Freezing rain was expected by late afternoon. It was already bitterly cold, one of those metallic, biting winds that slices through your coat no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The kind of day that makes you grateful for central heating and hot soup.
Almost everyone in the office had cleared out by two. The boss had made a vague comment about “getting home before the storm hits,” and suddenly everyone had urgent errands. I still had five things left on my to-do list, of course, and the idea of coming back to a backlog on Monday was worse than staying another hour.
Once the chatter stopped and the building settled into its hollow quiet, I flew through the list. It’s amazing what I can get done when no one’s leaning over my desk with “just one quick thing.” By four o’clock, everything was checked off, and I felt a small, tidy satisfaction as I powered down my computer.
I’m not the type to rush home to anyone. It’s been over a year since I swore off dating, too many reminders of what it felt like to trust someone who smiled at you while lying through their teeth. At twenty-seven, I’ve learned that “taking time for yourself” is just a polite way to say “trying to remember who you were before someone broke you.”
Still, I was looking forward to my small routines: stop for gas, call in a Pad See Ew order, maybe queue up a mindless show when I got home.
The usual route home isn’t the shortest, but it avoids the rougher neighborhood near the river. Tonight, though, I didn’t get that luxury, just past the overpass, traffic was at a standstill. Red and blue lights strobed against the low gray clouds. A wreck, it looked like. Fire trucks blocked both lanes, and I wasn’t curious enough to creep forward for a better look.
So I turned down the alternate road. The one I usually avoid.
The asphalt already gleamed with a thin, treacherous sheen. The temperature must’ve dropped faster than forecasted; the steering wheel felt like frozen iron under my gloves. I flicked the defroster on full blast and muttered, “Just get home.”
The wind howled as if it were angry at the world.
By the time I reached the 7-Eleven on Southgate, my fuel indicator showed below half a tank. I was my father’s son. At least in that respect. I pulled in and parked near the pump, shivering when I stepped out. My breath came out in quick white bursts. As I gripped the nozzle, I caught movement near the edge of the lot.
A young man, early twenties maybe, was crouched by the side of the building, wrestling with a flattened cardboard box that kept catching in the wind. He was handsome in that way that catches you off guard, sharp cheekbones, deep-set eyes, but something about him looked… worn. Torn jacket, shoes that looked ready to fall apart, hair matted by the weather.
He looked up once, just as a gust snatched the box from his hands. Our eyes met. His expression wasn’t angry or pleading, just tired.
I finished pumping gas and noticed the store’s window display: two-liters of Coke on sale, “Buy 2 Get 1.” A pointless comfort, but I went in anyway. The warmth and smell of stale coffee hit me like a memory of safety.
When I came back out, the young man wasn’t alone. Two police officers stood near him, their voices firm but not unkind.
“…you can’t stay here, son,” one was saying. “It’s already below freezing, and it’s only going to get worse.”
The young man’s voice cracked. “It’s all I have. I’m heading south, just… slower than I thought.”
“There are shelters,” the other officer said. “We can take you there.”
He shook his head. “No. The last one, ” His jaw clenched. “They stole everything. My bag, my money, my phone. I was asleep, and when I woke up… nothing. If my ID hadn’t been in my pocket, I’d be nobody.”
One officer exhaled, rubbing his gloved hands. “You can’t stay here, it’s trespassing. Can we take you home? How far is it?”
He looked cornered, wind whipping his hair, cardboard flapping uselessly at his feet. “I can’t go home. My parents… they kicked me out when they found out I was, ” He stopped, glancing at them, then away. “Doesn’t matter.”
I didn’t plan to speak. I really didn’t. But the words came out before I thought them through.
“I can help.”
Three sets of eyes turned toward me. The officers, one older, one probably not much older than the man himself, shared a look. The older one frowned. “Sir, that’s kind, but not advised. You don’t know him.”
I nodded. “You’re right. I don’t. But you’ve got his ID, right? You know who he is. You’ll have my license too.” I took my wallet out before I could talk myself out of it. “If anything happens, you know where to start.”
“Sir, ” the officer began, but the younger one interrupted softly, “Phillip, right?” He’d read my name from my card. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “But he needs somewhere warm. And you can’t make him go to a place that isn’t safe for him.”
The man, Justin, as I’d soon learn, looked at me then, really looked. His eyes were the kind of blue that somehow reflected both gratitude and disbelief.
“You sure?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the wind.
I nodded toward my car. “Let’s get inside before we freeze.”
He hesitated, glancing at the officers. They didn’t stop him. One said, “If you change your mind, Justin, the offer still stands.”
Justin nodded once. Then he bent, let the cardboard drop, and followed me toward my car. His breath came out in shallow puffs. His hands trembled when he opened the door.
For a moment, as he slid into the passenger seat, I wondered what I was doing. The air between us felt fragile, like the world had gone very still, waiting to see what would happen next.
I shut the door. The heater was silent, but just being out of the wind made a huge difference. Ice tapped lightly against the windshield.
“Home?” I asked, as I turned the key in the ignition.
Justin stiffened beside me, his hands clenched in his lap. “Home?” he repeated, almost like the word itself had teeth. His voice dropped, rough and quick. “No, I can’t go there. Don’t, don’t take me there.”
It took me a second to realize the misunderstanding. “No, no,” I said, keeping my tone calm. “I meant my home. You’re coming with me, just until the weather clears.”
He blinked, then let out a shaky breath. “Oh. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, ”
“Hey,” I interrupted, trying for a smile. “You’re fine. I wasn’t clear. I’d have jumped too.”
He rubbed his hands together, embarrassed, eyes darting away. “I just, when you said ‘home,’ I thought you meant…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Whatever that word meant to him, it wasn’t warmth and safety.
He was still shivering. The vents hadn’t had time to warm up yet, and his jacket was no match for the cold. In fact, I realized that it was just another shirt. I reached into the back seat and grabbed the thick, olive-green blanket I kept there. My father’s old habit. “He always said, ‘Never drive without an extra coat or blanket. You never know who’ll need it.’”
I handed him the blanket and my spare jacket. “Guess tonight proves him right.”
Justin smiled a little, pulling the jacket on. “Your dad sounds like a good man.”
“He was,” I said softly, eyes on the road. “Always practical. Always prepared.”
He nodded. “Mine wasn’t much for either.” The blanket was bunched under his chin now, his voice muffled. “He thought being tough meant never needing anything. Especially not me.”
That last part lingered between us, heavier than the cold. I didn’t push for details.
A fine mist was now starting to slap against the windshield again. As we reached the main road again, I spotted the glowing red sign of a KFC. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“How about something warm?” I asked. “Pot pies if they have any left? Chicken? I bet you could use a meal. I know I could.”
Justin’s face brightened in a way that made him look suddenly younger. “I haven’t had a hot meal in two days. That sounds incredible. I’ll pay you back some day.”
I pulled into the drive-thru. The speaker crackled. “Two pot pies, and… four chicken breasts, please. We’ll save any extra.”
He gave me a sideways look. “You cook a lot?”
“Not as much as I should,” I admitted. “But I know how to reheat things without setting the place on fire.”
That made him laugh softly. “Low bar, but impressive.”
We drove the rest of the way in a kind of fragile peace. The city lights blurred in the icy rain, everything smeared and uncertain. I caught myself glancing at him more than once, at the way he kept his hands tucked in his sleeves, how his eyes flicked toward the passing signs like he was memorizing every direction home.
When we pulled into my apartment complex, I felt the weight of what I’d done settle over me. I’d brought a stranger home. A stranger who’d been turned away by his own family.
But then, I told myself, wasn’t that the point? To be someone different?
Inside, the warmth hit us both at once. I kicked off my shoes and told him to hang his jacket by the door. He followed me into the small kitchen, where I unpacked the food onto plates. Steam curled up, smelling like salt and gravy and relief.
“This is… more than I expected,” Justin said, settling at the table.
“More than I planned,” I said, setting down napkins. “Guess I’m still trying to make a good impression.”
He grinned at that, then he said a blessing. I sensed that he was hungrier than he’d even admitted, but he attacked the pot pie with the manners of royalty. “I am so hungry,” he admitted.
I ate more slowly, mostly watching him. The nervousness I’d felt earlier began to fade… until I caught the way his gaze lingered on the knives lined up in the wooden block on the counter.
It wasn’t threatening, just… too focused.
“You like knives?” I asked lightly, more to break the silence than anything else.
He blinked, surprised. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, kind of. My uncle’s a butcher. Collects them. He showed me how to tell if one’s any good or if it’s just cheap junk. Guess I got the habit from him.”
I nodded, smiling in what I hoped was a normal way. “Good to know. I’ll keep you in mind next time I need to buy a set.”
He caught my tone, his expression changing instantly. “Wait, you thought I was, oh, no.” He put his fork down, laughing nervously. “I must’ve looked like some creep casing your kitchen.”
I couldn’t help laughing too. “Or maybe picking out which one to use on me later.”
He shook his head, still grinning. “I swear, I’m not dangerous. I just appreciate a sharp edge.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said.
“Honestly, I am not a serial killer.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that. What are the odds that there’d be two serial killers in my apartment on the same night.”
“No. Not with the dad jokes.”
“No?” I stood up and walked to the cabinet. “I promise you that I am a cereal killer. I pulled a box of Raisin Bran from the shelf. And this is my favorite victim.”
Justin smirked. “I figured you for Corn Pops. Because you’re so corny.”
I groaned, and we both laughed. “It’s a tie. I call for a truce.”
As we cleared the table, the tension continued to drain out of the room. I started the dishwasher, poured two glasses of wine, and nodded toward the living room. “Come on. Let’s sit by the fire.”
The logs were already stacked neatly in the fireplace, oak and cherry, chosen for their burn quality. I struck a match and watched the flame take, slow and patient. Fire has always fascinated me, not for its danger, but for its precision. Each kind of wood burns differently, depending on moisture and grain. There’s a rhythm to it, a quiet logic I’ve always found comforting.
After lighting it, I sat on the blanket I had near the hearth. Justin sat beside me, the blanket from the car wrapped around his shoulders, eyes reflecting the firelight.
“Warm enough?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. More than enough.”
For a while, we didn’t speak. Just the crackle of the fire, the hiss of rain against the windows, and the steady realization that this night had turned into something neither of us could have predicted.
I wasn’t sure whether I’d done something foolish. Or had I finally done something right.
The fire had settled into a steady rhythm, slow, deliberate crackles as the wood gave in to the heat. The orange light danced across the walls and painted soft, flickering shadows across Justin’s face. Every so often, the light caught the edge of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, and I had to remind myself not to stare.
For a long while, neither of us spoke. The storm outside had grown heavier; Droplets of rain took turns bouncing from the window’s outer pane or freezing fast like little tongues sticking to a flagpole. I poured us both another half glass of wine, partly to fill the silence.
Justin broke it first. “You’ve got a nice place,” he said quietly. “Feels comfortable and safe.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “I like the quiet. Guess it’s my kind of company these days.”
He smiled faintly, his gaze still on the fire. “You live alone?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes it feels like I’m just pretending not to notice how empty it gets.”
That earned a small, understanding laugh. “Yeah. I know that feeling. When I was a kid, I used to want the house to be quiet, and when it was, I had to pretend that I like it.”
The next silence wasn’t awkward, it was loaded, suspended, like the pause between heartbeats. His hand rested on the rug, close enough that I could feel the heat of it.
He turned toward me then, his expression open and uncertain. “Can I say something that might sound… weird?”
“Sure,” I said, my pulse suddenly louder than the wind outside.
He took a breath. “I keep telling myself not to, but… I’m feeling something. Like a spark. Between us.” His voice faltered. “It’s stupid, I know. I haven’t even,” he sighed, “I haven’t even brushed my teeth in two days.”
I almost laughed, but the way he said it, honest, self-conscious, almost vulnerable, stopped me. He shook his head, rubbing his palms together nervously. “I’ve been sleeping outside, Phillip. Haven’t showered, haven’t shaved. I probably smell rancid like rotting fruit, and you’re just too nice to say anything. You shouldn’t have to deal with it. And I certainly can’t move closer to you even though I want to. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” I interrupted softly. “Stop apologizing. You’ve had a hard couple of days.”
He looked away, embarrassed. “Still. I’d rather not look like something the storm dragged in.”
I got to my feet and nodded toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s through there. There are towels in the cabinet and, hold on, ” I opened the hall closet, rummaging for the old clothes I used for weekend runs. “These should fit. Shirt might be loose, but the shorts have a drawstring. I keep extra toothbrushes and toothpaste in the right hand drawer. There are new razors under the sink and the shaving cream is in the bathtub with the shampoo.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Your father?”
“Boy scout.” I chuckled. “And my father.”
He took the clothes with quiet gratitude, his fingers brushing mine just briefly, enough to make my skin tighten, to make the fire suddenly seem too warm.
When the bathroom door clicked shut, I let out the breath I’d been holding.
From down the hall came the sound of running water, soft at first, then steady. I found myself staring at the fire again, trying to anchor my thoughts. I told myself this was just compassion. Simple kindness. But the longer I listened to the faint rhythm of water and pipes, the more that argument fell apart.
By the time he returned, the sound of the storm had dulled. The air smelled faintly of soap and steam. Justin looked younger somehow, cleaner lines to his face, the sharpness of exhaustion replaced by something gentler. The athletic shirt hung loose on him, sleeves brushing his elbows.
He smiled, sheepish. “I feel human again. Thank you.” He sat slightly closer to me than he had before. “Although, I do think that some of that dirt was keeping me warm. I’m sure I look better without all that grime.
“You look even more attractive.”
That earned a small grin as well as a reddening of his cheeks. “You’re attractive, not just in the looks department. You excel in the ‘kindness to others’ department.
We let that hang in the air a beat too long before I handed him his glass again. “To feeling human,” I said.
He hesitated, then lifted his glass to meet mine. “To serendipitous encounters.”
The clink of the glasses was soft, swallowed by the fire’s whisper.
We both sat back on the rug, the heat from the flames spilling over us. The blanket was still draped over the armchair; I pulled it down, spreading it over the two of us without thinking too much about it. He shifted even closer, just a little, and I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the quiet steadiness of his breathing.
Outside, the wind howled and rattled against the windowpanes. Inside, the fire crackled, and the rest of the world seemed to disappear.
Justin leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the flames. “It’s strange,” he said softly. “I was freezing an hour ago, and now I feel… safe. Like I don’t have to run for once.”
I glanced at him. The firelight caught in his eyes, bright and alive, moving with the same rhythm as the flames.
“Then don’t,” I said. “I’m not just talking about tonight. Maybe you can stick around. See whether you like it here.”
He nodded, and a small, unguarded smile crossed his lips.
For a long time, we just sat there, the two of us wrapped in firelight and the soft pulse of something new and uncertain. Every flicker of the flames reflected in his eyes, in mine, and somewhere in that shifting light, the distance between us seemed to vanish.
The storm had settled into a steady hush outside, a kind of soft percussion on the glass. The world beyond the window had blurred into shadows and silver light, but here, inside, everything was wrapped in amber and warmth. The blanket covered both of us now. Justin had drawn one knee up, his head tilted toward the fire.
For a while, neither of us moved. There was no need to fill the space with talk anymore. I could hear the subtle rhythm of his breathing, feel the slow calm that had taken hold since he’d come back from the shower. The scent of soap clung faintly to the air, clean, simple, human.
He turned his head then, eyes meeting mine. The quiet stretched. “Phillip,” he said softly, as if testing how my name felt in his mouth.
“Yeah?”
His fingers brushed against the back of my hand, so light I wasn’t sure at first that it had happened. Then the touch steadied, warm, certain. Every muscle in my body went still.
“I don’t know what this night is,” he said, voice low, careful. “But I know what I’m feeling.”
I could have stepped back into reason, into safety. I could have told him that it was just gratitude or the wine or the fire. But when I looked into his face, open, nervous, hopeful, all the walls I usually kept so neatly stacked just fell away.
I turned my hand, letting our fingers lace together. His skin was still cool from the shower, the contrast sharp against the heat of the fire.
“Then maybe,” I said quietly, “we stop trying to name it.”
Something in him eased at that. His thumb moved once against my wrist, a slow, uncertain stroke, and I felt my pulse jump under his touch. He shifted closer, just enough that our shoulders brushed. The fabric of his borrowed T-shirt was soft against my arm, and the simple contact was electric.
The fire popped, and for an instant the whole room flared in light. Then his hand came up, tentative, to my cheek.
The world narrowed to that touch.
He searched my eyes for a heartbeat longer, one last chance to step back, then closed the distance. The first brush of his lips was hesitant, almost questioning, and I answered it with the same unsteady certainty. The kiss deepened slowly, the way warmth seeps into cold, until everything else, the storm, the crackle of the wood, the air itself, seemed to fall away.
When we finally drew apart, neither of us spoke. We just sat there, breathing the same air, the same firelight flickering between us. His forehead rested against mine, and I could feel the faint tremor of his breath as he whispered, almost to himself, “This afternoon, I was worried that I wouldn’t even make it into the night, and now I’ve never felt more alive.”
How could I tell him that there had been part of me that I thought was dead, but he had breathed new life into it.
Outside, the wind sighed against the window, and inside, the fire burned low and steady. The distance that had filled the room before was gone, replaced by a quiet understanding that neither of us quite knew how to name, but both knew we wanted to keep.
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