I flip on the kitchen light.
The kettle sits on the stove. Out of habit, I reach for it.
Maybe tea will help settle me. Or at least give my hands something to do besides clenching into fists every time the sky explodes.
Another flash.
The lights flicker overhead.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Hold steady.”
The power stays on, humming faintly.
I let out a slow breath.
Behind me, a door opens, hinges whining a protest. Quiet footsteps pad into the kitchen.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Wyatt’s voice floats in, low and groggy.
His hair is sticking up, glasses crooked, shirt blowing open. He blinks at the overhead light with a soft wince.
“Tea?” I offer.
He yawns. “Yeah. And about six more hours of sleep.”
Lightning flashes again, bright enough to turn the whole kitchen white for half a second.
Wyatt’s eyes widen. “Storm’s worse than they predicted.”
“The lightning’s too close,” I say, reaching for a mug. “Way too close.”
“No rain?”
“Not enough.”
He grimaces. “That’s not good.”
“Understatement.”
I pour water into the kettle and set it on the stove. The burner clicks twice before the flame catches.
Wyatt leans against the counter, arms crossed, gaze drifting toward the window. “This is giving me the same feeling I get right before a horse colics.”
“Bad.”
“Real bad.”
Another low boom shakes the walls.
I force myself to breathe. Deep in, slow out.
I hate these sorts of storms. Lightning storms. Dry storms. The kind that can turn a single spark into a disaster.
I reach up to the top cabinet and grab the tin of chamomile tea. Wyatt watches me, eyebrows lifting slightly.
“Chamomile?” he asks. “Thought that was my thing.”
“It’s everyone’s thing when it’s three in the morning.”
