The power went out at 3:17 a.m.
Sophie had been asleep for exactly two hours.
She woke with a jolt, heart hurling itself against her ribs, as the room dropped into absolute darkness.
For a second, groggy and disoriented, she thought she was back in her apartment, that a breaker had blown. But the air smelled different—cedar and some subtle, expensive soap. The sheets were softer. The mattress was better.
Elk Ridge.
The summit.
The storm.
The silence was so complete it roared.
She lay there, breath shallow, as her mind scrambled.
Then, like a distant hum, the generator kicked in.
The bedside lamp flickered once and glowed back to life at half-brightness. Somewhere deeper in the house, a low mechanical thrum settled into a steady background vibration.
She exhaled, the air leaving her lungs in a shaky rush.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, grabbing for her phone on the nightstand. The screen blazed too bright in the semi-dark. 3:18 a.m. A few notifications stacked up: WEATHER ALERT. POWER OUTAGE REPORTED IN YOUR AREA.
No shit.
She shoved her feet into the slippers the estate had provided and pulled on the thick cardigan she’d draped over the chair. The room was still warm—the insulation in this place was apparently fantastic—but the sensation of the power going—*gone*—lingered in her bones.
It had stirred something old.
She didn’t much like storms either.
A flash of childhood: huddling in the hallway of their tiny house in Missouri, her mom clutching a flashlight, her dad making stupid knock-knock jokes as the wind howled. The crash when the tree had come down in the backyard. The way the dark had felt then—heavy, charged.
She shook it off.
This wasn’t that. This was a controlled environment. They had a generator. They had staff. They had plans.
She opened her door.
The hallway glowed dimly with backup sconces. The estate was hushed. The storm outside had ramped up—the wind keened around the eaves, and the sound of snow hitting glass was a constant, eerie whisper.
She padded toward the main living area.
Howard appeared from the opposite direction, jaw shadowed with stubble, hair mussed just enough to be noticeable. He wore a sweater over pajama pants and held a tablet like a shield.
“Ms. Turner,” he said. “You felt it.”
“It would be hard to miss,” she said.
“The main line’s down,” he said. “A tree, most likely. The generator kicked in as it should.”
“Any issues?” she asked.
“None yet. But we may want to switch to a reduced power mode to conserve fuel if the utility company can’t get up the mountain until after the storm.”
She frowned. “How long can this storm last?”
“They’re saying another twelve hours of heavy snow, then tapering.”
She did the math in her head. “Guests are due in nine hours.”
“Yes.”
As they stepped into the living room, she saw it.
Where the night before the valley had been a darker shadow below the house, now there was nothing but swirling white. The glass might as well have been frosted. The snow came sideways, in sheets, driven by wind that wailed like something alive.
Her stomach dropped.
“Well,” she said. “That’s... dramatic.”
“Mr. Cross is in his study,” Howard said. “He’s been awake since the flicker.”
Of course he had.
She hesitated only a second before heading that way.
The glass door to the study was closed. Through it, she saw only white. The storm had swallowed the view entirely. It pressed against the glass like a living thing.
Nathan stood in the middle of the room, shoulders rigid, hands at his sides.
His hair was damp, like he’d splashed water on his face. A faint sheen of sweat glowed at his temples, out of place in the cool room. He looked less composed than before, as if someone had reached in and unset his internal metronome.
He turned sharply at the sound of the door.
His eyes went straight to her, wild for a flicker before he smoothed them. But she’d seen it. It made her pause.
“The generator’s on,” she said, because she didn’t know how else to start. “We’re good.”
“For now,” he said.
The storm shrieked outside, a gust making the glass panels vibrate almost imperceptibly.
He flinched.
She didn’t think anyone else would have noticed. It was small—a tightening of his shoulders, a twitch at his jaw. But she was watchful, and he was silhouetted against a nothingness that made every movement stark.
“You okay?” she asked before she could talk herself out of it.
He looked at her like she’d spoken Swahili.
“Fine,” he said. Too fast.
“You really hate storms,” she murmured.
He took a breath, chest rising.
“I hate losing control of my environment,” he said. “And I hate feeling—” He cut himself off.
“Trapped?” she finished quietly.
His gaze locked on hers.
For a heartbeat, the room was charged with something raw and uncomfortable and real.
“Guests start arriving in a few hours,” he said, as if forcing his mind onto another track. “Are the roads open?”
“For now,” she said. “The drivers left a message at two, saying they were delayed leaving the city because of an accident on the highway. But they’re on their way.”
“In this?” He gestured at the white. “They’re idiots.”
“They’re professionals,” she said. “But I’ll check again, see if it’s still safe.”
“You’re not sending anyone up here if there’s a risk,” he snapped.
Her own temper, honed sharp by years in her job, pricked.
“With all due respect, Mr. Cross,” she said. “You asked me to run this event. That includes assessing weather risk.”
“And I’m telling you that *no one*—” His voice rose. He caught himself, dropped it. “No one gets stuck here.”
There it was again. That note.
“Is that about them,” she asked softly, “or you?”
He went very still.
“Don’t analyze me,” he said. It wasn’t loud. It was very, very quiet.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
“I’m not here to analyze you,” she said. “I’m here to make sure your summit goes smoothly and everyone stays safe. That includes not sending drivers up a mountain in a whiteout.”
Their eyes held.
Outside, the wind howled. The glass shivered infinitesimally.
He looked away first, strides taking him to the far window, as if he had to confront the storm head-on.
There was nothing to see. Just white.
“You’re right,” he said, so low she almost didn’t hear. “You handle it.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“I’ll call the transportation company,” she said. “We may need to delay the guest arrivals until the worst passes. See if we can push things back a few hours. Maybe even until tomorrow if necessary.”
“That’ll fuck the schedule,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “But better a fucked schedule than an overturned SUV.”
He gave a rusty, humorless sound that might have been a laugh.
“You have a point,” he said. “Unfortunately.”
She almost smiled.
“I’ll also talk to the chef,” she said. “Adjust meal times, make sure we ration generator usage. We’ll be fine.”
“You keep saying that,” he said.
“Because it’s true.”
“Or because you need it to be.”
“Both,” she admitted.
He turned then, leaning back against the glass, palms splayed flat, as if bracing himself against the storm outside and the one inside his head.
“You’re too calm,” he said.
“I’m more tired than calm,” she said. “There’s a difference.”
He studied her, eyes scraping over the messy bun at the back of her head, the cardigan swallowing her frame, the clipboard still in her hand like a shield.
“How many hours of sleep?” he asked.
She thought. “Two?”
His mouth flattened. “You need more than that.”
“So do you,” she shot back. “You look like you’ve been up all night.”
He opened his mouth, and something like reflex snapped out. “You look like you slept in your clothes.”
“I did,” she said.
He blinked.
“Why?” he asked.
“If the power went out and the generator failed,” she said, “I didn’t want to waste time putting on pants.”
He stared.
Then, against all apparent will, his mouth curved.
“You are insane,” he said.
“Prepared,” she corrected.
“That, too.”
Silence fell again, but it wasn’t as brittle.
“I’m going to check in,” she said. “We’ll keep you updated on the guest situation.”
“I don’t need play-by-plays,” he said.
She tilted her head. “Are you sure? You seem like maybe you do.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re insulting me in my own house,” he said.
“I’m not insulting you,” she said. “I’m setting expectations.”
He huffed. “You’re a menace.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
As she turned to go, his voice stopped her.
“Ms. Turner.”
She looked back.
“If we do get stuck,” he said, voice low and serious, “if the guests can’t get out...”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“We’re not doing icebreakers,” he said. “No matter how dire it gets.”
She laughed, the sound bursting out of her in a startled bark. It echoed strangely against the glass.
“God forbid,” she said. “I’d rather let them reenact *Lord of the Flies*.”
“Good,” he said. “Just so we’re aligned.”
He used the word with faint mockery.
She shook her head and left him there, a dark shape against the white, caught in a battle with ghosts she couldn’t see.
***
In the kitchen, the staff clustered around the island, voices low but tense. The overhead lights glowed dimmer than before.
“Power’s out for the whole county,” the chef said as she walked in. “Utility company says they can’t get trucks up here until after the storm eases. The roads are a mess. Trees down.”
“How’s the generator?” she asked.
“Fine for now,” Howard said. He’d pulled a sweater on over a T-shirt, and his usually immaculate hair stuck up a little. “But we’ll want to minimize nonessential power draw. Turn off noncritical lights, limit use of certain appliances.”
“We can use the gas range,” the chef said. “Ovens, too. We’ll be okay food-wise as long as the gas line holds.”
“Water?” she asked.
“The pumps are on backup, but they’re not a huge draw,” Howard said. “We’re fine there.”
“Transportation?” she asked.
“I spoke to the company,” Howard said. “They made it halfway up before turning back. Visibility’s nearly zero on the last stretch. They refuse to risk it. I don’t blame them.”
“So the guests are stuck in Denver,” she said.
“For the moment.”
She exhaled.
“Okay,” she said. “Then we pivot.”
“Pivot to what?” the chef asked.
“We’re going to act like we have a full house anyway,” she said. “Prep meals, but on reduced portions until we know if anyone’s making it up today. Keep coffee and tea plentiful. People panic without caffeine.”
“People panic without Wi-Fi,” Howard murmured.
“The network’s on backup,” the sous-chef chimed in. “Signal’s spotty but working.”
“See?” she said. “Civilization remains.”
She hopped up to sit on a stool, pulling out her clipboard. “If the guests can’t make it today, we’ll postpone the welcome reception to tomorrow noon. The schedule will get tighter, but we can condense sessions, shave time off breaks.”
“All that assumes they can get here tomorrow,” Howard said.
She met his eye.
“Do you think they can’t?”
He sighed. “The storm will ease. The plows will move. But there’s always the chance of... surprises. Another front. A second downed line.”
“Rain,” she said slowly, “check the forecast for the city. If the airport is open, we keep them there. Worst case, we hold an abbreviated summit tomorrow or even Sunday.”
“And if the airport closes?” Howard asked.
She didn’t want to think about it.
But she had to.
“If the airport closes, we focus on what we can control,” she said. “This house. The people in it. Keeping them safe and occupied.”
“How long can the generator run at reduced power?” she asked.
“Three, four days,” the chef said. “If we’re careful.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s our window.”
She felt, more than saw, Howard’s eyes on her.
“You’re very calm,” he said.
“I have to be,” she said. “If I start to panic, everyone will.”
“Do you panic privately?” he asked, curious.
“Sometimes,” she said. “In bathrooms. In parking lots. Once in a walk-in cooler.”
The chef snorted.
“I screamed into a bag of arugula,” she said. “It was very cathartic.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Howard said. “If you disappear into the pantry, I’ll know.”
Everyone smiled, a small release of tension.
She checked her phone again. No new messages from the transportation company. No more weather alerts. The same red banner glared at her.
WINTER STORM WARNING. EXPECT HAZARDOUS TRAVEL.
She thought of Nathan in his glass box, eyes too bright. She thought of the way his hands had lain flat against the window, as if testing for cracks.
He didn’t like being stuck.
She didn’t either, not really.
But here they were.
“Okay,” she said, pushing away from the island. “Lights off in unoccupied rooms. Fireplaces only where people are. Keep doors shut between heated and unheated spaces where possible. We treat this like a very luxury camping trip.”
“You know,” Howard said, “in some circles, luxury camping is considered the pinnacle of leisure.”
“Those circles are wrong,” she said.
He almost smiled.
As she turned to leave, he called after her softly.
“Ms. Turner.”
She looked back.
“Mr. Cross is... not at his best in storms,” Howard said.
“I gathered,” she said.
“If he’s sharp with you—”
“He already has been,” she said.
“More than usual,” Howard amended. “Try not to take it personally.”
“I don’t take any of this personally,” she said. “If I did, I’d have quit this job years ago.”
His gaze warmed. “I’m starting to see why he picked you.”
She felt heat rise under her skin.
“Tell him I’ll update him after I hear from the drivers,” she said.
“If he doesn’t come looming down the hallway demanding it first.”
“What an image,” she muttered.
She walked back toward the main hall, the storm’s roar a constant undercurrent.
On impulse, instead of heading to her makeshift office, she detoured upstairs to the small balcony that overlooked the living room and, beyond it, the valley.
Or where the valley should have been.
White.
Nothing but white, pressing against the glass, erasing lines.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
Her mind—unhelpful, vivid—offered up all the ways this could go wrong. The generator could fail. A tree could crash through a window. Someone could slip on the stairs in the dark.
She shut it down.
“Stop,” she told herself quietly. “One thing at a time.”
Her phone buzzed.
AUDIO CALL: TRANSPORT COORDINATOR.
She answered.
“Jen,” she said. “Tell me something good.”
“Depends on your definition,” the woman on the other end said. “We got turned around two miles from your turnoff. Couldn’t see five feet in front of the hood. I’m not sending my drivers back up there until this lets up. I’m sorry, Sophie.”
“How’s it down there?” she asked.
“Messy,” Jen said. “But manageable on the main roads. We can get guests from the airport to hotels in town, no problem. It’s just that last stretch to you that’s the bitch.”
“Okay,” she said. “We postpone the summit start. Can you redirect any guests who are already on the way to the mountain back to the city?”
“Already did,” Jen said. “We’re parking them in two hotels near the base. They’ll be warm and fed.”
“Good,” she said. “We’ll check back in six hours. If the visibility improves and the plows get through, we’ll reassess.”
“You staying up there?” Jen asked.
“Yes.”
“Lucky,” Jen said wryly. “You’ve got heat and a stocked bar. Just ride it out.”
She hung up and leaned her forehead against the cool railing.
The guests were safe.
The staff were safe, for now.
The storm would burn itself out eventually.
She had power, food, plans.
Everything was under control. Or as under control as it could be.
Her brain tried to whisper, *You’re stuck*, but she slapped a mental hand over its mouth.
The creak of a footstep behind her made her turn.
Nathan stood at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister.
He wore a different sweater now, dark blue, the sleeves shoved up to his forearms. His feet were still bare, and for a weird second she focused on that, on the absurd intimacy of seeing someone’s bare feet in a crisis.
“Well?” he asked.
“The drivers turned back,” she said. “Guests are staying in town until visibility improves. We’ll push the summit start to tomorrow.”
“So it’s just us,” he said.
“Us, the staff, Howard, and a very angry storm,” she said.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
“How many people?” he asked.
“Staff?” She counted quickly. “Eight on-site, including the chef. Plus us.”
“Ten,” he said.
“Is that a bad number?” she asked, trying for lightness.
“It’s manageable,” he said. “Any more and I’d have started fantasizing about homicide.”
“You write murder for a living,” she said. “I feel like that line’s blurry for you anyway.”
His eyes glinted. “Possibly.”
He came closer, stopping a few feet from her on the balcony. From here, she could see the faint roughness of stubble on his jaw, the way his hair curled slightly over his ear.
She became abruptly aware of the fact that she was in leggings and an oversized cardigan, hair in a loose bun, face bare of makeup. It felt almost... indecent. She wore polished armor to work: carefully curated outfits, subtle eyeliner, neat hair. Here, stripped of all that, she felt oddly exposed.
His gaze flicked over her, slower than it had in the study, taking in the cardigan, the slippers, the tired shadows under her eyes.
“You look...” He stopped.
She arched an eyebrow. “Careful.”
“Tired,” he finished, but the word came out different than she expected. Softer. Almost like a concern.
“So do you,” she said.
He gave a small, humorless smile. “I don’t sleep well in storms.”
“Because of feeling trapped?” she asked.
He tensed, then made a face, annoyed with himself. “Something like that.”
She leaned back against the railing. “You know, it’s funny.”
“I doubt it,” he said.
“I plan for worst-case scenarios,” she said. “It’s literally my job. I have plans for power outages, food shortages, medical emergencies. I have backup vendors for my backup vendors. But the one thing I can’t plan for is how people react when things go sideways. That’s always the wild card.”
He made a low sound. “People are the worst variable.”
“And the best,” she said. “Sometimes.”
He didn’t reply.
“You’re handling this better than I thought you would,” she added, because some part of her didn’t want to leave that assessment unspoken. “Given how much you hate storms.”
His jaw moved. “You’re measuring me?”
“It’s my job to measure situations,” she said. “And your reaction’s a factor. If you’d gone full meltdown—”
“Full meltdown,” he said flatly.
“—I’d be factoring that into my planning,” she finished. “I’m not saying you’re *not* freaking out. But you’re still upright. You’re still making jokes about homicide. That’s a win in my book.”
His lips parted, then closed again.
“You don’t treat me like...” He trailed off.
“Like what?”
“Like a fragile golden goose who might stop laying if you look at him wrong,” he said tersely.
She snorted. “You’re not a goose.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly.
“And you’re not fragile,” she added. “You’re... high-strung.”
He stared.
“You really are a menace,” he said.
“Yes, but I’m *your* menace for the next three days,” she said. “So you might as well lean into it.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth again, quick, hot, as if it hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help it.
Her breath hitched.
He saw it.
For a second—one long, stretched-out second—the storm outside, the generator hum, the house—all of it receded. There was only the narrow strip of distance between them, the charged air, the awareness of his height, the heat radiating off his body despite the chill.
Then he stepped back, breaking it.
“Three days,” he said. “Assuming the roads open.”
“They’ll open,” she said.
“You sound very sure,” he said.
“I have to be,” she said. “Or nobody else will be.”
“You said that already.”
“Then maybe listen this time,” she said.
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
She found herself wanting to see it fully. Not the half-smirks and almost-smiles. A real one.
Dangerous thought.
“I’m going to go update the written schedule,” she said, pushing off the railing. “Nothing like a crisis to make a planner’s day.”
“Nothing like,” he echoed.
She started toward the stairs, then paused.
“You should try to sleep,” she said over her shoulder. “You’re not any good to me if you collapse from exhaustion.”
“Is that a professional concern?” he asked. “Or a personal one?”
She froze.
It was a casual question, on the surface. Teasing, even. But the tone underneath was searching.
She turned slowly.
His eyes met hers, unblinking.
“Professional,” she said.
Something flickered in his gaze. “Of course.”
She swallowed.
“Goodnight, Mr. Cross,” she said.
“It’s morning,” he said.
“Then good morning,” she said. “Try not to murder anyone before breakfast.”
“No promises.”
She went down the stairs on slightly unsteady legs.
Behind her, the storm howled, battering at the glass.
Ahead of her, three days stretched, blank and unwritten, like a page waiting for ink.
And in the center of it all: a man who hid his fear under scowls, a generator humming against the dark, a house on a mountain wrapped in white.
They were stuck.
For now.
But in that stuckness, something had shifted. A crack in the ice. A hairline fracture in the walls they both carried.
She felt it like a pressure change.
Whatever story this summit had been meant to tell, the storm had just rewritten the first chapters.
***
Down in the kitchen, the chef handed her a mug of coffee so strong it practically walked up her arm.
“To surviving the apocalypse,” he said.
“To surviving the client,” she replied.
Behind them, in the depths of the house, somewhere between the hum of machines and the moan of wind, came the faintest sound of someone laughing.
She didn’t know if it was his.
Not yet.
But she had three days to find out.
And nowhere to run.## Chapter 5: Fault Lines
By ten a.m., the storm had turned the world into an inside of a snow globe someone wouldn’t stop shaking.
Sophie stood in the conference room, coffee in hand, staring at the glass wall. The whiteout was so complete it seemed like the windows had been painted. Snow hit in frantic diagonal streaks, piling on the terrace until the furniture out there looked like strange, rounded ghosts.
Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass: cardigan, leggings, messy bun, dark smudges under her eyes. For once, she didn’t try to straighten her spine or smooth her hair when she saw herself. There was no one here to impress. Not yet.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
MIRANDA: You alive or buried?
SOPHIE: Alive. For now. Guests delayed in Denver. Mountain’s shut.
MIRANDA: Shit. How bad?
SOPHIE: Whiteout. Power line’s down but generator is working. Summit start pushed to tomorrow.
MIRANDA: Okay. Okay. We can spin that. “Exclusive snowed-in experience with Nathan Cross” lol
Sophie’s lips tugged despite everything.
SOPHIE: Not sure “snowed-in” and “Nathan Cross” in the same sentence is the vibe he wants.
There was a longer pause.
MIRANDA: How is he? Be honest.
Sophie’s eyes flicked, unbidden, to the far end of the main hall, where a narrow corridor led to the glass study.
She pictured him as she’d last seen him: barefoot, braced against the window, jaw tight, fear flickering under the annoyance.
SOPHIE: Edgy. But functional.
MIRANDA: Translation?
SOPHIE: He hasn’t murdered anyone yet.
MIRANDA: High bar.
MIRANDA: You okay?
SOPHIE: Running on caffeine and spite. Standard.
MIRANDA: That’s my girl. Text if you need backup.
SOPHIE: What are you going to do, sled up here with a projector?
MIRANDA: Don’t tempt me. Go be brilliant. And don’t let him scare you.
Too late, she thought.
Not that she would admit that.
She slid the phone away and rolled her shoulders back.
The house felt different today. Last night, it had been an echoing showroom—a high-end set piece waiting for actors. This morning, stripped of outside power and cut off from the world, it felt smaller. More intimate. Less like a fortress and more like a very beautiful box someone had put them all in and shaken.
She turned from the window and did what she always did when anxiety buzzed: made a list.
On her clipboard, in neat block letters:
– Confirm generator fuel & capacity with maintenance tech. – Adjust kitchen prep: smaller lunch, big dinner. – Check staff rooms: extra blankets, flashlights. – Confirm guest hotel status in town. – Rework summit schedule for 2-day compressed program. – Keep Nathan from imploding.
She stared at the last line. Underlined it. Then, with a quick, wry flourish, added:
– Keep self from imploding.
“Ambitious,” a dry voice said behind her.
She didn’t jump. She wanted credit for that.
She turned slowly.
Nathan leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, hands in the pockets of his dark sweatpants. Not jeans. Sweatpants. They hung low on his hips, the waistband slung casually, like he’d just rolled out of bed and grabbed whatever was closest.
He’d thrown on a hoodie over his T-shirt, the zipper half-open, exposing the line of his throat and the hint of a chest that, of course, was annoyingly well-shaped for a man who spent most of his time hunched over a keyboard.
His hair looked like he’d raked his hands through it repeatedly. It suited him.
Her brain, traitor, supplied: *This is what he looks like barefoot in your kitchen on a Sunday morning.*
She strangled that thought immediately.
“Eavesdropping?” she asked.
“Walking,” he said. “The eaves just happened to drop in front of me.”
She almost smiled, damn him.
He pushed off the frame and came closer, eyes flicking to her list. He skimmed it fast, that laser focus soaking up everything.
“You put me under generator fuel and over guest hotels,” he said.
“You rate highly in my risk assessments,” she said.
“Flattering.”
“If you implode, the whole event implodes,” she said. “So yes. You get your own bullet point.”
“Keep Nathan from imploding,” he read. “Ambitious indeed.”
She watched him as he said his own name. Some people reveled in it. He sounded faintly annoyed, like it was something someone else had saddled him with.
He wore his fame the way he wore the house: like a coat tailored for someone else that he’d been forced into.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Guests are all at the base hotels,” she said. “Airports open. Transportation won’t try again until the plows say go.”
“So we’re... what do they call it? Sheltering in place?” he said.
“For the day, at least.”
He exhaled through his nose, gaze sliding to the white outside. “The universe has a sick sense of humor.”
“You invited fourteen people up to your snow palace in February,” she said. “You tempted fate.”
“You’d think she’d be busy screwing with someone else for a change,” he muttered.
She caught the *for a change* and filed it.
“Come on,” she said. “Walk with me.”
His eyebrows rose. “Why?”
“Because you’re vibrating like a tuning fork and I need to do a full house audit,” she said. “Kill two birds.”
He didn’t move. “I don’t like being handled.”
“Good thing I’m not trying to handle you,” she said. “I’m trying to keep you from chewing through the walls.”
His jaw flexed.
“You’re very blunt,” he said.
“I’m very tired,” she replied. “My filter’s on generator power, too.”
He huffed. Not quite a laugh, but an exhale that wasn’t pure irritation.
“Fine,” he said. “Lead on, demon.”
She stepped past him into the hall, close enough that the edge of his hoodie brushed her arm. Heat flared along her skin, shocking in its intensity.
He hesitated, just a fraction, then fell into step a half-stride behind her.
She was hyper-aware of his presence. The soft pad of his bare feet on the wood. The rustle of his clothes when he shifted. The way the energy in the corridor seemed to bend minutely around him.
They walked through the living room first.
The house, on generator power, was less blinding. Half the recessed lights were off, leaving pockets of shadow that made the stone fireplace loom and the sleek furniture look more like lurking animals.
She checked the thermostat, the emergency flashlight on the console table, the storm kit she’d had the staff assemble last night—blankets, extra batteries, candles.
“Prepared,” he said, nodding at it.
“Overprepared,” she corrected. “Which is just prepared in heels.”
“You’re not wearing heels,” he pointed out.
“I am spiritually,” she said.
A small sound escaped him. A real laugh this time, low and surprised.
“If you can joke, you’re not in full meltdown,” she said lightly, more for him than for her.
“You always narrate other people’s emotional states?” he asked.
“Only when they’re trying to pretend they don’t have them,” she said.
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Jesus.”
They moved through the house in a slow circuit. Dining room, checked. Side hall, checked. Mudroom by the garage, checked—rows of boots, coats, sledges.
“You have sleds,” she said.
“Howard thought they’d be ‘charming’ in the winter,” he said, the word dripping with disdain. “He imagined romantic afternoons, hot chocolate, laughter.”
“And instead,” she said, “he got a blizzard and you pacing holes in the glass.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“In his defense, sleds *are* charming,” she said. “When you’re not risking hypothermia.”
“You like this kind of thing?” he asked. “Snow? Mountains? Whiteouts?”
“I like the idea of them,” she said. “The reality is messy. Wet socks, bad hair, canceled flights.”
“And yet you moved to Colorado,” he said. “Voluntarily.”
“Better than staying where I was,” she said.
“Which was?”
She hesitated.
“St. Louis,” she said at last. “Suburbs, strip malls, humidity you could drown in.”
“And family?” he asked.
She smiled without humor. “They’re still there. My parents. My older brother. His four kids. Every summer, they send me pictures of the St. Louis Zoo from exactly the same angle.”
“Sounds... consistent,” he said.
“That’s one word for it.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s not bad,” she said. “It’s just... not mine.”
He looked at her for a beat too long, like he understood something under that.
“What about you?” she asked, deflecting. “Where’s home if it’s not this—” she gestured at the glass and stone “—villain lair?”
“Nowhere,” he said.
She glanced at him. “Nowhere?”
“Everywhere,” he amended impatiently. “We moved a lot. Army brat. New base every couple of years. Then college. Then New York. Then LA. Then London, briefly, because my agent thought I needed to be more ‘international.’” He made a face. “This is the longest I’ve stayed anywhere.”
“How long?” she asked.
“Three years,” he said.
“Three years in a glass box on a mountain,” she said. “That’s... a choice.”
“It was quiet,” he said. “At first.”
“And now?”
He looked out another window. White. Always white.
“Now the quiet’s louder,” he said.
The admission was soft, almost swallowed. It pierced her more than any complaint would have.
She forced herself to move on.
The staff wing was humming, everyone busy. She checked in with the night houseman about generator fuel—three days at current usage, four if they dialed back further. She confirmed that everyone had flashlights, extra blankets.
Nathan trailed without commenting, a tall shadow at her back.
In the hallway between the staff wing and the main house, he spoke again.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
She blinked. “You’re not supposed to ask that.”
“I’m not your date,” he said. “I’m your impossible client. Different rules.”
“Thirty-two,” she said. “You?”
“Thirty-six,” he said.
“Only four years?” she said. “I thought I had a decade of extra crankiness on you.”
He shot her a look. “You think I’m cranky now. You should’ve seen me ten years ago.”
“Was that peak brooding?” she asked.
“I didn’t brood,” he said. “I raged.”
“Wow,” she said. “Evolution.”
“You say that like it’s impressive,” he muttered.
“It is,” she said, more serious. “You’re... aware. Of your shit. A lot of men never get that far.”
“High praise,” he said.
“I didn’t say you *handled* it,” she added. “Just that you know it’s there.”
He made that involuntary huff again.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re extremely annoying?” he asked.
“All the time,” she said. “Usually right before I solve their problem.”
“That sounds like a threat,” he said.
“Think of it as a prediction.”
They ended up back in the kitchen.
The chef, Rafe, had turned on music low on his phone, some classic soul that mixed weirdly pleasantly with the hum of the generator. The air smelled like onions sizzling in butter, coffee, and something sweet baking.
“Lunch will be a bit more... rustic than planned,” Rafe said as they came in. “Soup, bread, salad. We’re hoarding the more delicate ingredients for when your fancy guests arrive.”
“Soup is perfect,” Sophie said. “Everyone expects complicated food with a crowd. They forget how comforting simple can be.”
“Spoken like a woman who’s worked too many banquet halls,” Rafe said.
“You have no idea,” she replied.
Nathan hovered at the edge of the island, hands braced on the cool stone.
“What can I do?” he asked.
Both she and Rafe looked at him, equally surprised.
Rafe recovered first. “You can get out of my way,” he said cheerfully. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Nathan said. He didn’t move, though.
Sophie tilted her head. “You know how to chop?” she asked.
He frowned. “Chop what?”
“Vegetables.”
“I’m not completely helpless,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, not moving.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re doubting me.”
“I’m factoring in the hands of a man who types for a living and the sharpness of Rafe’s knives,” she said.
Rafe slid over a cutting board and a chef’s knife, grinning. “Oh, let him. Worst case, he bleeds. It’ll add color.”
Nathan took the knife, tested the weight, then picked up a carrot.
Sophie watched.
He positioned his fingers correctly, curled under, knuckles guiding the blade. He sliced in quick, even motions. The pieces were uniform.
“Well,” she said. “Look at you. Not entirely useless.”
“Try to contain your awe,” he said dryly.
Rafe slapped a bunch of celery onto another board in front of her. “If he chops, you chop, event queen.”
“This is extortion,” she said, but she picked up the knife.
They stood side by side, chopping.
It was oddly... domestic.
Nathan’s movements were precise, economic. He never wasted a motion. His wrist flexed just so, his grip steady. There was something soothing about the rhythm—the thunk-thunk-thunk of knife on board, the rustle of vegetable scraps dropping into the compost bowl.
She was intensely conscious of the proximity of his forearm to hers. If she shifted an inch, they’d touch. She didn’t.
“You cook?” she asked.
“When I have to,” he said. “Mostly I forget and then eat toast at 2 a.m.”
“That’s a crime,” she said. “You have this kitchen and you eat toast?”
“Toast is underrated,” he said.
“Toast is tragic when you could be having risotto,” she said.
He cut a look at her. “You make risotto?”
“I make a lot of things,” she said. “It’s my one true vice. Food.”
“I thought your vice was control,” he said.
“Control is my job,” she said. “Food is what keeps me from murdering my job.”
He chuckled low.
“What’s your vice?” she asked, half-curious, half wanting to keep the air between them from thickening.
He considered, knife moving.
“Work,” he said finally. “It was, anyway. Then the work started... not working.”
She looked at him, but his gaze stayed on the carrot.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“It used to be easy,” he said quietly. “Not easy, exactly, but... inevitable. I’d sit down, and the story would be there. I’d pull the thread, the world would unravel, and all I had to do was keep up.”
“And now?” she prompted when he didn’t go on.
“Now I sit down, and it’s like the thread’s under glass,” he said. “I can see it. I know it’s there. But every time I reach for it, my hand slips.”
She swallowed. “Writer’s block.”
He flinched at the phrase, like it was vulgar. “People call it that,” he said. “I call it being colonized by static.”
“How long?” she asked.
“A year,” he said. “Off and on.”
“That’s... a long time,” she said.
“I turned in my last book late,” he said. “They forgave it because it still sold. This one...” He shook his head once. “This one’s a mess. Thirty-seven chapters, twelve rewrites, three abandoned outlines. I’m starting to think that maybe I only had eight good ones in me.”
Silence hovered over the cutting boards.
“That terrifies you,” she said.
“No,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Yes.”
“Why?” she asked, gentle.
He snorted. “Aside from the obvious?”
“Money?” she said. “You’re not exactly struggling.”
“Money’s not the point,” he said. “Okay, money’s *part* of the point. But...” He exhaled, rough. “Writing’s the only thing I’ve ever been unequivocally good at. The only thing that made sense. If I lose that...”
“You lose the one piece of evidence that you’re not a waste of air,” she finished quietly.
His head snapped toward her, eyes bright.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re veering dangerously close to therapy territory.”
“Bad territory?” she asked.
“I pay someone a great deal of money to drag that shit out of me,” he said. “He wears cardigans and uses the word ‘trauma’ too much.”
“I wear cardigans,” she said, affronted on behalf of her sweater.
“You wear them better,” he said without thinking.
Heat shot up her neck.
“I’m not saying you’re a waste of air,” she said, focusing hard on the celery. “I’m saying it *feels* that way to you without the work. There’s a difference.”
“Semantics,” he said.
“Semantics are my religion,” she said.
He studied her profile. “What’s your proof?” he asked.
She glanced at him. “Proof of what?”
“That you’re not a waste of air,” he said.
“No one’s ever asked me that quite so cheerfully,” she said.
He didn’t apologize.
She thought about it as she chopped. Chunks of celery hit the pile.
“I take chaos and make it less chaotic,” she said at last. “I step in when people are freaking out and I give them a plan. I make things easier that would otherwise be impossible. That’s... something.”
“That’s your job description,” he said. “Not your proof.”
She set down the knife.
“I don’t know if I have one,” she said.
He went very still.
“You must,” he said quietly.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I haven’t fired you yet,” he said.
The corner of her mouth kicked, despite the strange twist in her chest.
“That’s your bar?” she said. “You don’t fire me, therefore I deserve oxygen?”
“It’s not nothing,” he said.
“I prefer my therapist’s metric,” she said.
“You have a therapist.”
“Yes,” she said. “Remember that meltdown-in-walk-in-cooler I mentioned? That was the start. Now I see her once a month if life’s good. More if it’s not.”
“And her metric?” he asked.
“That if the people I love are better with me than without me,” she said slowly, “then I’m probably doing okay.”
“And are they?” he asked.
“Some days,” she said. “Other days I’m a cranky goblin who forgets to answer texts.”
“And somehow, people still stick around,” he said.
“Maybe they’re masochists,” she said.
“Maybe you’re not giving yourself enough credit,” he countered.
She looked at him. The quiet intensity in his gaze made it hard to breathe.
“Look at us,” she said, breaking eye contact. “People with feelings. In a kitchen. During the apocalypse.”
He smiled—really smiled this time. It transformed his face, the stern lines softening, his eyes warming, making that pale gray go almost silver.
It hit her like a physical thing.
“Don’t get used to it,” he said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she lied.
Rafe’s timer dinged, saving them from having to sit in the strange, thick quiet that followed.
“Soup’s up,” he said. “You two can go back to glaring at snow now.”
***
The rest of the day stretched long and oddly elastic.
With no guests to wrangle, the tasks were less frantic, more maintenance. Check generator levels. Confirm with hotels that the guests were comfortable. Email Miranda revised schedules. Walk the halls, adjust thermostats, make sure no one had quietly melted down in a linen closet.
Sophie found it harder than running a hundred-person event.
At least with chaos, there was adrenaline. Here, there was just waiting and white.
Amber, one of the housekeepers, cornered her around three with wide eyes.
“Is it going to get worse?” she whispered. “My boyfriend sent a picture from down in town, and it’s bad there. Trees down. Power lines.”
“The forecast says it should start easing in a few hours,” Sophie said, calm. “We’re safe here. The house is solid, we have the generator, the pantry’s stocked. You’re okay.”
Amber gnawed her lip. “I know, it’s just... I’ve never seen it this bad.”
“Stay inside,” Sophie said. “Stay near people. It’ll feel less scary.”
“Are you scared?” Amber asked.
Sophie hesitated.
“Yes,” she said honestly. “But scared doesn’t mean helpless. It just means we respect what’s happening outside and make smart choices inside.”
Amber nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Sophie squeezed her shoulder. “You need anything, you come find me. Or Howard.”
Amber managed a small smile. “You’re like the camp counselor.”
“I left my whistle at home, but yes,” Sophie said.
When she finally ducked into the small office off the side hall to check her email, the chair felt like a trap. She spun in it once, restless.
An email from Miranda blinked at the top.
SUBJECT: Check-in + new problem
Her stomach clenched.
She opened it.
> Soph— > > Glad you’re safe. Storm looks insane on the news. They’re calling it “the white dragon” on Channel 4. Because of course they are. > > New wrinkle. > > The British broadcaster—Eleanor Chase—had a hard out on Monday because she’s supposed to fly back to London for a live segment Tuesday. If the summit’s condensed to Sunday/Monday, she’s going to lose a big chunk of what she came for. She’s already pissed. > > Her producer called me. > > Can you find a way to give her more face time with Cross even if the official sessions are shorter? Extra interview slots, casual chats, whatever? I know he hates that, but we need her happy. She’s a kingmaker. > > Sorry. > > —M
Sophie groaned softly and let her head fall back.
More face time. Casual chats.
Nathan would love that.
She rubbed her temples.
Okay.
Maybe they could front-load Eleanor’s time if—*when*—the guests arrived tomorrow. Breakfast coffee. A solo session. Something.
It meant convincing Nathan, though.
Her eyes slid toward the hallway that led to his study.
Her body was already moving before her brain caught up.
***
He’d pulled the shades.
She’d never seen them down before. The smart glass had tinted slightly when the storm first ramped up, but now, with the shades drawn, the study felt... small.
The overhead light was off, a single floor lamp casting a pool of golden light over the desk. He sat in it, not at the laptop, but sideways, one ankle flung over his knee, a book in his hand.
Her knuckles hit the glass door gently.
He looked up, then stood and crossed to open it.
“You look dangerous with the shades down,” she said by way of greeting.
“Too much white,” he said. “My brain started filling in things that weren’t there.”
“Like what?” she asked, stepping in.
He flicked a glance at her face, decided not to answer.
“What’s that?” she asked instead, nodding at the book.
“Trash,” he said.
She took it. It was a mass-market paperback thriller with a lurid cover. The blurb on the back described an ex-Marine-turned-assassin trying to stop a bioterror attack in Paris.
“You read this?” she asked, flipping through.
“It’s number one on three lists,” he said. “I make it a point to know what the market’s doing.”
“And?” she said.
“And he’s good at structure,” Nathan said. “Bad at people. All his characters sound like they’ve been fed through a dialogue generator and run through a filter for ‘badass.’”
“You’re very bitchy about other writers,” she said, half amused.
“I read to remind myself what not to do,” he said. “Or to see what I do wrong.”
“And what do you do wrong?” she asked.
He moved back toward the desk, leaning against it, arms crossing.
“Too much of everything,” he said. “Too much introspection. Too much weather. Too many layers. Apparently, everything needs to be ‘streamlined’ now.” He made a face at the word.
“Spoken like a man whose books average six hundred pages,” she said.
“If you’re going to live with characters for a year, you don’t want to spend it with paper dolls,” he said.
Her throat tightened at the word *live*.
For him, that was real. These weren’t just stories. They were alternate lives he inhabited.
“You needed something,” he said, switching tracks. “You have that look.”
“What look?” she said.
“The one where you’re gearing up to ask me for something I won’t like,” he said.
“You’re not wrong,” she admitted. “It’s Eleanor Chase.”
“The broadcaster.”
“Her producer’s freaking out about the compressed summit,” she said. “She needs enough material for her segments, and with fewer official sessions, she’s worried she won’t get it.”
His mouth tightened. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m going to need to give her extra time with you,” she said. “Informal interview slots. Maybe a walk-and-talk if the weather clears. Breakfast conversations.”
“No,” he said, sharp.
She held his gaze. “Yes.”
“I agreed to one recorded interview and two panels,” he said. “I did *not* agree to being her pet feature for a week.”
“No one’s asking for a week,” she said. “They’re asking for enough content that the whole trip isn’t a waste of her time.”
“She’s being paid,” he said.
“So are you,” she said. “In relevance. In buzz. Which you need, or you wouldn’t have agreed to this circus at all.”
His eyes flashed.
“You think I don’t know why I did this?” he said.
“I think you know exactly,” she said. “And that you’re hoping you can do it without actually doing it.”
He stared at her, slow anger flaring.
“You don’t know me,” he said.
“I know patterns,” she said. “You want the outcome without the discomfort. That’s human. But with this? There’s no way around, only through.”
His jaw flexed. The muscle there ticked.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” he said.
“I’m very sure of the people who will call Miranda and blacklist Aurora if they don’t get what they came for,” she said. “And I’m very sure that if this summit tanks, the narrative will be ‘Nathan Cross is impossible to work with.’”
“It already is,” he said.
“Then why make it worse?” she asked.
Silence.
He turned away, hands going to the back of his neck, fingers digging in.
The hoodie rode up a fraction, exposing a strip of skin at his lower back above the waistband of his sweats. A faint, pale scar curved there, horizontal, maybe six inches long.
Her eyes snagged on it.
Not the kind of scar you got from childhood roughhousing. Surgical, maybe. Or from something falling.
She dragged her gaze up.
He was breathing a little too slowly, like he was forcing it.
She thought of what he’d said, earlier. Of roofs giving way. Of weight and dark and hands gone slack.
“Nathan,” she said softly.
He went still at his first name.
“I’m not your enemy,” she said.
His shoulders dropped a fraction.
“I know,” he said hoarsely.
“Then let me be the bad guy to them,” she said. “You can be the reluctant genius. I’ll be the one who tells Eleanor she only gets two extra slots and no, she cannot film you in your pajamas talking about your ‘process.’”
He made a strangled noise. “Jesus. Kill me now.”
She smiled. “Exactly. So let me negotiate that. But I need something to work with. One more thirty-minute slot. Maybe an off-the-record conversation we can frame as ‘insight.’ You give me that, I’ll build a fortress around it.”
He turned slowly, leaning back against the desk again, bracing his hands on either side of him.
“One extra slot,” he said at last. “Audiotaped only. She wants video, she can film my shoes.”
“Deal,” she said.
“You’re going to want more,” he said.
“I’m *always* going to want more,” she said. “But I’ll settle for that.”
His gaze dragged over her face, like he was trying to map the angles of it into his brain.
“You push,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Most people back off when I snap,” he said.
“I’m not most people,” she said.
“Dangerous words,” he murmured.
“They’re just true,” she said.
His throat worked.
It occurred to her that she was very alone with him. Behind a closed door. In a room that, shades drawn, felt more private than any bedroom.
A pulse beat low in her belly. Inappropriate and inconvenient.
She shifted her weight. He noticed. His eyes flicked down and back up.
“Are we... done?” she asked, hating how breathier her voice sounded.
“For now,” he said.
“Then I’m going to go rewrite the schedule,” she said. “Again.”
“Try not to carve Eleanor’s name into it with a dagger,” he said.
“No promises.”
As she reached for the door, his voice brushed her back.
“Sophie.”
The name—her name, not Ms. Turner—made her hand still on the handle.
She turned.
“Yeah?”
He looked almost... uncertain.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For bullying you into more work?” she said.
“For not... sugarcoating it,” he said. “Everyone else does. They talk around things. You don’t.”
“It’s a flaw,” she said.
“It’s a relief,” he said.
Something in her chest tripped.
“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “I’m an equal-opportunity truth-teller. I’ll be just as blunt with Eleanor.”
“I almost feel sorry for her,” he said.
“You shouldn’t,” she said. “She’s terrifying.”
He huffed.
She slipped out before the room could close in again.
In the hall, her knees felt weirdly weak.
He’d said her name.
He’d thanked her.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But in this house, with this man, in the middle of a storm that had taken the world away, small things felt magnified.
She pressed a hand briefly to her own chest, feeling the too-fast beat.
“Get a grip,” she told herself.
Then she went to war with her spreadsheets.
***
By evening, the storm finally began to falter.
It didn’t stop—far from it—but the wind lost some of its feral edge. The snow fell more vertically, less in crazed spirals. The white outside the windows gained the faintest hint of depth.
The house, though, felt more confined.
They ate dinner early by emergency lighting—soup, crusty bread, roasted chicken that Rafe swore he could cook even in a nuclear winter. The staff clustered at the far end of the long table, laughing and sharing phone videos of cats and kids and meme compilations, the glow of screens throwing odd shadows.
Sophie took a seat near the middle. Nathan sat at the far end, next to Howard, his chair angled at a slight remove as if he might need to bolt any second.
He didn’t say much, but his eyes moved constantly, cataloging.
Amber, the housekeeper, relaxed enough to flirt shamelessly with one of the maintenance guys. Rafe told a story about a wedding where the groom had passed out in the cake. The night houseman admitted, deadpan, that he sometimes walked the halls at night pretending he was in a haunted movie.
“Just don’t actually haunt the place,” Sophie said. “I have enough on my plate.”
“I make no promises,” he said.
Conversation kept everyone from listening too hard to the hum of the generator or the occasional creak of the house under wind.
At one point, Sophie looked up and found Nathan watching her.
Not in the quick, assessing way he had before.
This was slower.
He tracked the way she used her hands when she talked. The way she tipped her head to listen to Amber. The way she dipped bread into her soup and stared into the steam for a moment before responding to a joke.
Their gazes brushed and caught.
Awareness zinged through her like static.
She pretended to need more water and excused herself before that awareness turned into something she couldn’t control.
In the kitchen, Rafe was humming, hands already wrist-deep in soapy water.
She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes for a second.
“Headache?” he asked without looking up.
“Man trouble,” she said.
He snorted. “Same thing.”
“It’s not trouble,” she said quickly. “It’s... complicated.”
He glanced at her then. “The client?”
She opened her mouth to deny it. Closed it again.
Rafe arched an eyebrow. “You think I haven’t seen the way he looks at you?” he asked. “I do kitchens for a living. I see everything.”
Her pulse jumped.
“He looks at me like I’m an irritating vendor,” she said.
“He looks at everyone else like background noise,” Rafe said. “That’s different.”
Heat prickled under her skin. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Didn’t say it was,” he said. “Just saying: be careful. Men like him...” He shook his head. “They pull you into their orbit, use you as a mirror, then move on to the next burnout.”
She bristled. “You don’t know him.”
He rinsed a plate. “I don’t have to. I know the type.”
“He’s not—” she started, then stopped.
What was he?
He was difficult. He was intense. He was unforgiving with himself and others. He was terrified of being trapped. He was a man whose work had given him a life and was now threatening to take it away.
He was not simple.
“Just... be careful,” Rafe said again, gentler this time. “You’re good at taking care of other people. Don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”
She swallowed. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I’d be a terrible mother,” he said. “I’d feed my kids sous vide scallops and they’d revolt.”
She laughed.
Behind them, in the doorway, a shadow shifted.
Nathan cleared his throat.
Rafe’s eyes flicked to him, then back to his dishes.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just call you out,” he murmured to Sophie. “Goodnight, boss.”
He left by the side door, leaving them alone in the warm, steamy kitchen.
Sophie straightened.
“You okay?” Nathan asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she countered.
“Because you’re standing in a kitchen staring at nothing while the world ends outside,” he said. “Seems like a good time to check.”
She sighed. “Rafe thinks you’re going to burn me and walk away.”
His expression shifted. “He said that?”
“More or less.”
“And you believe him?” he asked.
She met his gaze.
“I believe you’re capable of it,” she said. “I don’t know if you’d actually do it.”
He took that in, leaning his hip against the island.
“I don’t... start things I can’t finish,” he said slowly.
“You *are* a writer,” she said. “You literally start things you don’t know if you can finish all the time.”
He made a displeased sound. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually,” she said. “Do you?”
His eyes narrowed. “What are we talking about?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m tired. Ignore me.”
“I’m not good at ignoring things,” he said.
“You ignore deadlines,” she said.
“That’s different,” he said.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not having this meta conversation with you in the middle of a blizzard kitchen.”
“Then have another one,” he said. “Ask what you want to ask.”
She hated him a little then. For calling her out. For seeing more than she wanted him to.
“Do you always push this hard when you’re scared?” she blurted.
His jaw flexed. “I’m not—”
“Nathan,” she said. “You flinched when the power went out. You’ve paced holes in your carpet. You keep looking at the windows like they’re going to swallow you. It’s okay to be scared. You don’t have to... fling yourself at whatever’s in front of you to prove you’re not.”
Silence crashed between them.
She half expected him to shut down, to lash out.
Instead, after a long, loaded moment, he looked away.
“I was nineteen,” he said.
Her heart stuttered.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, words flat, like recitation.
“There was an ice storm,” he said. “Party at a friend’s farmhouse. Too many people, not enough sense. The roof caved in over the living room. Two of us were under it when it fell.”
Her chest tightened painfully. “You and—”
“Ethan,” he said. “He was... my friend. My only one, really. We’d grown up together. Army brats on the same bases. He dragged me to parties. I dragged him to bookstores.”
He swallowed.
“When the roof came down, we were on the couch,” he went on. “He was next to me. The beam hit us. It pinned my legs. It... crushed his chest.”
Her stomach turned.
“I couldn’t move,” he said. “Couldn’t see. There was insulation in my mouth, my nose. I couldn’t breathe. I could hear him. At first. Then not. It took them three hours to dig us out. They did CPR on him on the lawn. It snowed on his face.”
Her vision blurred. She blinked hard.
“I was fine,” he said tonelessly. “Relatively. Few broken bones. Some internal bruising. They called me ‘lucky.’” His mouth twisted. “I wrote my first book a year later. It sold. People called me ‘gifted.’ They didn’t see that every time it storms, I’m nineteen again, under a roof, with someone’s hand going cold in mine.”
She reached for the counter blindly, fingers gripping the cool stone.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Useless words. True ones.
He shrugged one shoulder, a jerky motion.
“Anyway,” he said. “That’s why I don’t like storms.”
Her throat felt raw.
“And that’s why no one gets stuck here,” she said softly.
He finally looked at her.
“Yeah,” he said.
Something in his eyes was fractured. Raw.
She stepped toward him without thinking.
He went very still.
Her hand lifted, hovered for a heartbeat. It felt like touching a live wire.
Then she set it, gently, on his forearm.
His skin was warm under the thin cotton of the hoodie sleeve. The muscle there tensed, then eased by a fraction.
“I hate storms, too,” she said quietly. “Not... like that. But enough.”
“Why?” he asked, voice rough.
She thought of warm, humid Missouri summer storms. Of her parents laughing too loud to mask fear. Of her brother’s hand crushing hers in the dark as tornado sirens wailed.
“My dad used to pretend they were fun,” she said. “Like a game. We’d sit in the hallway with flashlights and play ‘shadow animals’ on the wall. But I always knew, under it, that he was scared. That there were things he couldn’t control. I think I decided right then I would always be the one with the batteries and the snacks. The one who made sure there were plans, just in case.”
He studied her.
“And now you are,” he said.
“And now I am,” she said. “Even when it sucks.”
He glanced down at her hand.
“You’re touching me,” he said, like it was a data point.
“I can stop,” she said, but she didn’t move.
He turned his wrist slightly, so that, deliberately or not, his pulse pressed against the edge of her palm.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word settled low in her gut.
They stood like that, in the low kitchen light, the rest of the house a murmur behind closed doors, the storm a distant hush.
His breathing slowed. So did hers.
A line had been crossed—tiny, invisible, but real. A hand on an arm. A story shared. A name spoken in a different register.
“You know this doesn’t change anything,” he said after a moment, softer.
“Of course,” she lied.
“We’re still... whatever we are,” he said.
“Client and planner,” she said. “Trapped in a box.”
He huffed. “You really know how to kill a moment.”
“Occupational hazard,” she said.
He stepped back then, skin slipping from under her hand.
She let him go.
“Get some sleep,” he said, echoing her words from earlier. “Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”
“I thought you didn’t do optimism,” she said.
“That wasn’t optimism,” he said. “That was prediction.”
She smiled faintly.
“Goodnight, Nathan,” she said.
His eyes flicked to her face. “Goodnight, Sophie.”
She left before the air could thicken again and before she could do something incredibly stupid.
Like close the distance between them and see if the way he watched her translated into the way he kissed.
***
In her room, she lay awake longer than she should have, listening to the not-quite-silence.
The storm’s voice had changed. Less anger, more tired.
The generator hummed.
Someone laughed, distantly. A door closed. Footsteps creaked.
Her palm still tingled where she’d touched him.
Her chest ached with his story.
She pressed her hand flat against her own sternum and breathed in.
Three days.
They just had to get through three days.
Her brain, unhelpful, whispered: *A lot can happen in three days.*
She told it to shut up.
Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and restless, full of snow and falling roofs and gray eyes in the dark.
---