Cole’s POV

The truck’s cabin smelled of heater oil, wet wool, and vanilla from Aria’s hair. I kept one hand on the wheel, driving through the unlit backroads of Northridge while my right hand held Aria’s swollen ankle elevated on a folded blanket. Every time the tires hit a frozen rut, she let out a shallow catch in her breathing that felt like a needle pressed into my chest.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, her head resting back against the cold vinyl headrest. Her eyelids were heavy, rimmed with dark shadows, but her golden-hazel eyes still burned. “Stop looking at me like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re not glass, Lang,” I...