Another knock — firm, steady, familiar.
“Lucky?” Ethan’s voice. Low. Grounded.
A lifeline wrapped in a British accent.
I freeze.
“You alright?” he calls, closer now, like he can feel the panic leaking through the door.
My throat won’t work.
I force air in, push my feet toward the sound, navigating by muscle memory.
My fingers find the lock, twist it.
The door swings open.
Ethan stands there, soaked from the rain, flashlight in hand, chest rising with fast, worried breaths. His eyes scan me instantly — wild-eyed, trembling, caught halfway between flight and collapse.
Something in his face cracks.
“Lucky,” he says, softer now. “Hey. I’ve got you.”
And just like that, the dark isn’t empty anymore. It has him in it.
He steps inside, careful, measured. The flashlight swings in his hand but never directly at me — just enough to cut through the dark, enough to keep me visible without blinding me. Every step is deliberate, like he’s bridging the space between me and safety, and I can feel it even before he touches me.
“Hey,” he says again, low, steady. “You’re shaking. Come sit down.”
I nod, barely able to speak. My fingers curl over the doorframe as if holding on will stop the world from spinning.
“You’re cold,” he murmurs, and I feel the hand brushing against my arm — not rough, not grabbing, just steady. Solid. Safe. Like the storm can’t touch me when he’s here.
“I—I was just—” I start, voice trembling. “I didn’t… I didn’t know the power went out—”
He interrupts softly, almost a whisper: “I know. It’s okay. Breathe.”
I try. I try to follow him inside, but every step feels heavy. Every flash of lightning makes me flinch like it’s some signal that everything could collapse again.
He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t make me explain. He stays close enough that I can feel the heat from his chest, hear the even rhythm of his breathing — a tether.
“Sit,” he murmurs, guiding me toward the couch. His hand barely brushes my elbow. Just a whisper of contact, but it shoots straight through me, a jolt of heat that has nothing to do with the storm.
He steps closer, slow, deliberate, careful not to crowd me. The flashlight in his hand casts long shadows across the walls, bouncing off his damp hair and highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw. Even soaked, he’s impossibly solid — a lighthouse in the dark, and I can’t look away.
I fold into the cushions, heart hammering. The world is nothing but him: the way the rain streaks his hair, the intensity in his eyes, the quiet steadiness that makes my chest ache.
He crouches slightly, hand brushing mine again, thumb grazing the back of my fingers. My pulse spikes — sharp, electric. My skin pricks under the touch. The storm is loud outside, but the silence here, the weight between us, is louder.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs again, just under his breath. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”
My stomach twists, my chest thumping with something more than fear. My hands are still trembling, but the panic is starting to dull, replaced with an ache I don’t quite understand — a pull toward him, toward this strange warmth in the middle of the storm.
“Lucky,” he says softly. “Look at me. You’re okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The words hit me like an anchor. My chest tightens — not from panic, but from wanting. Wanting the safety, the closeness, the protection. Wanting him here.
I lift my gaze to meet his. His eyes are fixed on mine, unwavering. I can almost feel the pull, the magnetic gravity of him leaning in — closer, closer — until the air between us feels like it’s charged.
