One
1075 Words
Emma:
I never believed in signs.
But if I did?
Tonight would be one giant, flashing neon warning that said:
TURN BACK. GO HOME. ABORT MISSION.
Snow hammered my windshield so hard the wipers could barely keep up. My phone battery blinked red, my gas light glowed like an accusation, and my heater was blowing nothing but a sad, cold sigh.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
“Come on,” I told my car, rubbing the dashboard like it was a scared animal instead of a dying piece of machinery. “We’re almost there. Just a few more miles, okay? I will literally bake cookies for you if you—”
The engine gave a pitiful choke.
Then died.
Everything went dark.
Headlights. Engine. My hope.
All of it snuffed out in one cruel moment.
I sat there for a second, staring at the dead dashboard, listening to the wind rage outside like it had a personal vendetta.
“No. Not now. Not tonight,” I whispered, panic tightening my throat.
I tried the ignition again.
Click.
Nothing.
I pulled out my phone.
Black screen.
Dead.
Of course.
A laugh bubbled out of me—high, thin, semi-hysterical. I was thirty minutes from Winter’s Edge, in the middle of a snowstorm, with no heat, no phone, and no plan.
My ex’s voice echoed in my head, oily and smug:
You can’t make it without me, Emma. You won’t last a week.
My stomach twisted.
Not tonight.
Not again.
I zipped up my coat, shoved open my door, and nearly face-planted into a drift. Snow came up to my shins, biting at my skin through my jeans as I started walking.
Cold.
Wind.
Loneliness.
This was definitely the fresh start I’d pictured.
Just as my teeth started chattering so violently I couldn’t feel my jaw, I saw it—headlights cutting through the storm, bright and steady and moving straight toward me.
A large black truck rolled to a stop beside me, humming with power.
The driver’s window slid down, and a deep, low voice cut through the wind.
“Hey!”
I turned, blinking snow out of my eyes.
And just… stopped.
Because the man staring at me through the window was unfairly gorgeous.
Dark hair dusted with flakes. A sharp jaw. Broad shoulders. Eyes the color of storm clouds—serious, steady, way too intense.
He wore a heavy firehouse jacket, patches reflective even in the blizzard.
“Did your car break down?” he asked, gaze sweeping over me like he was checking for injuries.
“Yes,” I managed, wrapping my arms around myself. “And my phone is dead.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw—not annoyed with me, but with the situation.
“You shouldn’t be out here.”
His voice wasn’t yelling, but it had command in it. A quiet force.
“I didn’t really have a choice,” I said, my teeth chattering.
He exhaled, long and weighted. Then he said, “Get in.”
I blinked. “I don’t even know your name.”
He nodded once, like that was fair.
“Kaden Frost. Firefighter. Station 4 in Winter’s Edge.”
He pointed to the logo sewn on his jacket.
Then—slightly deadpan—added,
“I have a daughter. I’m not a murderer.”
Despite the cold, a tiny laugh escaped me.
“Okay. Good to know.”
“Come on,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’re freezing.”
I got in, and warmth wrapped around me like a hug I didn’t realize I needed. My fingers tingled painfully, and I tried not to groan in relief.
Kaden watched me for a second, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
He reached back, grabbed a blanket, and handed it to me. His hand brushed mine—warm, calloused—and a spark shot through me so fast I actually forgot what cold felt like.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He didn’t respond.
Just put the truck in gear and started driving.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the engine, the heater, and the storm clawing at the windows.
Then he asked, “What were you doing out here in this weather?”
I stared at the blanket, swallowing hard.
Because the truth was awful and messy.
Because I had packed what I could fit into a few bags and walked out of a life that had been suffocating me.
Because I was terrified.
Because I had nowhere else to go.
“I needed a fresh start,” I said softly.
Kaden glanced at me, and something shifted in his expression—not curiosity. Recognition.
“Winter’s Edge is good for that,” he said quietly.
We drove past pine trees dusted with snow, houses glowing with Christmas lights, storefronts lined with garlands and wreaths. The entire town looked like a postcard.
I felt his eyes flick toward me again.
Strong.
Stoic.
Careful.
The kind of man who carried grief on his shoulders and didn’t let people close.
I shouldn’t have found him attractive.
This was the worst moment of my life.
And yet…
“Thank you for stopping,” I murmured.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“I wasn’t going to leave you out there,” he said.
And something inside me tightened—low, soft, painful.
Because I believed him.
He pulled into the fire station, lights glowing warm and golden through the windows.
“I’ll check your car in the morning,” he said. “You’re staying at the inn?”
I hesitated. “I… haven’t booked a place yet.”
His jaw flexed.
Another sigh.
He sounded like a man who didn’t sigh often.
“You can stay here tonight. The guest room is open. It’s safer than being out in this storm.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
His eyes met mine—steady, warm in a way that hurt a little.
“I’m sure.”
I followed him out of the truck and into the firehouse, snow melting off my boots.
I didn’t know that somewhere upstairs, a little girl with big brown eyes was waiting in her small bed.
I didn’t know that this cold, intense firefighter had a shattered past.
I didn’t know my life was about to change.
But I felt it.
A spark.
A beginning wrapped in snow.
- Writer
