The inside of Stan's truck was quiet. Not peaceful- just quiet. The kind of quietness that seemed to be the loudest in your head when you're left with your thoughts. Her hands trembled in her lap, her knuckles red from the sharp cold.

The truck smelled like burnt rubber and weed. She didn't mind. It was better than the taste of humiliation burning in her throat.

Stan didnt speak. He gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Snowflakes tapped against the windshield like they were too polite to say anything, and the road stretched out in soft, blurry streaks of white.

Wendy stared out the window, jaw clenched, chest tight. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She was the girl who fought back. The one who called out creeps and shut down anyone who dared try to shut her up. The girl who wrote essays about human rights when everyone else was still worried about prom.

But there she was. Quiet, shaken, and bruised in someone else's passenger seat.

And the worst of all?

She let it happen and Stan had been her witness.

Stan's knuckles tightened slightly on the wheel. He cleared his throat.

"So, uh…" he began, eyes fixed on the road. "I—I heard you went to University or… somewhere like that? That true?"

Wendy didn't answer at first. Her breath fogged up the window as she stared into the snowy dark.

"For a while," she said eventually, voice flat.

Stan nodded slowly, not sure what to do with that answer. The silence started to stretch again, taut and uncomfortable.

"I mean, people just stopped seeing you around," he added. "Guess I figured you were off, y'know… doing something huge. Changing the world or whatever."

There was a pause. Then a quiet scoff from her side of the truck—almost a laugh, but not quite.

"Yeah," she said, her tone laced with bitterness. "Something like that."

Stan nodded again, like it helped somehow. The truck rumbled beneath them, old and tired, filling the space between words.

Neither of them spoke.

The air was warm now, but not comfortable. Just… heavy.

Wendy rubbed her hands together, like the motion could distract her from the way her chest felt—tight, full of things she wasn't ready to say.

Stan glanced over, opened his mouth, then shut it again. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.

A mile passed like that with snow whispering against the windshield. Stan shifted in his seat, finally breaking the silence.

"We should, uh… probably call the cops. On that guy," he said carefully. "What he did—he could've killed you."

Wendy's jaw tightened. She didn't look at him.

"Don't," she said softly.

Stan blinked. "Don't what?"

"Don't make this bigger than it already is."

"He beat the shit out of you, Wendy."

"I know what he did."

Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn't raise it. She just kept her eyes on the window like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Stan let out a breath, trying not to push too hard.
"Well… do you even know the guy? Was he just some random asshole, or—"

"He's my ex."

That shut him up. The words landed hard. Not because it explained everything, but because it suddenly made it all feel worse.

"Oh," he said quietly. "Jesus."

Wendy shifted in her seat, like her skin was starting to itch.

"I was with him for two years," she said, voice flat, like she was reading off a report instead of her life. "Didn't start out like that. Not at first."

Stan didn't say anything. Just gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, trying to keep the anger off his face. Not at her—never at her. But at the image of her with someone like that.

''Met him around CU Boulder.'' She said bluntly. ''Not at the university, just…around.''

Stan kept his eyes on the road, his voice quiet. "What were you doing back here?"

Wendy exhaled slowly, her breath fogging up the window. "We were coming to visit my parents."

"We?" Stan asked, even though he already knew.

"His name's Jordan," she said after a pause. "We were driving back. Something happened, and… we got into a fight."

She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. Her arms were still wrapped tightly around herself, like she was trying to hold in whatever was left.

Stan cleared his throat. "Do you… want me to drop you off at your parents'?"

Wendy didn't answer right away. Her fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of her sleeve.

"I was just there," she said quietly. "We left together. I can't exactly show up alone and pretend nothing happened."

Stan glanced at her, but she kept her eyes on the window.

"They'll ask questions," she added. "And I don't… I don't want to talk about it."

There was shame in her voice—thick and bitter. Not because she'd left, but because she'd stayed for so long.

Stan's mouth felt dry, trying to fish out the right words to say. He hesitated before speaking again.

"You can… stay at my place tonight. If you want."

Wendy turned to look at him, eyes searching his face like she wasn't sure if he was serious.

"It's not much," he added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. ''I've got this little place out on the farm.''

Wendy raised an eyebrow. "You still live on Tegridy Farms?"

He shrugged. "Didn't exactly have a lot of options after college didn't pan out. My dad gave me one of the old guest cabins. It's shitty, but it's mine."

She didn't respond right away. Just stared ahead again, lips pressed into a thin line. Stan glanced at her, then back at the road.

"I'll sleep on the couch or whatever. I'm not trying to make this weird."

Another pause. Then, finally, she gave a tiny nod.

"Okay."

The truck's headlights cut through the snow, casting long shadows over the bare fields of Tegridy Farms. The barn loomed in the distance like a crooked skeleton, and a single porch light flickered on the small cabin tucked behind the tree line.

Stan killed the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved.

"This is it," he said quietly. "Not exactly the Ritz."

Wendy glanced out the window. The cabin looked tired, like it had been forgotten by time—peeling paint, sagging porch, a faint smell of woodsmoke lingering in the air. But it was warm and quiet, and for the first time in hours, she didn't feel scared.

She nodded, reaching for the door handle with trembling fingers. Stan was already out, his boots crunching on the snow as he rounded the truck and opened the door for her without a word.

The cold hit her face like a knife, but it wasn't half as sharp as the silence between them. Still, she followed him to the front steps, her arms crossed tight over her chest.

Stan unlocked the door and pushed it open. The inside was dim and smelled like old wood, weed, and cheap detergent. It was a small space- one main room that served as a living room and kitchen, with a short hallway leading to what she assumed was a bedroom and bathroom. A single couch sat in the living room, covered with a faded blanket and a couple of mismatched pillows.

An empty beer can rolled under the coffee table, joining a small army of its crushed companions. A couple of old concert posters were tacked to the walls, some Wendy could remember Stan being a fan of in highschool. The cabin felt very much like Stan. A guitar in the corner of the room and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey confirmed this even more.

Stan lingered awkwardly near the door, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed by it all.

"Sorry, it's a mess," he muttered. "Didn't exactly expect company."

Wendy glanced around the space, taking in the clutter, the quiet hum of the old fridge, and the faint scent of stale weed clinging to the air. Her eyes lingered on the half-buried guitar and the posters on the wall. Despite the mess, there was something... honest about it. Like Stan had stopped pretending a long time ago.

She looked down at herself—dirt smudged on her coat, snow still melting off her boots and leaving little puddles at her feet. Her palms were scraped, and her jeans were soaked through at the knees.

"Do you mind if I use your shower?" she asked quietly, barely meeting his eyes.

Stan blinked, as if the question caught him off guard. Then he nodded quickly. "Uh—Uh-yeah. Of course. It's just down the hall. Door's on the right. Towels should be clean... I think."

"Thanks," she nodded. Her movements were stiff as she bent down and untied her boots. They came off with a reluctant squelch, leaving dark puddles by the door. She peeled off her socks next, wincing slightly as the cold air hit her raw ankles. Without another word, she padded down the hallway, arms crossed, each step echoing a little more loudly than the last.

Stan watched her go, the image of her hunched shoulders seared into his mind. He didn't say anything—he didn't know what to say. All he could do was listen to the distant sound of the bathroom door clicking shut, followed by the soft whoosh of water beginning to run.

Then came the silence again. The kind that settled into your bones and made everything feel just a little too real.

He decided to sit on the couch and wait for her, His body sinking into the fabric, elbows on his knees as he cradled his phone loosely in his hands.

He stared at the screen, which read 10:12 PM.

The shower still ran down the hall, muffled by the closed door. Every so often, he thought he heard movement, but maybe that was just the house settling or his nerves playing tricks.

Stan let out a breath through his nose. His fingers hovered over his screen. Should he message someone? His fingers swiped up, unlocking his phone before clicking on his messages, instantly going to the inbox with Kyle.

But what the hell was he supposed to say?

"Hey, remember Wendy? Yeah, she's in my shower after I dragged her away from some abusive prick."

He dropped his phone to his lap and dragged a hand down his face. It sounded insane. But doing nothing felt worse.

He picked the phone back up.

[STAN: dude you awake?

He started at the message after hitting send then started typing again.

[STAN: something happened, i dont know what to do. wendy's here.

The message was marked as delivered, then read.

[KYLE: wendy? wdym? Is she okay?

Stans thumbs hovered again, nerves buzzing. He could already hear Kyle's voice in his head, sharp with worry and way too many questions.

[STAN: i found her on the side of the road some guy she said was her ex was hitting her. I stepped in.

It took a moment before Kyle responded again.

[KYLE: holy shit. Is she hurt? where is she now?

Stan glanced toward the hallway, toward the sound of running water.

[STAN: shes here at my place. Showering.

[KYLE: jesus christ man

Then after message, a few dots blinking before it appeared.

[KYLE: you want me to come over?

Stan stared at the screen. He thought about it for a second. Then slowly shook his head and replied:

[STAN: nah. not tonight, just needed to tell someone

[KYLE: okay. well, im here if you need me. I'll keep my phone on loud. keep a eye on her, alright?

Stan locked the screen and let the phone rest in his lap again. His gaze drifted to the hallway. The water was still running.

He leaned back against the couch, the cushions swallowing him slightly, his mind still racing.