Not imagined. Not guessed.
It had been a mistake.
A moment. A slip.
And now it wouldn’t leave.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, jaw shifting as I forced my focus back to the road. The city blurred past in streaks of gray and glass, headlights cutting through the late-afternoon dim in sharp, deliberate lines. Traffic moved steady, predictable. Something I could follow without thinking.
Beside me, Bea sat angled toward the window, her reflection faint against the glass. Composed. Still. She smelled like something warm and expensive—soft florals threaded withsomething brighter, cleaner. It shouldn’t have been noticeable.
Everything about her had become noticeable now.
Annoyingly so.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, rolling my shoulders once, hoping to physically shake the awareness out of my system.
Silence settled between us—not awkward, not strained. Just… present. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand to be filled. The kind that let your mind wander if you weren’t careful.
Mine slipped far anyway.
A different kind of night.
The memory didn’t arrive clean.
It came in fragments first—flashes of white and movement, the sound of wind cutting between buildings, the dull thud of tires over uneven pavement.
An unforgiving storm had settled in, harsh and biting. The kind of cold that didn’t sit on your skin. It cut through it. Found the gaps in your clothes, your bones, your eyes. Made breathing feel like needles were attacking your lungs.
I’d been driving home from practice. Late. Muscles already tight, shoulder sore, hands still buzzing from contact that hadn’t fully burned off yet.
The streets had been mostly empty. Northbend in winter didn’t waste time pretending to be welcoming after dark.
I almost missed him. Too small for what he was carrying.
The bag dragged behind him, catching in the snow every few steps, forcing him to stop, yank it forward, adjust, keep moving. His shoulders were hunched, head down against the wind.
I slowed without thinking, tires crunching over packed snow as I passed him, eyes tracking through the side mirror.
The engine idled low beneath me, heat pushing against the cold creeping in through the glass. My hands stayed loose on the wheel, but my attention stayed behind me.
I didn’t think about it again. I shifted into park. Rolled the window down.
“Get in.” The words came out flat. Direct. No room for interpretation.
The kid froze. Actually froze. Like his brain needed a second to catch up with what had just happened.
Then he turned. Slow. Careful.
His face whipped red from harsh, wet, wind, eyes wide in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with recognition. He knew who I was.
“I—” His voice caught. He cleared it quickly, adjusting his grip on the bag strap. “I’m good.”
I didn’t argue. Didn’t soften it. “Get in,” I repeated.
The wind hit harder between us, filling the space where hesitation lived. He shifted his weight, glanced up and down the street like someone might be watching, might see him climbing into my car.
He lasted another three seconds.