One of the boys added, proud and earnest, “You said people don’t ask because they’re embarrassed.”
My throat tightened. He crouched to my level so he wouldn’t tower over me.
“My name is Daniel Stone,” he said. “These are Noah, Lily, and Ben. We live nearby.”
The name sounded important. Grounded. Not like a man who knelt in snow for strangers.
“I can offer you a warm place for tonight,” he continued. “Just tonight. Food, heat. You can decide what to do after.”
Panic flared. “I—I can’t. You don’t know me.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re shivering in a snowstorm without a coat. The only risk here is leaving you alone.”
He gestured to the kids. “I have children with me. If you want, I’ll call you a cab afterward. Anywhere.”
I thought about the night ahead. About being found frozen with divorce papers in my bag.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He slipped his coat around my shoulders. Warmth hit me so hard it felt like grief. He steadied me when my legs nearly gave out and guided me through the snow.
His house glowed with light and life—shoes by the door, drawings on the fridge, the smell of cinnamon and laundry soap. Safety had a scent.
“Hot chocolate,” Lily announced, like it was law.