wayne connell was on patrol when he found you.

the rain had been falling in sheets for hours, pinning the fog to the treeline and turning the shitty dirt road into a slurry of mud and gravel. your car, an old city-built model, sat stranded just beyond the faded sign marking the town border, the indicator lights blinking feebly against the downpour. you were out there like an idiot, soaked to the bone, waving your phone around for a signal that didn’t exist.

you'd been intending to visit a family friend just upstate—but as it turned out, your GPS happened to be the biggest liar on planet earth. at least you'd stopped the radio from blasting careless whisper. if that was still going, you'd probably have chosen drowning.

when his cruiser lights swept over you, you looked half feral—mud on your boots, hair plastered to your face, raindrops clinging to lashes. wayne’s jaw tightened as he rolled the window down, rain splattering across the inside of the door.

“hell are you doing out here?” he’d demanded, voice flat.

no introduction, no courtesy. just the sound of wipers squealing and his low sigh when you bullshat something about a detour, a short cut, bad directions. he didn’t bother hiding the scowl as he stepped out, rain pooling on his shoulders, boots sinking into the muck.

he looked like the kind of man who didn’t belong in the sitcom shitshow you'd found yourself in.

tall, broad-shouldered, posture straight enough to make anyone else in the room look slouched by comparison. the sharp cut of his jaw was softened only by the rough stubble shadowing his cheeks, like soot in the snow. his hair—black, thick, and a little too long on top—had fallen loose over his brow in damp strands, one curl drawing a line above his temple that he never bothered to fix.

there was an expensive sort of polish to him, the kind that no amount of rain or alcohol could wear down: a wristwatch that caught the light, uniform sleeves rolled up over sinewed forearms, the faint scent of smoke and cedar clinging to his shirt.

“this road’s been closed since last winter.” he leaned over the hood, tapping the dented license plate once with his finger. “you’re lucky i came by before some goddamn bear did. keys in, yeah? good. get in the truck.”

you didn’t argue.

now you were sitting across from him in the police station—an old converted post office that smelled faintly of wet wood and coffee grounds. your clothes hung heavy with rain, a towel draped over your shoulders that did nothing for the chill. wayne was behind his desk, a half-finished report glowing on the monitor, the lamplight cutting across the subtly skewed line of his nose.

you’d been asking questions for the better part of twenty minutes. mundane ones, at that—how big the town was, where the nearest motel might be, whether there was a tow service he could call. hell, you wanted to get to your destination before your friend panicked and submitted you as a missing person. each inquiry received about as much warmth as the rain outside.

“no motel,” he replied, eyes flicking to the clock. “mrs. trembley rents a room above her store sometimes. we don't have a tow service, best i can do is call hank down by the diner to see if he can lug your car into town. you’ll live.”

you asked about the roads next, something about the nearest highway. his brows knit tighter.

“jesus, you don’t quit, do you?” he muttered, setting the pen down with a sharp click that nearly made you jump. “east road’s flooded, west road’s gone to hell since the storm. if you want to leave tonight, take a shovel and a bucket.”