Chapter 2
Chapter two
Holly
I didn’t know what I expected. Maybe for him to drive a few blocks and let me out. Or to pull over somewhere and call the police, even though he’d promised not to. But he didn’t do either. He just started the truck and let the heater run. Didn’t say a word.
The air filled with warmth. Not the weak kind that barely touched your fingertips, but real heat that seeped into your bones and made you ache from remembering what comfort was supposed to feel like. My toes thawed first. Then my hands. I didn’t realize how cold I’d been until I stopped shaking.
I tried to breathe normally but I couldn’t. My chest fluttered like a bird trapped behind glass. I wasn’t even sure what scared me more—him, or the way safety could sneak up on you after you’d forgotten what it was.
He was huge. Everything about him said strength, steadiness, control. Even the steering wheel looked too small in his hands. But he didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t look at me too long. Just drove slow, careful, like every turn mattered.
I wanted to say thank you again, but my throat locked. The words felt dangerous, like if I spoke them, I’d owe something I couldn’t pay back. I had to hide but how long could I stay that way?
“You warm enough?” His voice startled me. Low and rough, but not unkind.
I nodded, even though I was still trembling. I’d crawled into that box knowing the night would freeze me solid. I almost hadn’t cared. But I didn’t want him to think I was ungrateful. Ungrateful girls ended up alone. That was one of the lessons that stuck.
“Good,” he said. And that was it. No more words for a while—just the steady hum of the heater and the soft growl of the engine beneath it. He’d turned off the radio. For me, I guessed.
My mind wouldn’t stop running circles. What if this was a trick? What if he called the cops anyway? What if he meant well now, but changed his mind later?But he didn’t ask questions. Didn’t press. Just kept his hands steady on the wheel like he meant every quiet thing he did.
Snow started falling somewhere along the drive, not enough to cover the world, just enough to make it look softer than it really was.
When we finally stopped, I saw a house through the window.
Not big. But warm-looking. The porch light was golden, and there were old-fashioned colored Christmas lights strung along the eaves.
My chest twisted, tight and confused. Hope or dread—I couldn’t tell them apart anymore.
He shut off the truck and sat for a second, thinking. Then he looked at me. “All right, Holly. Let’s get you inside.”
He came around to my door and opened it, waiting like I had a choice. I tried to get down on my own, but my legs folded halfway. He caught me before I hit the ground—solid, steady, like it was nothing.“Easy,” he said quietly. “You’re all right. I’ve got you.”
No one had ever said that to me before. Not like that.His hands were warm even through the fabric of the jacket.
He didn’t drop me, didn’t shove me, didn’t demand anything.
Just waited until I could stand again. Even then, he hovered close enough to catch me if I stumbled, but not so close that I felt trapped.
Warmth wrapped around me the second I stepped inside. It smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, and underneath that—something cleaner. Something that made my chest tighten because it felt like safety. Like home.
He set his keys in a small bowl by the door. The clink of metal sounded too loud in the quiet. I clutched his jacket tighter around myself so I wouldn’t reach out and touch anything. Touching got you yelled at. Or worse.
“The kitchen’s this way,” he said, tilting his head down the hall. “You want something hot to drink? Coffee, tea, or… I got cocoa. If you want that.”
Cocoa. The word felt soft in my mouth even though I didn’t say it. Sweet. Safe. Like something from before I didn’t get to have anymore. I nodded.
“Cocoa it is.”
He walked ahead, slow enough that I could follow. The hallway opened into a kitchen full of warm light and dark wood. There was a big window looking out at the snow and a bowl on the counter shaped like a dog bone.
And a dog.
A huge brown one, with kind eyes and ears that perked up when he saw me. He got to his feet, tail thumping the floor. "This is Biscuit. He won't hurt you."
But I didn’t feel afraid. Something inside me broke loose instead—like every tight place in my chest cracked open all at once. Before I even knew what I was doing, I dropped to my knees right there on the floor. The muggy warmth, the exhaustion, the dog, all of it collided at once.
“Hey, buddy,” I whispered, and the sound came out small and shaky. Biscuit leaned forward, cautious but curious, sniffing my sleeve. Then he pressed his big head against my chest like he’d been waiting for me to show up.
Wrapping my arms around him, I buried my face in his fur. He was warm and solid and smelled like soap and outside. Tears hit before I could stop them, spilling onto his coat. He didn’t move. Just stood there and took it, tail still wagging slow, steady, patient.
“Biscuit’s friendly. He’s a good boy.”
Something about the way he said it made my throat close up. His voice softened for the dog like he couldn’t help it. And for a second, I wished I was Biscuit—someone who got to be touched without flinching. Someone who was good without having to earn it.
Biscuit huffed and licked my cheek once, which made a choked laugh escape before I could stop it. The sound startled me. It had been so long since I’d heard it come from me.
When I finally looked up, Blake wasn’t smiling, exactly, but there was something in his eyes that looked a lot like approval.
He turned to the counter without saying anything else, grabbed a mug, and filled the kettle.
I stayed on the floor beside Biscuit, one hand buried in his fur, until the whistle broke the quiet.
“Cocoa,” Blake said, pouring the hot water and adding some cream “Better drink it while it’s warm.”
I stood slowly and took the mug he offered. My hands shook, so I used both of them. The first sip burned a little, but I didn’t care. It was sweet. Real. Safe.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded, because words still wouldn’t work. The heat, the dog, the cocoa—it was too much and not enough all at once.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching without judgment. Biscuit lay down again beside my feet, pressing close like a silent promise.
The cocoa was too hot, but I didn’t tell him.
I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I never wanted to seem ungrateful.
I blew on it instead, tiny breaths, watching the steam swirl.
It made me think of being Little again—sitting at the edge of a kitchen I wasn’t supposed to be in after Nana died, waiting for permission to take the first sip.
Except this time, no one was watching to catch me doing it wrong.
Blake didn’t hover. He didn’t rush me, either.
He just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, solid as a wall.
Biscuit stayed pressed against my side, a heavy, steady weight.
Every so often, Blake’s eyes flicked toward me, checking—but not the kind of checking that expected answers.
The kind that made sure you were still breathing.
I didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention. It made my stomach twist up and flutter all at once.
The cocoa was sweet enough to hurt my teeth, but I drank it anyway. I didn’t even like chocolate that much, but it tasted like safe.
Blake nodded toward the fridge. “You hungry? I’ve got stew in the crock pot. Or toast. Something easy.”
The question made my throat close. Hunger was always a tricky thing. If you said yes, you were greedy. If you said no, you were lying.
I stared down into my mug. “I… don’t want to be a bother,” I said softly.
His brow furrowed. “You’re not a bother. You need to eat.”
My stomach chose that moment to make a quiet growl, betraying me completely. Heat crawled up my neck. I set the mug down fast, like that might make the sound go away.
Blake didn’t comment. Just turned to the crockpot and started ladling stew into a bowl.
I couldn’t stop watching him. The way he moved—sure and quiet, everything he did had purpose.
It was strange, seeing someone do something for me.
I wasn’t used to that. I didn’t know how to accept it without feeling like I was stealing.
He set the bowl in front of me. “It’s hot. Careful.”
Staring for a moment before I picked up the spoon, the steam fogged my face. The smell of meat and vegetables hit me like a memory when Nana was alive. I took one bite, then another, and my throat hurt so much from swallowing that I almost cried.
“Slow down,” he murmured. Not a scold. Just…gentle. Like a hand on the small of my back, guiding.
I forced myself to eat slower. Tried to remember how to take small bites. I’d forgotten how to be normal around food.
When the bowl was half-empty, my stomach finally stopped twisting.
My whole body felt heavy, like I could melt right there into the chair.
Blake took the bowl when I pushed it away, washed it without a word.
I caught myself wanting to help, but I didn’t move.
I didn’t know what would earn a thank you or what would earn a glare.
He dried his hands on a towel and turned toward me. “You look dead on your feet. You should get some rest.”
The words made my heart jump. “Rest” meant different things depending on who said it. But his voice didn’t have that sharp edge I was used to. Just quiet certainty.
“I can stay on the couch,” I said quickly, before he could take it back. “Or even on the floor. I don’t need much.”
Blake frowned. “You’ll sleep in a bed.”
That made me flinch automatically. I didn’t mean to. He noticed, of course. He didn’t move closer, though. Just scrubbed a hand through his hair like he was trying to figure out the right way to fix what he’d just broken.
“There’s a guest room,” he said finally. “You’ll be safe.”
Safe. I didn’t know how to believe that word anymore. But he said it like it was a fact, not a promise. I followed him down the hall, my fingers twisted tight in the ribbon.
The guest room was small but warm. A big, soft-looking bed with a quilt folded at the end. A lamp with a soft yellow glow. The kind of room you’d see in a magazine and think, that looks like home.
He stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and nodded to the inside. “Bathroom’s through that door. New toothbrush in the basket, Fresh towels are in there. You can shower if you want. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”
“Okay.” My voice came out small, like a child being told bedtime rules. I hated how that sounded. But some part of me—the small, quiet part that still wanted to color inside the lines and be told she was good—relaxed at his tone.
When he turned to go, I blurted, “Thank you.” It came out breathy, shaky.
He paused, looked back over his shoulder. His expression softened, just a little. “You’re welcome, Holly.”
When he was gone, I shut the door and stood there for a long time, and still clutched his jacket.
It was way too big, swallowing me whole.
I pulled the sleeves over my hands, breathing in the faint scent of soap and cedar and something else—him.
It was stupid, but I liked it. It made me feel safe, and I didn’t trust that feeling at all.
Biscuit’s nails clicked down the hallway, then a soft huff outside the door. I opened it a crack and found him lying there, tail thumping once.
“You can come in,” I whispered.
He did. Walked right over and pressed his big head into my side. Without thinking, I slid down onto the floor beside him. His fur was warm under my cheek. His breathing was steady.
I pressed closer and whispered, “You’re a good boy.”
He sighed, deep and content, and I felt something in me settle for the first time in forever.
Maybe I could borrow some of his calm. Just for tonight.
I curled up next to him, one hand buried in his fur. The room was dim and safe and smelled like pine and warmth. My eyelids grew heavy.
I wasn’t ready to believe I’d found a safe place. Not yet. But maybe… maybe I’d found someone who wouldn’t throw me away for wanting to be small.
And as I drifted toward sleep, I thought, maybe that’s enough for now.