But it matters.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
The words hit me harder than they should.
I clear my throat. “Truck’s this way.”
We walk through the snow toward the parking area. I keep her backpack in my hand. I keep my body positioned slightly between her and the crowd, not obvious, just instinct.
She clutches the flowers like they’re proof this is real.
My truck sits at the edge of the lot. I open the passenger door for her before I can stop myself.
She hesitates.
Her gaze flicks to the seat, then to me, then to the trees. Like she’s measuring risk.
I wait.
Finally, she climbs in, careful with her purse and the bouquet. I shut the door, walk around, toss her backpack behind the seat, and get in.
The engine rumbles to life.
Warm air starts to creep through the vents.
She rubs her hands together, staring out the windshield like she’s watching for danger to appear.
I don’t ask questions.
Not yet.
I just drive.
The drive is short, but the road narrows fast, snow packed hard beneath the tires. Pines crowd in close, branches heavy with white, and the town lights disappear behind us like someone dimmed them on purpose.
She breathes a little easier with every minute.
I notice.
I don’t comment.
My cabin comes into view through the trees, tucked just far enough off the main road to feel like my own world. Snow piles on the roof.
I park, kill the engine, and for a second we sit in the silence.
She looks at the cabin like it might be a sanctuary.
Or a trap.
I reach for her backpack, then pause. “You good?”
Her eyes meet mine. Green, wide, uncertain.
She nods.
Not convincing.
But it’s what she can offer.
