“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t move. “Good plan.”
We orbit each other for a minute, both pretending to care about anything that isn’t the fact that we just stopped before we both did something we wouldn’t be able to walk back from.
She goes to the big front windows, testing the latch with deft fingers. I go to the back door, check the deadbolt, and flip the sign even though we locked up twenty minutes ago.
The storm pelts the glass, wind howling down the alley like it’s trying out for the ghost tour. Thunder rumbles low, close enough to vibrate the framed prints on the wall.
When I turn back, she’s standing in the middle of the shop, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers hidden between the beams.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
Her eyes flick to mine. “I keep thinking about the power going out,” she says. “And how the emergency lights don’t always kick back on. And then it’s just me, alone with the ghosts and the romance section.”
“You’re not alone,” I say, before I can swallow it back.
The words hang there. Bigger than I meant them to be.
Her mouth tips up on one side. “Right now, I’m not.”
Something in my chest knocks hard against my ribs. “How bad is it supposed to get?” I ask, nodding toward the storm.
She blows out a breath. “Worse before it gets better. The weather alert said the bridge might close if the wind gusts stay this high. I was going to sleep upstairs.” She nods toward the stairwell that leads to her little loft apartment over the shop. “Figured I’d beat the rush on the highway and avoid hydroplaning into the bay.”
I picture her small space upstairs—books stacked three deep on every surface, that tiny kitchenette, the lumpy couch she swears is “perfectly fine.” I picture her up there alone while the wind shakes the glass and the whole building hums.
I don’t like it.
“You sure you’re okay up there by yourself?” I ask, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then to my hands, then back up. “You offering to tuck me in, Wright?”
My brain shorts out for a second. “I—no. I mean, yes. Not like that. Unless you… I just meant—”
Her laugh is soft, tired, fond. “I know what you meant.”
The record on the turntable reaches the end and clicks, the needle bumping lightly in the groove. She doesn’t move to fix it, and neither do I. The silence feels louder as the storm rages outside.
“Stay,” she says suddenly.
I blink. “Here?”
“No, at the gas station,” she says dryly, then softens. “Yes, here. The couch pulls out.” She tilts her head toward the stairs again. “You shouldn’t drive in this. And I… would feel better knowing I’m not the only one listening to the pipes rattle and wondering if the roof is going to peel off.”
“Bailey—”
“Just stay,” she says, voice quieter now, the joke falling away. “It doesn’t have to mean anything we’re not ready for it to mean.”
I could make a stupid joke. I could say something about needing to check on the horses at the farm, throw up a shield of responsibility. That’s what I’ve been doing for years—hiding behind duty, behind schedules, behind reasons.
But I remember her fingers on my jaw, the way she said permission to choose.
And how good it felt to let her.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll stay.”
Relief washes over her face so naked and bright that it hits me in the throat.
“Okay,” she echoes, more to herself than to me. “I’ll, um… make tea.”
