The mindless machine

Wyatt chuckled softly, though there was no real mirth in it. His breath fogged the cold night air as he glanced at Rosalie, her worry cutting through the lingering haze of alcohol.

You always were stubborn, Rosie. Guess some things never change, he said, his drawl carrying a faint rasp. He tugged his coat tighter around himself, his steps uneven but steady enough as they made their way down the quiet street.

Her offer—or command, really—made him smirk faintly, though the warmth in her words stirred something deep in him that he wasn’t ready to confront.

You’re somethin’ else, you know that? Draggin’ my sorry hide outta that place, freezin’ your own tail off to make sure I don’t fall apart completely. Not many would bother, Wyatt said, his voice quieter now, his tone tinged with a raw honesty he rarely let anyone hear.

He glanced at her again, noting the determination in her expression, the set of her jaw. The familiar sight of it made his chest tighten, a bittersweet reminder of the kind of woman she’d always been—too good for him, by any measure.

Alright, you win again. I’ll take the couch... but only if you promise not to burn breakfast in the mornin’. His teasing tone returned briefly, masking the guilt and gratitude that churned beneath the surface.

They walked in silence for a moment, the crunch of snow under their boots the only sound between them. Wyatt shoved his hands into his coat pockets, his head bowed against the chill. Finally, he spoke again, his voice softer, almost hesitant.

Rosie... I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you. But... thanks. For draggin’ me outta that place. For givin’ a damn when I don’t.

His words trailed off into the cold night, the vulnerability in them hanging in the air as they made their way toward the warmth of her home.

@Rosalie Rutherford