John kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap, but his eyes… his eyes kept drifting to the passenger seat.
She hadn't spoken since climbing into the truck. Hadn't even looked at him. Just sat there with her arms wrapped around herself, rain-soaked clothes clinging to her like a second skin. Her face was turned to the window, but in the occasional flicker of passing headlights or lightning, he could still see it clearly—the swelling around her cheekbone, the cracked lip, the raw, purple bruises blooming across her neck.
But it was her eyes that caught him most. Blue. Not just blue—Lilly's kind of blue. Piercing and wide, the shade of sky before a storm breaks. It hit him like a punch to the ribs the first time he saw them in the mirror's reflection. He'd thought he was hallucinating.
No. Don't do that, he told himself. Don't project her face onto this girl. Don't turn her into a ghost.
But that ache, that pull, refused to fade. It sat in his chest like a slow fire, smoldering. Those eyes reminded him of days long gone, of chasing fireflies through fields with Lilly barefoot beside him, her laughter echoing across the dusk like music.
This girl wasn't Lilly.
But she'd been hurt. Bad. And that made something in him twist tight.
John reached forward, turned the dial on the old truck's radio. Static cracked through the speakers, and he adjusted it slowly until a bluesy guitar filtered in—low, smoky, the kind of music that didn't ask much of you. Just let you sit with your pain.
He didn't expect her to say anything, but part of him hoped the music might loosen the silence. Not force it open, just... crack it. Like the sky above them had cracked open with thunder earlier.
Still nothing.
He glanced at her again, careful not to be too obvious. Her hands were trembling, fingers digging into the sleeves of her oversized hoodie.
"Storm's easing up some," John said, voice low, testing the stillness. "Can probably make it to Ashwood in another thirty, maybe forty minutes. You ever been that way?"
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
He nodded to himself and tapped the steering wheel absently. "I'm just heading over to the next town. Got a little shop there. Mechanic, mostly. Trucks, bikes, tractors when folks drag 'em in."
No reaction. But he wasn't expecting any. He kept talking anyway, slow and even, like laying out a welcome mat in the dark.
"Name's John, by the way," he added after a moment. "John Harper. Don't worry, I ain't gonna ask yours. Not unless you want to give it."
She shifted slightly but still didn't look at him.
He let a few minutes pass in silence, only the hum of tires on wet pavement and the slow wail of the guitar filling the space between them. The smell of damp clothes and warm air from the heater began to replace the sharper scent of rain.
John's mind drifted again—couldn't help it.
What kind of man does this? he thought, glancing at the bruises again. What kind of bastard raises a hand to a girl like that?
He felt his jaw clench, teeth grinding against the question. He'd seen this kind of thing before. A thousand ways it could happen. A boyfriend with too much power and not enough heart. A father who thought fear equaled love. A stranger with violence in his bones. Whoever he was, John wanted to find him, drag him out into the rain, and show him what it meant to be afraid.
He pushed that down. Anger wouldn't help her right now.
He reached into the center console, pulled out a little bag of mixed peanuts and offered it gently in her direction. "Ain't got much, but if you're hungry…"
She hesitated—just a heartbeat. Then, to his surprise, she took it. Her fingers brushed his—cold, shaking—and he almost flinched at the contact. He didn't. He just nodded and returned his hand to the wheel.
A few more miles passed. The radio shifted into an old folk song—something about trains and time lost—and John finally broke the silence again.
"I used to drive trucks long haul," he said, not looking at her. "Before the shop. Before… well. A different life, I guess."
He didn't know why he was telling her this. Maybe because the silence was heavy, and filling it felt like keeping her alive somehow. Maybe because a small part of him just wanted to be heard again.
"My sister, Lilly, she loved storms," he continued, voice dropping. "Most kids are scared of thunder. Not her. She'd run out into the rain like it was calling her. Drove our mom crazy."
That got a twitch. Barely. But she blinked, just a little faster.
"She used to say the sky was trying to talk to us," John said with a faint chuckle. "Said lightning was just a message we hadn't learned to read yet. Hell, I didn't understand it, but it made her happy. That was enough for me."
The girl shifted, her hand reaching up to tug at her sleeve. She still didn't look at him, but she was listening. He could feel it.
"Lilly's been gone five years now," he said quietly. "Still feels like yesterday."
He didn't elaborate. Didn't want to scare the girl with the river, the unanswered questions, the hole left behind. Just gave her the bare shape of his pain. Enough for her to see it without being forced to carry it.
He let the silence settle again.
Finally, her voice—small, raw—cut through.
"Sorry," she whispered.
John looked at her, surprised.
She didn't turn toward him, still stared out the window. But her voice had a tremble that hit him hard.
"You don't gotta be," he said gently. "You didn't know her."
"She sounds nice."
"She was," he said. "Kind, stubborn, too damn smart for this world."
The girl let out a breath. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob. Just the sound of someone who'd been holding something too long and had let the smallest bit of it go.
They passed a diner—lights off, sign flickering in the wind. The rain was easing, finally, down to a drizzle that tapped softly against the roof. The world outside was turning from pitch-black to a muted steel grey.
"Sometimes I drive when I can't sleep," John said after a moment. "Used to drive at night with Lilly when we were teens. Just to get away from the house. Windows down, music up, her feet on the dash. Like we were running from everything."
He smiled, and it felt real. Brief, but real.
"You running too?"
The question just slipped out.
The girl flinched—barely noticeable, but he saw it. Her shoulders hunched tighter. Her hands clutched the peanut bag like a life preserver.
John immediately regretted the question.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "Forget I asked."
More silence. Then, a whisper.
"Yeah."
He didn't say anything. Just nodded slowly. Let the moment breathe.
"I don't have anywhere to go," she added after a long pause. Her voice was quiet but steady now. "Not anymore."
John stared ahead. Trees blurred past the windows. The road curved gently, rainwater cutting thin streams along the edges.
"Well," he said softly, "you don't gotta figure all that out tonight. One night at a time, that's all. You need a place to rest, I know someone with a spare room in Ashwood. "
She didn't answer, but her posture shifted. Just a little. Not quite relaxed—but something less rigid. Less ready to bolt.
"Figured you'd rather that than a sheriff's station," he said carefully. "Sometimes the official folks don't know how to help the way they think they do."
Another silence. Another breath.
"I… yeah. That'd be okay."
It was the most she'd said yet. And it hit him deep.
John gave a small nod. "Alright then."
They drove the rest of the way in near silence, but something had changed in the air between them. The kind of silence that isn't absence, but presence. Like the tension had shifted its weight and was now waiting for what came next.
As they approached the edge of Ashwood, John reached for the glove box, pulled out an old thermos, and offered it to her. "Coffee. Probably lukewarm by now, but it's decent."
She took it. Cracked the lid. Sipped. Then looked at him—really looked, for the first time.
"Thanks," she said.
He nodded once, eyes forward.
"No trouble," he said. "Like I said—I'm just a mechanic. But I try to keep the engine running when I can and coffee is what keeps me going."
She didn't smile. But her grip on the thermos relaxed.
And outside, the storm finally passed.
The town of Ashwood emerged through the thinning mist like something half-remembered. A collection of tired storefronts and brick buildings hugged the main road, their windows dark, their awnings sagging from the weight of too many storms. The rain had eased to a soft drizzle, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the muted orange glow of the streetlights.
John eased the truck onto Main Street and slowed his speed. She hadn't given her name, but she sat beside him, clutching the thermos with both hands, her knuckles still pale. She hadn't spoken since she said it'd be okay to find a place. But her shoulders had dropped just enough to show she was no longer bracing for impact.
That was something.
John pulled past the post office, past the shuttered diner, and turned onto a gravel lot next to a squat, corrugated metal building with a flickering neon sign in the window: Harper's Garage.
He let the truck idle for a moment, fingers still resting on the steering wheel, then turned to her. "We're here," he said. "Ain't much to look at, but it's home."
She gave the faintest nod, eyes flickering toward the sign.
John killed the engine. For a beat, neither of them moved. Then she surprised him.
"My name's Sarah," she said softly, without looking at him.
It hit him like a jolt—not the name itself, but the way she said it. Like it was something she hadn't been allowed to say out loud in a long time.
He nodded slowly. "Nice to meet you, Sarah."
Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But almost.
They sat for a moment in the silence that followed, the ticking of the cooling engine the only sound between them.
"I don't have anywhere to go," she said after a pause. "But I can't go back. I won't."
John didn't ask where back was. He didn't need to.
"You don't have to," he said. "No one's making you."
She turned her head to look at him, eyes wide and heavy. "I'm scared," she whispered.
He met her gaze evenly. "I'd be worried if you weren't."
She blinked, and the tremor in her chin returned. But she held it together.
"Let me guess," he said gently, "you're running from a scumbag boyfriend?"
She hesitated. Then nodded once.
John sat back in his seat and let out a long, quiet breath. He'd been afraid of that. Somehow knowing it didn't make it easier to hear.
"Alright," he said. "You're not the first person who's had to do that. And you sure as hell won't be the last."
He pushed the door open, stepping out into the cool drizzle, then circled the truck and opened her door.
"You don't gotta figure everything out tonight," he told her. "But if you want, you can stay here. I've got an apartment above the shop. Two bedrooms. You can take the spare."
Sarah looked at him, confused. "You're serious?"
"Yeah," he said simply. "Not the Hilton or anything, but it's dry, got a bed, and no one'll come looking for you here unless you want them to."
She stared at him for a long moment, and John could see the battle behind her eyes—the fear, the disbelief, the desperate, gnawing hope she was trying not to let in.
Finally, she nodded again.
He helped her down from the truck, and together they crossed the lot to a steel door set into the side of the garage. He unlocked it with a heavy key ring, the lock clicking loudly in the quiet.
The shop's interior was dark and smelled of rubber, oil, and old tools. Rows of tires lined the walls, and workbenches sat cluttered with wrenches and parts in various states of repair. A narrow stairwell hugged the far wall, leading up to a wooden door with peeling paint.
"Come on," he said, leading the way up.
The apartment was simple, functional. Warm.
The front door opened into a small living space with a threadbare couch, an old television, and a scuffed-up coffee table littered with mechanic manuals and a half-finished crossword puzzle. Beyond that was a narrow galley kitchen with mismatched cabinets and a fridge that hummed like it had a grudge.
"I usually keep to myself," John said as he stepped inside. "But it's quiet up here. Got heat, hot water, even some decent coffee when the machine cooperates."
Sarah followed him in, eyes darting around, taking everything in like a stray cat too used to the streets.
"Bathroom's through there," he gestured. "Spare room's down the hall. I'll grab some blankets."
He disappeared into the hallway and returned with a folded stack in his arms. He handed them to her wordlessly, then paused.
"There's a lock on the inside of the bedroom door," he said. "You can use it if you need to. I won't bother you."
She nodded, hugging the blankets to her chest.
He hesitated, then added, "And if you ever want to talk, I'm around."
For the first time, she met his eyes without flinching. "Thanks, John."
He gave her a small nod. "Get some rest."
He turned and made his way to his own room, but didn't close the door all the way. Part of him just wanted to be able to hear if she cried out. The way she'd walked—cautious, like her body hurt in places no one could see—had told him enough.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as rain pattered against the window. His thoughts churned.
Sarah.
She had a name now. A story, at least the beginning of one. And a quiet, shaking strength that reminded him so damn much of Lilly it hurt.
Maybe he couldn't save everyone.
But tonight, at least, he'd done something right.
And for the first time in a long while, John Harper slept with the feeling that he'd managed to outrun the storm—if only just.