running from, so maybe he's right.
He finishes tying off the gauze and sits back on his heels, studying me with that same unreadable intensity. "What's your name?"
I freeze. The lie comes automatically, instinctive. "Emily."
There’s a quick flicker in his eyes, he knows I’m not telling the whole truth. But he doesn't call me on it. Just nods once, slow, like he's filing the information away for later.
"Jason." He stands, gathering the first aid supplies. "You'll stay here tonight. Storm's not letting up anytime soon."
It's not a question. Not quite an order either, but something in between—a statement of fact delivered with the kind of certainty that doesn't leave room for argument.
I know I should be scared. After everything this past year has taught me, I know this is the kind of moment you run from.
But he's already turning away, giving me space, moving back to the kitchen to put the kettle back on the stove.
The fire crackles, casting shifting shadows across the walls. The wind howls through the windows, battering the cabin, and I realize with a jolt that I have nowhere else to go.
Chapter 2 – Jason
I watch her from the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, giving her space while the fire does its work. She's curled in the chair I pointed her to, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, bare feet tucked under her body, and still shaking.
Her eyes track my movements even when she thinks I'm not looking, furtive glances that dart away the second I turn my head.
The kettle's still hot. I refill her mug, adding more honey this time, and bring it over slowly. Telegraphing every step. When I set it on the table beside her, she startles anyway—just a slight jerk, quickly controlled—but I see it.
"Drink," I say, keeping my voice low. Steady. The tone I'd use with a spooked animal, calm and certain.
She reaches for the mug with her good hand, cradling it against her chest. Her fingers are still pale, bloodless at the tips from the cold. I should've gotten her out of those wet clothes immediately, but pushing too fast would've made things worse. She needed the blanket first. The warmth. The illusion of choice.
Now, though—
"You need dry clothes." I nod toward the hallway. "Bathroom's through there. I'll find you something."
Her eyes widen slightly. Not quite panic, but close. "I'm fine."
"You're not." I keep my tone matter-of-fact, not arguing, just stating reality. "You're soaked through. Hypothermia doesn't care how tough you are."
She looks down at herself, seeming to register for the first time that her jeans are plastered to her thighs, still dripping onto the rug. Her boots left puddles by the door. Even her hair is damp, strands clinging to her neck.
"Okay," she says quietly. Small voice. Compliant.
That compliance bothers me more than the fear. Like she's been trained to agree, to not make waves, to do what she's told without question.
I head to my bedroom, pulling open the dresser. I grab sweatpants with a drawstring, a thermal shirt, thick wool socks. Hesitate over the flannel, then add it to the pile. She'll need layers.
When I come back, she's still in the chair, mug pressed to her lips, staring into the fire like it holds answers. I set the clothes on the arm of the couch, within reach but not crowding her space.
