“Storm won’t last long.”
“It’s not the storm I’m worried about.”
Her voice is quiet, but the meaning’s loud enough to rattle the walls.
We work in silence for a while. She moves around the shop with this quiet grace, collecting candles, stacking towels, making something safe out of chaos. Watching her feels like watching someone build a home one motion at a time.
When lightning flashes, I see her flinch—not big, just a tiny tremor. I don’t think she knows she does it. I move closer, not touching, just near enough that she can feel my presence.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
“I’m fine.”
“Bailey.”
She stops and turns toward me. Her breath catches. “Then what do you want?”
I could lie. I could joke. But the words come out raw, honest.
“You.”
She blinks. “Crew…”
Lightning flickers again, the brightness slicing across her face. I see every line of her expression: defiance, desire, disbelief. Her fingers twitch at her sides like she wants to reach for me but doesn’t trust herself.
And then thunder cracks, sharp and sudden, and instinct wins over caution. She stumbles a half-step forward. My hand finds her waist. Reflex. Reflex that feels like fate.
She looks up. The space between us disappears.
The kiss isn’t careful.
It’s every second we’ve spent denying this, every half smile, every almost. Her hands clutch my shirt, pulling me closer. My fingers slide into her hair, tangling in the strands, tasting the rain that’s started to leak through the door. She makes a sound—quiet, broken—and I swear I’ll never hear anything better.
When we finally break apart, both of us are breathing hard.
Her forehead rests against mine. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“Probably not.”
“Do it again.”
I laugh, half disbelieving, half undone, and then her mouth is on mine again, slower this time, deeper. The world tilts. The storm howls outside, but inside is nothing but heat and heartbeats.
When she finally pulls back, she’s trembling, eyes wild. “Crew…”
“Yeah?”
“This changes everything.”
“Good,” I whisper. “It was about damn time.”
The storm rages for another hour. We stay inside, sitting close on the floor beside the counter, her head on my shoulder, my hand tracing circles on her wrist. We don’t talk much. We don’t need to. The silence feels like something sacred.
When the rain finally eases, she stands, smoothing her hair, trying for composure. “You should go.”
“Probably,” I say, but I don’t move.
“Crew…”
