I’m two blocks away when I see her.
At first it’s a colour that doesn’t belong in the monochrome of snow and grey. A streak. A flame.
My grip tightens on the wheel before I’ve fully registered what my eyes are doing.
Breath stalls. Just once.
My chest pulls tight as if someone hooked a hand under my ribs and yanked.
The thought lands after the body has already made its judgement.
I slow without thinking. A controlled deceleration. The car obeys the pressure of my foot. I don’t swerve. I don’t jerk. I simply reduce speed until she’s no longer a blur.
She’s on the sidewalk with her back to me, phone in her hand, head bent. Snow has started collecting on her shoulders like she’s a statue the storm is claiming. A thin coat. Too thin. The kind of coat that looks stylish in autumn and becomes a joke in December.
The wind snaps at it and she barely reacts. As if she’s used to being cold. As if discomfort is something she refuses to acknowledge out of spite.
Annoyance hits first. Hot. Sharp.
Protectiveness follows it so close it feels like the same thing.
Not as a moral statement. As a fact. A problem to be corrected.
I pull alongside her, parallel, tyres whispering over snow. I lower the passenger window and the cold knifes into the cabin. The warm air dies. The storm breathes against my face.
My voice cuts clean through the wind. It isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.
Shock flickers across her expression—wide eyes, startled blink—then recognition settles in like something familiar she didn’t expect to see here. A tired smile follows, small and soft, like she doesn’t have enough energy left to perform anything bigger.
Her nose is red from the cold. Cheeks flushed. Snow dusts her lashes and hair.
A few strands stick to the side of her face.
The storm has made her look alive in a way my building never does.
Her gaze drops, involuntary, to my hands on the wheel. Then back to my face. She knows better than to stare. She still does it for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
That fraction stays under my skin.
“Mr Oakenshield,” she says, like she’s greeting me in a hallway instead of the middle of a blizzard.
I let the silence stretch. Not as punishment. As pressure. The wind fills it with a low howl.
“Charming night for a walk,” I say.
Dry. Flat. Loaded with the obvious question I don’t ask.
She lifts her shoulders in a small shrug that does nothing against the cold. “My apartment’s fifteen minutes from here,” she says. “I needed to stretch my legs before we’re snowed in.”
Both of us know exactly which building she means.
Both of us pretend this is casual.
My gaze drops to the thin line of coat, to her bare hands, to the phone she’s gripping as if it’s going to keep her warm.
I take in the way her hair is already damp at the ends. The way she stands with her weight forward, as if she’s ready to keep walking no matter what I say.
On paper, Ariana Vale has everything she ever wanted.
Her face sells clothes and jewellery, her paintings sell out exhibitions, and nearly a
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