Page 9 of From the Wreckage

Everett

The sound of the crash tears through me like a gunshot. I watch in horror as the silver SUV hits the deer.

By the time I slam my truck into park and hit the asphalt, my adrenaline is already burning through my veins.

The SUV is a crumpled mess along the side of the road, steam rising from the hood. I wrench the driver’s door open, and there she is—the one I’ve been searching for. She’s pale and shaking, blood trickling down her forehead.

“Jesus Christ.” My voice is rough. “You’re bleeding.”

Her wide hazel eyes lift to mine. Recognition flickers in them before she breathes out, “Black truck guy,” like I’m not even real.

For half a second, I just stare at the brunette angel. She’s real, not a daydream or a glimpse through glass. And she’s hurt from the accident.

“You’re gonna be okay.” I crouch down, checking her quickly. “Can you move?”

“I… think so.” She winces, trying to sit straighter.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

She shakes her head, stubborn even through the shock. “No. I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding. That doesn’t look fine to me.”

“My dad—” Her gaze darts past me toward the hood of the SUV. “He’s gonna kill me.”

“Forget the damn car,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. Her flinch twists something ugly in my chest, and I soften my tone. “You matter more than the vehicle. Cars can be replaced.”

She presses her lips together, blood still sliding down her temple. “Please. No hospital.”

I curse under my breath, fighting myself. Every instinct is screaming to put her in my truck and drive straight to the ER. But she’s looking at me like I’m the only thing tethering her right now, and if I push too hard, I’ll lose her.

“Fine,” I grit out. “But I’m not leaving you like this.”

Before she can argue, I unclip her seatbelt and slide an arm around her, steadying her when her knees wobble. She feels too small and breakable against me, and the idea of letting her go makes me see red.

“I’ll take you to my place,” I tell her, steering her toward my truck. “I’ll clean you up. Then you can call your dad.”

She hesitates, biting her lip, torn between protesting and trusting me.

Finally, she nods.

That’s all I need.

Now that I’ve got her in my arms, I can’t let her slip away. Especially when she’s hurt.

I grab a handful of napkins from the glove box of my truck and press them gently to her cut. Blood stains through instantly, and it makes my jaw tick. “Hold this.”

She does, her small hand trembling against her forehead while I tug her seatbelt into place. Once she’s buckled, I slam the door and circle to the driver’s side.

“My car?—”

“It’s fine,” I grunt, starting the engine. “You swerved. It’s on the side of the road. We’ll deal with it later.”

She nods, but her hazel eyes stay locked on me like she’s trying to memorize my face in case she never sees me again.

Finally, her voice breaks the silence. “What’s your name?”

“Everett,” I answer, the syllables sounding rough in my own ears. “What’s yours?”

She hesitates, as if giving it to me is dangerous. Finally, she whispers, “Brielle.”

The name detonates inside me. Brielle.

I grip the wheel tighter, remembering yesterday when I stopped at The Pine & Page.

I’d lingered too long in the aisles, pretending to browse, hoping to bump into her.

She hadn’t been there. But when I checked out, Margaret, the owner, asked Leah if Brielle had picked up her books.

Leah said she was in fifteen minutes ago. I’d missed her by a breath.

And now she’s here. In my truck. Saying my name like it’s a lifeline.

The miles blur until we reach the lake. I plan to take her straight to my cabin, but as I slow for the turn, she points across the water.

“My dad’s place is down Harbor Point Road.”

I stop at the sign, staring. Then I nod toward the asphalt stretch on the left. “I’m on Cedar Bend.”

Her head whips toward me, her eyes wide. “You live here?”

“Yeah. Moved in two weeks ago.”

A beat of silence before she murmurs, “I live in the cabin on the other side of the lake.”

My pulse slams in my throat. She’s my neighbor. She’s been right there all along.

“You’re my neighbor,” I echo, the sound holding a tinge of disbelief.

She swallows, her lips trembling into the ghost of a smile. “A-apparently.”

I think back to that first night on my back porch with a beer in hand, staring out at the dark water. The sound of laughter had carried through the trees. Warm. Soft. Feminine. I hadn’t been able to shake it. And now I know—it was her.

I turn onto Cedar Bend Road and pull into my driveway. The truck crunches to a stop on the gravel, and before she can reach for the handle, I’m already out, circling my truck and opening her door.

“You’re still bleeding,” I mutter, my voice tight. “Let’s get you inside.”

Whether she realizes it yet or not, her being hurt is something I can’t fucking handle.

The second her flip flops hit the gravel, I’m steering her toward the porch. My hand hovers against her lower back—not pushing, just guiding. Touching her burns like a brand against me.

Inside, the morning sun slants across the floorboards, brightening the cabin. I flick on the light, toss my keys onto the counter, and pull out a chair at the small kitchen table.

“I turned the light on so I can see better,” I say as I gesture to the chair. She winces as she lowers herself into the chair.

Blood still seeps through the napkins, and the sight of it makes me curse under my breath. I grab the first-aid kit from the cabinet above the fridge and kneel in front of her.

“Hold still.” My fingers brush her wrist as I peel the napkins away. Her pulse leaps against my touch, and mine answers in tune with hers.

The gash isn’t deep, but it’s messy. I clean it carefully, every swipe of the antiseptic pad making her flinch. “Sorry,” I mutter, even as my jaw locks. “You should’ve let me take you to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” she insists softly, though her voice trembles. “It’s just a cut.”

“Just a cut,” I echo, shaking my head. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve—” I stop, the word died sticking like glass in my throat. I grab a bandage and press it over the wound, forcing myself to breathe.

When I finally meet her eyes, her hazel gaze is locked on me, wide and searching.

“You don’t even know me,” she whispers.

She doesn’t know how wrong she is. I’ve memorized every fleeting glimpse, every fragment of her that Silverpine has given me.

I know the planes of her face, the sound of her laugh drifting through the trees, and how angelic she looks when she walks downtown, her bag from the bookstore dangling from her fingertips.

“Maybe not,” I say, my voice low. “But I know enough.”

But I want more. I want to know everything about her.

Her breath hitches, and for a beat, the air between us tightens until I can’t breathe.

I clear my throat, forcing distance. “You should drink some water. Shock sneaks up on you.” I stand, grabbing a glass and filling it at the sink. She watches me the whole time, like she’s unsure if she should be afraid or… something else.

When I set the glass in front of her, her hand brushes mine as she reaches for it. I can’t tell if it’s deliberate or accidental, but I feel it everywhere.

I crouch again, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. My knuckles graze her temple, and I feel the faint tremble that runs through her.

“You should rest,” I murmur, my voice stripped of the edge I usually carry. “You’ve been through enough for one night.”

Her hazel eyes lift to mine, wide and uncertain, and something twists hard in my chest. A need I don’t recognize. A pull I can’t explain.

For half a second, the word mine flashes through me, sharp and reckless. I shove it down before it shows on my face.

She’s not just my neighbor. She’s someone I want to take care of.

And I don’t even know her last name.