My foot eases off the gas. A knot forms low in my stomach. Nobody parks out here unless they’re in trouble. This stretch of road is empty even on a good day. With a storm coming in, it’s a bad place to be stranded.
I pull the truck in behind her and set the brake. The wind cuts across the road when I step out, cold enough to bite through my jacket. Snow is already starting to fall in thin, steady sheets.
As I approach the driver’s side window, I see her.
She’s curled in on herself behind the wheel, arms wrapped tight around her middle. Her eyes are red and swollen. Tear tracks streak her cheeks. When she looks up and sees me, something like relief flashes across her face before it’s swallowed by fresh panic.
I rap my knuckles against the glass. “Wren.”
She fumbles with the handle and pushes the door open. Cold air floods the cab. She’s shaking hard enough that her teeth chatter.
“What are you doing out here?” I demand.
The words come out rougher than I intend. Not because I’m angry at her. Because the sight of her sitting alone on a mountain road with a storm closing in sets every protective alarm in my body blaring.
“My car won’t start,” she says, voice thin. “I tried. It just… died.”
I glance at the dash, then at the sky. Snow is coming down thicker now. The temperature is dropping fast.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” I say. “There’s a storm about to hit. This road’s going to disappear in an hour.”
Her chin trembles. “I know.”
The fear in her eyes hits me square in the chest. She looks small in that seat, swallowed by layers that aren’t warm enough, cheeks flushed from crying and cold. Anger flares, hot and immediate.
“Jesus, Wren,” I mutter. “You can’t sit out here and freeze.”
Her eyes fill again. Tears spill over before she can stop them. She scrubs at her face with the heel of her hand like she’sembarrassed by them, which only makes something in me twist tighter.
I drag a hand over my beard and curse under my breath. Getting mad at her isn’t helping. She’s already scared.
“Alright,” I say, forcing my voice into something steadier. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the diner.”
The word diner lands between us like a dropped glass.
Her entire body goes rigid. The terror that floods her expression is instant and unmistakable. She shakes her head hard.
“I can’t go back there,” she whispers.
I study her for a beat. The way her hands curl into fists. The way her gaze flicks down the road like she expects something to come barreling after her.
Something happened.
I don’t need the details to know that much.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Then you’re coming with me.”
Her eyes snap back to mine. “What?”
“You’re not staying out here,” I tell her. “Storm’s too close. My place is up the mountain. You can warm up there and we’ll figure out your car once the weather clears.”
She hesitates. I can see the war playing out behind her eyes. Stranger versus freezing. Trust versus fear.
“I don’t want to impose,” she murmurs.
“You’re not,” I say, sharper than I mean to. I take a breath and soften it. “You’re not. You’re coming inside before you turn into an icicle. That’s not a request.”
Her lips part like she’s about to argue. Then another gust of wind slams into us, carrying a swirl of snow that stings exposed skin. She flinches and wraps her arms tighter around herself.
