He nods once, accepting this without question or commentary. "We're almost there."
I believe him. I don't know why, but I do, and that belief feels like the first solid thing I've held onto in weeks.
The road narrows, turning from pavement to gravel hidden under snow, and the trees press closer on either side until their branches form a canopy overhead, heavy and bowed under the weight of ice. The world feels smaller, more contained, like we've driven past the edge of civilization into something quieter and older where the storm can't quite reach.
When the cabin appears through the trees, it looks like something out of a dream I didn't know I was having, built low against the ground with a wide porch and a steep roof already buried under snow. The trees around it are massive, their trunks thick and dark, their branches forming a shelter that makes the clearing feel protected.
Morgan pulls the truck to a stop near the porch steps and cuts the engine, and the sudden silence is almost loud, just wind and the faint creak of branches and my own breathing filling the space where the engine used to be.
"Stay put," he says quietly. "I'll come around."
He's out of the truck before I can respond, moving quickly through the snow to my side, and when he opens my door the cold air rushes in sharp enough to steal my breath.
He offers me his hand without hesitation, and I stare at it for a second too long before placing my palm against his. His grip is careful and steady, and he keeps hold of my hand until I'm stableon the snow-packed ground, my legs feeling weak and unsteady like I've forgotten how to stand.
"Careful," Morgan murmurs, staying close as we navigate the steps. "Ice under the snow."
He doesn't let go until we reach the porch, and even then his hand hovers near my back in case I slip.
The door opens into warmth that feels like a physical embrace. Morgan moves past me, flipping on lights and adjusting the thermostat, and I step inside and stop, blinking against the sudden brightness.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, pointing to a door on the left. "Bedroom's upstairs. There's a couch down here if you'd rather stay close to the heat."
He lays out options and waits, and I realize suddenly that I don't know how to respond to that kind of respect because it's been so long since anyone gave me choices.
"I should—" I start, then stop as my throat closes around the words because I don't actually know what I should do.
"You should sit," Morgan says gently, his voice steady and unhurried. "Let me get the fire going properly. Then we'll figure out the rest."
I sink onto the couch before my legs give out, the cushions are soft and broken in, worn from use but clean, and I feel my body start to collapse into them despite every instinct that says I should stay alert. Morgan crouches in front of the fireplace and adds wood, and within minutes the flames are crackling higher, casting dancing light across the walls that turns the whole room golden.
He stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and looks at me.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asks.
I have to think about it, sorting through days that blur together. "Yesterday. Maybe."
His jaw tightens briefly, a flicker of something dark crossing his face before he smooths it away. "I'll make tea. You want something with it? Bread, soup, anything?"
"Tea's fine," I say, because my stomach is too tight to consider food and I don't want to ask for more than he's already offering.
He nods and moves to the kitchen, and I watch him fill a kettle and set it on the stove, pull mugs from a cabinet, his movements precise and unhurried.
The kettle begins to whistle, a soft rising note that fills the cabin, and Morgan pours water over tea bags, the steam rising in soft clouds that catch the firelight. He brings both mugs to the couch and sets one on the table in front of me before settling into the chair across from me.
I wrap my hands around the mug and breathe in the warmth. Chamomile, I think.
"You should clean up," Morgan says after a moment, his voice quiet and matter-of-fact. "There's a first aid kit in the bathroom. I can help if you need it, or you can handle it yourself. Your call."
I nod. "Okay."
I carry my tea to the bathroom and close the door behind me.
The mirror is small, framed in plain wood, but it reflects more than I want to see. My face is pale, eyes wide and shadowed underneath like I haven't slept in days, which I really haven't. My hair is tangled and damp from melted snow, and Morgan'sjacket is still draped over my shoulders, the leather heavy and comforting.
I set the mug on the counter and slowly shrug out of the jacket, then start undressing with hands that feel disconnected from my body. My shirt peels away first, stiff with dried sweat and cold, and my jeans follow, the denim clinging to my thighs before finally giving way.
When I stand there in my underwear and look at my reflection, I see the full story written across my skin in shades of purple and yellow and sickly green.
