Becca

Becca wasn’t the type who believed in signs. She believed in coffee, reliable routines, and keeping her heart behind a very sturdy, well-decorated emotional fence. But that morning, absolutely nothing followed the plan. First, she spilled coffee on her shirt. Then, her tire pressure light came on. And then—because the universe has a sense of humor—her boss emailed her with the subject line: Urgent? (It never is.) So she decided she deserved a detour. Just ten minutes. Just a drive with the windows cracked open and music up loud enough to drown out her thoughts. She turned down a side road she’d never noticed before—a stretch of quiet asphalt tucked between tall pines and open sky—and for the first time all week, her shoulders finally dropped. Until she nearly hit him. A man stepped out from behind a parked truck, causing her to slam her brakes so hard her bag flew off the seat. He lifted his hands in apology, laughing a little as he jogged toward her window. His smile was unfair. His voice? Even worse—low, warm, the kind that wraps around your ribs before you can stop it.