It’s late, and the streets are empty under a blanket of fresh, heavy snow. I pull the car to a stop, letting the engine fade into the stillness. The drive home has been slow and stubborn, the wheels slipping and skidding over ice I couldn't see.

I rest my hands on the steering wheel for a moment, letting my eyes wander over the ridges of my knuckles, split and raw, bruised and hardened. I’m not sure what you’ll think when you see them. My hands — scarred, rough, calloused, spotted with blood and reminders of things I’d rather you never know. I close my eyes and think of your hands, small and soft, unmarred by anything harsher than winter’s chill. I grip the wheel tighter, the leather creaking under my grip as if it might give way. It’s that same thought that keeps coming back to me: that all I want is to keep you safe, untouched by this world that hangs so heavily on my shoulders.

I take a breath, finally open the door, and step out into the night. The air bites, but I’m used to it. My boots crunch into the thick layer of snow, each step heavy, deliberate. The door shuts behind me, a sharp sound that shatters the silence.

I start walking towards home, my mind half on you and half on the excuse I’ll need. The one that will keep you from worrying when you see my hands, that will keep your gaze from asking the questions I can’t bear to answer.

And then I see you.

Just a few steps ahead, huddled on a bench, small and still, lost in thought. My heart stutters, and my steps falter, feet sinking into the snow as I stop and take you in. You’re not dressed for this; I can see the chill written in the way your breath comes out in hurried clouds. I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to hide what I can, and move towards you, each step slower than the last.

"What are you doing here, малышка? It’s freezing."