Chapter 2 – Megan
The truck's headlights carve tunnels through falling snow, and I watch the light sweep over white drifts and dark trees in a rhythm that becomes almost hypnotic.
My hands have stopped shaking. I notice this suddenly, looking down at my fingers wrapped tight around the seatbelt, and I'm not sure if that's a sign of safety or just exhaustion finally winning out over adrenaline.
Morgan drives with absolute focus, his eyes on the road, his hands sure and steady on the wheel. He hasn't looked at me since we left the bar, hasn't tried to make conversation or fill the silence with reassurances I wouldn't believe anyway.
I'm so tired it feels like my bones have turned to lead.
The exhaustion hits me all at once, crashing over me like a wave I've been outrunning for too long, and suddenly I'm aware of every ache I've been ignoring—shoulders tight, ribs sore, thighs burning.
My head throbs dully behind my eyes and my throat is raw.
Every part of me is demanding payment for survival, and I don't have anything left to give except this quiet surrender to the warmth and the steady motion of the truck carrying me somewhere I'm choosing to believe is safe.
I let my head rest against the cold window and close my eyes, just for a moment.
"You doing okay?"
Morgan's voice is low and careful, checking on me without intruding, and when I open my eyes I find him glancing at me briefly before returning his attention to the road.
"Yeah," I say, though my voice sounds strange even to me, hoarse and small in the quiet cab. "Just tired."
He nods once, accepting this without question or commentary. "We're almost there."
I believe him. I don't know why, but I do, and that belief feels like the first solid thing I've held onto in weeks.
The road narrows, turning from pavement to gravel hidden under snow, and the trees press closer on either side until their branches form a canopy overhead, heavy and bowed under the weight of ice.
The world feels smaller, more contained, like we've driven past the edge of civilization into something quieter and older where the storm can't quite reach.
When the cabin appears through the trees, it looks like something out of a dream I didn't know I was having, built low against the ground with a wide porch and a steep roof already buried under snow.
The trees around it are massive, their trunks thick and dark, their branches forming a shelter that makes the clearing feel protected.
Morgan pulls the truck to a stop near the porch steps and cuts the engine, and the sudden silence is almost loud, just wind and the faint creak of branches and my own breathing filling the space where the engine used to be.
"Stay put," he says quietly. "I'll come around."
He's out of the truck before I can respond, moving quickly through the snow to my side, and when he opens my door the cold air rushes in sharp enough to steal my breath.
He offers me his hand without hesitation, and I stare at it for a second too long before placing my palm against his. His grip is careful and steady, and he keeps hold of my hand until I'm stable on the snow-packed ground, my legs feeling weak and unsteady like I've forgotten how to stand.
"Careful," Morgan murmurs, staying close as we navigate the steps. "Ice under the snow."
He doesn't let go until we reach the porch, and even then his hand hovers near my back in case I slip.
The door opens into warmth that feels like a physical embrace. Morgan moves past me, flipping on lights and adjusting the thermostat, and I step inside and stop, blinking against the sudden brightness.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, pointing to a door on the left. "Bedroom's upstairs. There's a couch down here if you'd rather stay close to the heat."
He lays out options and waits, and I realize suddenly that I don't know how to respond to that kind of respect because it's been so long since anyone gave me choices.
"I should—" I start, then stop as my throat closes around the words because I don't actually know what I should do.
"You should sit," Morgan says gently, his voice steady and unhurried. "Let me get the fire going properly. Then we'll figure out the rest."
I sink onto the couch before my legs give out, the cushions are soft and broken in, worn from use but clean, and I feel my body start to collapse into them despite every instinct that says I should stay alert.
Morgan crouches in front of the fireplace and adds wood, and within minutes the flames are crackling higher, casting dancing light across the walls that turns the whole room golden.
He stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and looks at me.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asks.
I have to think about it, sorting through days that blur together. "Yesterday. Maybe."
His jaw tightens briefly, a flicker of something dark crossing his face before he smooths it away. "I'll make tea. You want something with it? Bread, soup, anything?"
"Tea's fine," I say, because my stomach is too tight to consider food and I don't want to ask for more than he's already offering.
He nods and moves to the kitchen, and I watch him fill a kettle and set it on the stove, pull mugs from a cabinet, his movements precise and unhurried.
The kettle begins to whistle, a soft rising note that fills the cabin, and Morgan pours water over tea bags, the steam rising in soft clouds that catch the firelight. He brings both mugs to the couch and sets one on the table in front of me before settling into the chair across from me.
I wrap my hands around the mug and breathe in the warmth. Chamomile, I think.
"You should clean up," Morgan says after a moment, his voice quiet and matter-of-fact. "There's a first aid kit in the bathroom. I can help if you need it, or you can handle it yourself. Your call."
I nod. "Okay."
I carry my tea to the bathroom and close the door behind me.
The mirror is small, framed in plain wood, but it reflects more than I want to see.
My face is pale, eyes wide and shadowed underneath like I haven't slept in days, which I really haven't.
My hair is tangled and damp from melted snow, and Morgan's jacket is still draped over my shoulders, the leather heavy and comforting.
I set the mug on the counter and slowly shrug out of the jacket, then start undressing with hands that feel disconnected from my body. My shirt peels away first, stiff with dried sweat and cold, and my jeans follow, the denim clinging to my thighs before finally giving way.
When I stand there in my underwear and look at my reflection, I see the full story written across my skin in shades of purple and yellow and sickly green.
Bruises circle my wrists like bracelets, dark purple at the center, fading to yellow at the edges.
There are more on my upper arms where I was grabbed too hard too many times, faint marks along my ribs where I was shoved into a counter two weeks ago, a shadow of pain across my shoulder blade where I hit the floor trying to get away.
None of them are fresh, but none of them are healed either, and together they tell a story of all the times I told myself it would get better if I just tried harder to be what he wanted.
I press my palms flat against the counter and close my eyes, breathing through the ache that rises in my chest like water filling a space I thought I'd sealed off. I want to cry, to scream, to scrub my skin raw until every mark is gone and I can forget how they got there.
I turn on the shower and step under water hot enough to sting, and I let it wash over me until my skin turns pink and the cold finally starts to leave my bones.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel that smells clean and faintly like laundry detergent, I find clothes folded neatly on the closed toilet lid. Morgan must have brought them while I was in the shower.
I pull the clothes on slowly. The flannel stretches across my chest, pulling taut over my breasts in a way that makes me hyperaware of my body, and the sweatpants sit low on my hips, clinging to my thighs and the curve of my ass instead of hanging loose the way oversized clothes usually do.
When I open the door, Morgan is waiting in the living room, standing near the fire with his back to me, and he looks up when I enter. His gaze moves over me once before settling back on my face.
"Feel better?" he asks.
"A little," I admit, because it's true even if I'm not sure better is the right word for what I'm feeling.
He gestures to the couch. "Sit. Let me see your wrists."
I hesitate, something in me still braced for the moment when kindness turns into something else, but Morgan just waits with the patience of someone who has time and isn't going to push.
"I won't hurt you," he says quietly, his voice steady and sure. "But those need attention."
I sit, and he kneels in front of me with the first aid kit open on the coffee table, reaching for my hand with a deliberateness that gives me time to pull back if I need to.
"I'm going to touch you now," he says, his voice low and measured. "Just to look. Tell me if it's too much."
I nod, and his fingers close around my wrist, gentle as a prayer. He turns my arm slowly, examining the bruises in the firelight, and his jaw is tight, a muscle ticking near his temple, but his touch stays soft.
"He did this," Morgan says, and it's not a question.
"Yes."
"How long?"
"A few months," I whisper, the words scraping out of me like gravel. "It got worse. I tried to leave twice before. He found me both times."
Morgan's hands are still for just a moment, and when he looks up at me his eyes are dark and burning with something that should terrify me but doesn't because I know it's not aimed at me.
"He won't find you here," Morgan says, and his voice drops into something hard and absolute, something that sounds like a promise carved in stone.
"You can't know that," I say, because hope feels too dangerous and I've learned not to trust it.
"Yes," Morgan says, holding my gaze. "I can."
He returns his attention to my wrists, applying ointment with careful strokes and wrapping them loosely in gauze, working in silence while I watch his face.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask suddenly, the question spilling out before I can stop it.
He doesn't answer right away. He finishes bandaging my second wrist, tapes it gently, and sits back on his heels before meeting my eyes again.
"Because you need it," he says finally, his voice quiet but certain. "And because no one should have to run alone."
Morgan stands and moves to the kitchen, returning with fresh tea that he sets in my hands before sitting across from me again.
"You should sleep," he says. "Upstairs, downstairs, wherever you feel safest. I'll be down here."
"You're staying awake?" I ask.
"For a while."
I pull my legs up onto the couch, tucking myself into the corner, and Morgan drapes a blanket over me without asking, his movements gentle and sure. The fire crackles softly, the wind howls outside, and for the first time in months my body allows itself to consider real sleep.