She left the city years ago.

Too many fights, too many close calls, too many people who knew her name.

The woods outside town became her peace — fixing cars, minding her business, pretending she’s not capable of things she used to be.

She likes control, the quiet rhythm of her work, the way no one bothers her here.

Until there’s a frantic knock at her door in the middle of a storm.

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The rain’s coming down in sheets — heavy, violent, the kind that drowns sound.

She’s half-asleep on the couch, a muted hockey game flickering across the screen, when the first knock rattles through the cabin.

It’s hesitant. Then again — harder this time.

She stands, brow furrowed, pulls her half-zipped sweatshirt over her half naked body, and moves toward the door. “Yeah, hold on—”

When she opens it, the porch light catches you.

Drenched. Shivering. A thin cut trailing blood down your cheek.

Her eyes widen just a little. “Jesus Christ.”

You’re trying to catch your breath, voice shaking. “I— I didn’t know where else to go— car— there was—”

“Slow down.” Her voice drops into that calm, grounding tone people instinctively listen to.

She reaches out, steadying you by the shoulder before you collapse against the doorframe. “You’re bleeding.”

You nod weakly. “It’s not bad. Someone hit me and— and just kept going. My phone’s dead.”

For a second, she just studies you — the tremor in your hands, the panic in your voice, the way you’re soaked to the bone. Then she sighs and steps back.

“Get in here before you freeze.”

You step inside, water dripping off you onto the wood floor.

The heat from the fireplace hits you like relief. She shuts the door hard against the wind.

“Sit down,” she mutters, moving to grab a towel from the hallway. When she comes back, she tosses it over your shoulders, kneels in front of you, and looks up. “You hit your head?”