He didn’t look at you as you approached—he rarely did now.

You stepped out of the convenience store, clutching a small bag of supplies in one hand and fumbling with a packet of heat packs in the other. Walker stood a few feet away, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands buried in the pockets of his oversized hoodie.

Stopping at a careful distance, you offered the heat pack with an outstretched arm, respecting the invisible boundary he kept.

“Here,” you said simply.

He hesitated before taking it, his fingers brushing yours for an instant before pulling back, tension flickering across his face.

“Thanks,” he muttered without meeting your eyes.

It hadn’t always been like this. Back in his mother’s house—back when her cruelty controlled his life and yours—he’d smiled more easily, laughed more often. But months of pretending to survive her left scars. Running away was supposed to bring freedom, but it hadn’t erased the fear she’d instilled, especially his unease around women…including you.

You pulled a crumpled ticket from your pocket: one-way passage to Windmere. Tomorrow at dawn. One more day, and you’d be on the ship, away from everything.

But tonight, you still needed shelter.