Page 14 of The Blaze Between Us

"They make me nervous," I admit. "When I was little, a lightning strike hit a tree near our apartment building in Chicago. Split it right down the middle and started a small fire. I've been jumpy about thunder ever since."

"That's understandable. Childhood experiences shape our fears." He reaches into his backpack again and pulls out a small, packaged snack bar. "Hungry? I always keep a few of these on hand."

My stomach answers with a well-timed growl, making me laugh self-consciously. "I guess that's a yes."

He tosses the bar across the space between us, and I catch it clumsily, the emergency blanket sliding off one shoulder in the process. I quickly readjust it, suddenly very aware of my damp shirt again.

"So," Brock says as I unwrap the snack bar, his eyes pointedly focused on the rain outside, "Ellie mentioned you worked as a bartender during college?"

"Yeah, a few nights a week at this place near campus," I confirm, grateful for the neutral topic. "It paid better than most student jobs, even if the hours were rough."

"Must have been challenging, balancing that with accounting classes."

I shrug, taking a bite of the snack bar—some kind of granola with dried fruit that tastes better than I expected. "It was worth it to graduate without loans. Well, with fewer loans, anyway."

He nods appreciatively. "That's impressive. Hard work."

"Nothing compared to raising a teenager alone while running a fire department," I counter.

His expression turns thoughtful. "Different kinds of challenges, and I had community support. From what Ellie's told me, you did it mostly on your own."

I'm surprised Ellie has shared that much about my background with her father.

"My mom died when I was fifteen," I explain, the words coming easier than they usually do. "Dad... didn't handle it well. He wasn't really present after that, even when he was physically there."

Brock nods, his expression understanding without being pitying.

"Ellie said you made sure she still had normal teenage experiences," I say, steering away from the more painful aspects of our shared histories. "That you learned to French braid her hair for prom because that's what she wanted."

He laughs, genuine amusement lighting his features. "God, I'd forgotten about that. I watched about twenty YouTube tutorials. My fingers were cramping by the end of it, but I was so damn proud when it actually looked decent."

"That's..." I pause, searching for the right word, "really sweet."

He looks slightly embarrassed. "It wasn't anything special. Just trying to be what she needed."

"Trust me, it was special." I think of my own father, who could barely be bothered to attend my high school graduation. "Not every dad would do that."

Brock seems about to respond when a flash of lightning illuminates the forest, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. The storm really isn't moving away —it's right on top of us.

"Whoa," he says, leaning forward to peer out at the intensifying downpour. "That was close."

The realization that we're truly trapped until the storm passes settles over me. I should be more concerned about the delay, about the hours I'm spending alone with my best friend's father in this tiny shelter. Instead, I find myself oddly content. There's something comforting about Brock's steady presence, the way he still looks so calm, the way he sometimes looks at me. Or maybe I'm just dreaming.

Chapter 6 - Brock

I check my watch for the third time in fifteen minutes, trying not to make it obvious that I'm mentally calculating how long we've been trapped in this shelter. The storm isn't letting up—if anything, it's intensifying, sheets of rain so heavy that the forest beyond our small wooden haven has turned into a blur of green and gray.

"Looks like we might be here a while longer," I say, keeping my tone casual even as I feel a growing unease about our situation.

Not because of any danger from the storm—we're perfectly safe here—but because of the young woman sitting across from me. Tasha pulls the emergency blanket tighter around her shoulders, the metallic material crinkling loudly in our small space. She's trying to hide how her wet clothes cling to her body, and I'm trying to pretend I haven't noticed the generous curves that her outfit doesn't emphasize quite so clearly.

I should not be noticing these things. Not about Ellie's friend. Especially not when she's fresh out of college, barely starting her adult life while I'm solidly in the middle of mine.

"Did you grow up hiking these trails?" she asks, mercifully breaking my inappropriate train of thought.

I nod, grateful for the neutral topic. "My dad used to bring me up here almost every weekend. Said TV rotted your brain, but mountains built character."

"Sounds like a wise man."

---