Soaked //free\\ | Skylar Snow

Her hair had escaped its bindings. Long, dark strands (ash-blonde when dry, now the color of wet sand) stuck to her temples and the nape of her neck. She shivered—not from cold alone, but from the vulnerability of it. Skylar Snow was a woman who controlled rooms. She did not get caught in storms. She did not drip.

Soaked to the bone, she felt honest for the first time in months. The water was cold, but it was also clarifying. It washed away the performance. There was no "Skylar Snow, rising star of the Phoenix DA's office." There was just a woman, caught in a deluge, watching the desert turn to mud. A flicker of lightning illuminated the highway. In that split second, she saw a shape—a figure in a dark coat, walking toward her without hurry. They carried no umbrella. They, too, were soaked. skylar snow soaked

As the figure stepped under the awning, Skylar recognized the gait. Of course. It was the one person who always found her when she was least herself. Her hair had escaped its bindings

The rain didn’t fall so much as it attacked. It came down in solid, silver sheets, each droplet a tiny hammer on the tin roof of the abandoned gas station. For Skylar Snow, being soaked wasn't just an inconvenience; it was an undoing. The Setup Skylar had never been one for forecasts. She trusted her gut, the prickle on the back of her neck, the way the wind tasted of ozone. But tonight, her gut had failed her. Twenty minutes ago, she’d been striding down Route 66, the desert dusk a bruised purple behind her. Her white linen shirt—crisp, tailored, her signature—had been loose and light. Her ash-blonde hair, usually a controlled wave, had been caught in a low bun. Skylar Snow was a woman who controlled rooms