Then the sky opened, rain falling in sheets, turning the world silver.
We pulled our chairs under the porch awning, but neither of us went inside.
There was something sacred about sitting there—hands linked, rain pounding, lightning flashing—two people breathing through the same fear and the same truth.
“I don’t know what comes next,” she said, watching the rain blur the fields. “But being here…with you…it feels like a sign.”
“Itisa sign,” I said.
The thunder cracked overhead, loud enough to vibrate through our ribs.
She leaned into me—not for shelter—just connection. “I feel like… like you’re my person,” she whispered. “Maybe you always were.”
My head tilted, my nose brushing her temple. “I know you’re mine,” I whispered, and she burrowed into my side more.
Lightning tore through the clouds again, lighting up the ranch and her face and the wet earth and everything we were trying to outrun.
The storm had arrived.
And somewhere inside that storm, inside the electricity and the darkness, was the truth neither of us said aloud: this peace won’t last, because he’s still out there. And storms always return.
But for now—for this night—we held on to each other as the rain crashed down, knowing the next storm would be real, human, and coming straight for us.
Chapter 13
Stephanie
The storm was still raging outside, wind howling against the house like it wanted in, rain slamming the roof in wild, uneven bursts. But inside Liam’s bed, there was a different kind of storm—quiet, contained, burning through me inch by inch.
We lay close enough that his body heat touched my skin, but not close enough to actually touch. Two inches. Two devastating inches.
It felt like those two inches were tearing me apart.
My body wouldn’t settle. My skin felt too tight, too alive, too aware of every breath he took. I kept swallowing, trying to ease the dryness in my throat, the flutter in my chest, the heat sliding over my belly like something molten.
God, I wanted him.
Not gently. Not cautiously. Not in the polite, tentative way of someone recovering from trauma.
No—this was different. This was hunger. This was the dam breaking after years of pressure building behind it.
Ever since this morning, my whole body felt like it had woken up from a long, cold sleep. Like blood was moving somewhere it hadn’t moved in months.
I curled my fingers inside the sheets, trying to ground myself, but it didn’t help. My pulse kept stuttering, my thighs kept tightening instinctively, my skin prickling like his hands were already on me.
Every inhale he took brushed across my neck like a ghost of a touch. Every exhale whispered across my shoulder. And I swear I could feel him fighting it too—the tension in his muscles, the way his breath hitched when I shifted even slightly.
I felt like I was coming out of my skin. Like I couldn’t stay still one more second.
Like my body had decided something without asking my permission.
I turned my head, found the shadow of his jaw in the dim light, the strong line of it, the softness where his lips relaxed in sleep—or not sleep. He wasn’t asleep. I’d spent enough nights in this bed to know when he was truly asleep.
My voice came out barely above a whisper, breathless with everything choking me from the inside. “Lee?”
He didn’t move for half a second. Then he inhaled deeply.
I felt that inhale all the way through me. Low. Deep. Like a spark landing in dry grass.
