[POV Sloane]
The storm hit harder than the forecasts predicted.
By nine p.m., the sky over Seattle was a war zone of thunder and jagged lightning. Wind howled between the glass towers, and rain battered the windows in sheets.
I stood near the floor-to-ceiling panes in the living room, nursing a glass of whiskey, watching the city flicker like a dying machine.
Then the power went out.
The hum of electricity vanished, swallowing the penthouse in sudden silence.
Seconds later, I heard her voice from down the hall. Soft, shaky.
“Sloane?”
I turned. Her silhouette appeared in the dark, backlit by the occasional flash of lightning. Barefoot. Wearing an oversized sweatshirt that hung halfway down her thighs, her hair messy from the long day.
She looked... small.
“I’m here,” I said quietly.
She walked closer, arms crossed over her chest. “Is it just us?”
“Looks like the whole block. Backup generator’s probably still booting.”
Another crack of thunder shook the windows.
She flinched.
I frowned. “You okay?”
“I just... hate storms,” she admitted, voice tight. “Always have. Ever since I was a kid.”
I tilted my head. “That’s unexpected.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why, because I don’t seem like the type to be afraid of anything?”
“No,” I said. “Because you seem like the type to hide it well.”
She didn’t answer. Just looked out the window, her breath fogging the glass.
I grabbed the emergency lantern from the cabinet, flicked it on, and the soft orange glow settled over us like candlelight.
“We’ve got matches and a gas stove,” I said. “We’ll survive.”
We ended up in the kitchen, cobbling together a meal from whatever didn’t require electricity. Sliced bread, leftover grilled chicken, cherry tomatoes, and some kind of fancy olive tapenade she insisted was edible.
We ate it sitting on the rug near the fireplace, the room lit by flickering flames and scattered candles. Rain pounded on the windows like a metronome.
She still flinched at the thunder, every time.
So I talked. About nothing. About everything.
“I used to sneak into the attic during storms,” I said, swirling the last of the whiskey in my glass. “When I was ten. My mom thought I was afraid of them, but really, I liked watching the lightning. Felt like I was watching the world being rewritten in light.”
Ari looked at me, her face softened by shadows. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What does?”
She smiled faintly. “That you talk like that when no one’s listening.”
“I’m talking now.”
She looked down at her glass. “Exactly.”
For a while, we just sat in silence, the heat from the fire settling into our skin. The world outside howled, but in here, something quieter had taken hold.
She leaned back against the couch. I followed.
A few minutes passed.
Then her head tipped—slowly, lightly—until it rested against my shoulder.
I froze.
She didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. Just let the weight of her body settle there like it had always belonged.
Her breathing slowed.
And something in me cracked open.
It wasn’t the intimacy that unraveled me. It was the trust in it. The unconscious way she folded into me, without armor or pretense. It made my chest ache with something sharp and unnameable.
I didn’t move.
I let her sleep there, her cheek warm against the fabric of my shirt.
When her breathing deepened and the storm outside faded to a steady whisper, I slipped my arm beneath her knees and lifted her.
She stirred but didn’t wake.
Carrying her was easy. But the way her hand curled into my shirt as I walked—like her body knew mine even if her mind didn’t—made every step feel loaded.
I laid her gently on her bed, pulled the blanket up over her legs. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Just watched her for a moment longer than I should’ve.
She looked peaceful. Softer. Almost like the woman I glimpsed only in stolen moments, between the tension and the fire.
And for a second, I didn’t want to leave. But I did. I closed the door behind me and leaned back against the frame, exhaling slowly.
I was in trouble.