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Isabella.

There’s a special kind of humiliation that sticks to your skin no matter how many times you shower. I’ve taken six in the last twenty-four hours, and I still feel it crawling under my clothes like an army of ants.

The rain didn’t help either.

By the time I pulled up to the edge of Willow Creek, the storm had gone from a polite drizzle to a full-on biblical downpour. My windshield wipers were doing the absolute most and still failing, and the GPS on my phone had frozen just as I reached the turnoff for something called “Mosswood Lane.” Which, for the record, sounded more like the setting of a low-budget horror movie than a peaceful writing retreat.

The cottage appeared through the mist like it wasn’t totally convinced it wanted to be seen. The roof sloped low on one side, the stone chimney was missing a few bricks, and the front porch sagged. Vines had taken over the front wall like nature was trying to reclaim it. The whole place looked like it had once belonged to someone’s sweet great-aunt who may or may not have been a hedge witch.

I loved it instantly.

I parked the car, my loyal, slightly traumatized Honda Civic, right outside the crooked gate, turned off the engine, and took a moment to sit there in the silence. Or what passed for silence, considering the rain was still assaulting the roof like it had a personal vendetta.

“You did it,” I whispered to myself. “You actually left.”

It didn’t feel triumphant. Not yet, but still, it felt enough.

I grabbed my overnight bag which was just the essentials, and made a run for the porch. The front door was painted forest green, chipped in places, with a brass knocker shaped like a fox. The keys were tucked in a ceramic frog beside the door, exactly where the property manager said they’d be.

Inside, the place smelled like dust, lemon wood polish, and a little bit of old books.

“Hello?” I called out. Old habits.

Nothing answered, which was both reassuring and a little sad.

The living room was cozy, in a “this used to be cute thirty years ago” kind of way. Floral curtains, a fireplace that begged to be used, and an old couch that looked like it had seen some things. I flicked on a lamp. It didn’t come on.

Right. Power. I found the fuse box near the back door and flipped the main switch. The light overhead flickered, then steadied.

Back in the living room, I kicked off my soaked shoes, dropped my bag, and collapsed onto the couch. I let my eyes close for a moment, listening to the rain pound against the roof like it was trying to shake the house awake.

I could’ve stayed like that for hours, but life had other plans.

When I went back out to grab the rest of my things from the car, I got exactly three feet before the unmistakable sound of a tire giving up on life reached my ears. I looked down at the front left wheel.

Flat. Of course.

“Perfect,” I muttered, pulling my hoodie tighter around me as the rain doubled in intensity just to make a point.

I dropped my box of toiletries on the porch, grabbed a flashlight from the glove box, and knelt to get a look at the damage. Mud squelched beneath my knees. The flashlight was weak and flickering like it was auditioning for a haunted house job.

I was drenched, freezing, and completely out of my depth when headlights cut through the storm behind me. A slow-moving truck rumbled down the lane and pulled up beside my car. The driver’s side window rolled down with an old mechanical groan.

“Need a hand?”

His voice was calm and deep, like the rain didn’t affect him the way it was affecting me, and probably the whole town.

I stood up too fast and nearly slipped. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

The man stepped out of the truck and into the rain without a hood, like a complete psychopath. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and the kind of handsome you notice even when you’re ankle-deep in mud and self-pity. His brown hair was plastered to his forehead, he had a sharp jawline and grey eyes that looked like they could see through people if they wanted to.

He didn’t smile or introduce himself as he crouched next to my car and inspected the tire like this was something he’d don a thousand times.

“I have a spare,” I offered.

He nodded once. “Good.”

In silence, he set to work. I stood awkwardly beside him, feeling completely useless and weirdly exposed. After a minute, I said, “I swear this car has been fine until today. Guess she didn’t like the move.”

He glanced up at me, rain dripping down his cheekbones. “Big move?”

“You could say that.”

More silence.

I fidgeted. “I’m Isabella, by the way.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then he said very quietly, “Noah.”

Just that. Noah.

“Well, thanks, Noah. Seriously. You’re kind of saving my ass here.”

He didn’t look up again. He kept working. I got the sense he wasn’t used to talking to people, or maybe he just didn’t want to. Still, there was something oddly calming about the controlled way he moved.

He tightened the last lug nut, stood, and gave the tire a once-over.

“You’re good.”

“Wow. That was fast.”

He shrugged. “Not my first time.”

I laughed a little, more out of nerves than amusement. “Well, I owe you.”

“No need.”

He started back toward his truck. I felt like I should say more, like ask something or offer him a towel, or at least invite him in for a warm drink like a sane human would, but he was already getting in the truck.

The engine roared to life, and the taillights lit up the mist as he backed away down the lane.

I stood there watching until he disappeared behind the trees.

Back inside, I dried off and changed into pajamas, then lit a few candles since the lighting was dim and the storm didn’t seem like it was letting up anytime soon.

Noah.

The name stuck in my mind over and over again. I couldn’t figure out why. He hadn’t said much, hadn’t even looked at me for more than a second. But something about him—

No. I should the thought out of my head.

Not now.

I opened my laptop and pulled up a blank document. I stared at the blinking cursor for a few minutes. The urge to write was there, but I just couldn’t get myself to start. Maybe I was just… scared?

I started typing.

The rain hadn’t stopped for days. She arrived soaked to the bone, her suitcase in one hand and her dignity somewhere in the trunk. The man who found her on the road said his name like it was a secret, and she didn’t ask for more. She was too tired to be curious about it. 

I paused.

Noah, huh?

I smiled, then I kept typing.