At least this way, we still have hope.
I pull my hand back.
One percent.
Maybe enough for a few hours when the storm finally clears. We might need that power to charge our phones, or the laptop, or the Starlink battery pack. Or we might need it for emergency heat.
Then again, maybe one percent won’t be enough for anything at all.
I have to laugh at that last thought.
Here I am, standing in a freezing shed next to a machine that might be dead, and my eight billion dollars might as well be Monopoly money.
The silence in the shed is absolute. Just the wind howling outside. The creak of metal walls. The sound of snow piling against the door.
Just cold.
And uncertainty.
I step back outside into the full force of the blizzard and shut the door behind me.
By the timeI get back to the house, my face is numb and my hands are shaking.
I find her in the kitchen. Sorrel is standing at the gas range with a large pot full of snow, watching it melt with the kind of focused attention I usually reserve for quarterly earnings reports.
She doesn’t look up when I enter. Her back is rigid with the kind of anger that makes the air feel charged, but I notice other things too. The way my Columbia hoodie hangs off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck. How the sweatpants sit low on her hips because she had to roll the waistband multiple times. The shape of her ass underneath all that fabric, curves that even oversized clothes can’t hide.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t be noticing. Not after the fight we just had. Not when she has every reason to hate me.
But my cock doesn’t care aboutshould.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Melting snow.” She still doesn’t turn around. “No power means no well pump. Which means no running water. We’ll need several gallons daily for drinking, cooking, washing. This is how you do it safely. You heat it to kill any contaminants, let it cool, store it in clean containers.”
She rattles off the process like she’s teaching a field course to rude undergraduates. Every word a small reminder that she knows things I don’t.
That she’s useful in ways my billions aren’t.
I watch her work. The efficient movements. Her practical field training showing through despite the hostility radiating off her like heat. The way she reaches for another pot and the hoodie rides up, exposing a strip of skin at her lower back. The flex of her calves when she shifts her weight. Her hair falling forward as she leans over the stove... I remember washing that hair last night. How it felt between my fingers. How...
Stop.
“I double-checked the generator,” I tell her bluntly. “Fuel’s definitely almost gone. We can’t turn it on again. We’ll have to conserve what’s left and use it only in emergencies.”
Now she turns. Those brown eyes meet mine with accusation and understanding mixed together, and the full impact of her face hits me again. The gold flecks in those eyes catching the light. Her lips slightly parted. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath underneath the hoodie (myhoodie!), and I can see the outline of her breasts, no bra because hers is probably still damp. The memory of her frantically covering those breasts of hers yesterday flashes through my mind unbidden.
Christ, I’m an asshole.
She’s recovering from a fever and hates my guts and I’m standing here cataloging her body like some kind of predator.
“If we do turn it on, how long will the generator last?” she asks.
“A few hours. Maybe less.” If it turns on at all.
I lean against the doorframe because standing feels like too much effort right now.
