“No.”
The word comes out automatic. Firm.
She pauses, surprised.
“Get back inside,” I tell her, setting the crate down just inside the door. “You’re still freezing. I’m not having you get sick on my watch.”
Her mouth opens like she wants to argue. Then another gust of wind slams into the porch and she shivers hard.
“Sit,” I add, softer but no less certain. “Warm up. I’ve got this.”
She hesitates, then nods and retreats inside. I shut the door against the storm and head back out for the last load.
By the time everything is stacked neatly in the kitchen, my fingers are numb and my beard is dusted with snow. The house feels even warmer when I step fully back inside. Wren is exactly where I left her, hands wrapped around her mug, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
I shrug out of my jacket and head to the sink to wash my hands. “Beef stew sound alright?”
Her eyes light up. “That sounds amazing.”
I start pulling ingredients from the crates. Beef. Carrots. Potatoes. Onion. The rhythm of cooking settles something Ididn’t realize needed settling. I’m halfway through browning the meat when I feel her presence at my side.
I glance over. She’s standing just inside the kitchen, blanket still draped around her shoulders, curiosity written all over her face.
“Can I help?” she asks.
I study her for a second. The color has come back to her cheeks. The shaking is gone. She looks steadier.
“Yeah,” I say, sliding a cutting board toward her. “Carrots and potatoes. Bite sized.”
Her smile is small but genuine. She steps closer and takes the knife, her movements careful and practiced. We fall into an easy rhythm. The kitchen fills with the rich smell of searing beef and fresh vegetables.
For a while the only sound is the storm and the quiet thud of her knife against the board.
Then I ask the question that’s been sitting in the back of my mind since I found her on that road.
“What were you doing up the mountain?”
The knife pauses mid cut. Her shoulders tense under the blanket. For a second I think she’s going to deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject.
Instead she exhales slowly and keeps chopping. “I was running,” she says. The words are simple. Heavy.
“From?” I prompt gently.
She swallows. “My stepbrother.”
And then it all comes out. Not in a rush. Not hysterical. Just… steady. Like she’s been carrying this story alone for too long and the weight of it is finally too much.
She tells me about her parents. The accident. Being fourteen and suddenly orphaned. About Alex inheriting the house and turning it into something that felt less like a home every year.About working since she was sixteen and watching her money disappear into his hands.
My jaw tightens as she talks. I keep my focus on the pot in front of me, stirring the meat so I don’t crush the spoon in my grip.
“He started acting different after I turned eighteen,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “Flirty. Like he… forgot he was my brother. I tried to stay out of the house as much as I could. I saved everything I could so I could leave. But then he took it,” she says. “All of it. Two years of saving. He told me if I didn’t like it, I could leave.” Her laugh is hollow. “So I did.”
I add the vegetables to the pot with more force than necessary. The stew hisses as they hit the hot surface.
“He found me at the diner today,” she says. “Told me I was done running. That it was time to come home. That my place is with him. I couldn’t go back,” she whispers. “I just… I couldn’t. So I left. I didn’t think. I just drove.”
Silence settles between us, thick and charged. The storm roars outside. The stew simmers. Wren’s hands rest on the counter, the knife forgotten.
