Page 9 of Let it Burn
It’s distant, for now. A low rumble that vibrates through the windows and makes her flinch just slightly. I glance over, and she offers me a weak smile like she’s trying not to let it show. But it’s there—the unease in her posture, the way her fingers tighten around the mug again like it might keep the night at bay.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
She nods too fast. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve always hated storms. Silly, right?”
Another rumble, this one closer. A flash of light blooms against the curtains, followed by a deeper growl of thunder. She swallows and glances at the door, like she half-expects someone to come through it.
It clicks in my chest—of course she hates storms. Not because of the weather itself, but because storms mean darkness. Power outages. Silence that’s too easy to break.
She looks down into her lap, fingers twisting in her hoodie drawstring. “Would it be weird if I asked you to stay? Just until it passes.”
“No,” I say, without hesitation. “It wouldn’t be weird at all.”
She lets out a soft breath, like she was holding it just in case I said no. “You can take the couch. I’ll grab you a blanket.”
“I’ve crashed on worse,” I tease gently, trying to lighten the air between us.
She smiles—really smiles—for the first time all night. It’s small and a little shaky, but it’s real. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment to my couch.” And I laugh at her attempt at a joke.
A little while later, she brings me a folded blanket and a spare pillow, and I stretch out on the couch while she disappears down the hall. The storm outside has grown full and wild now, rain lashing the windows and wind rattling the balcony door. I listen for a while, my hands folded behind my head, trying not to overthink this whole thing. Her. Us. What the hell I’m feeling when I look at her.
It’s not just attraction. It’s something heavier. Sharper. Like I’m already halfway in and haven’t even realized when it happened.
The soft pad of footsteps pulls me out of my thoughts.
She stands in the hallway, hugging a throw blanket to her chest, her hair pulled up in a loose knot, tendrils curling around her face. She looks younger like this. Softer. But the way she’s biting her lip says it took everything in her to come out here again.
“I can’t sleep,” she murmurs. “It’s stupid, I know.”
“It’s not.”
She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the blanket. “Can I…?”
I move without answering, scooting over to make space. “Come here.”
She walks over slowly, climbing onto the couch beside me. There’s not much room, but she doesn’t seem to care. She tucks her knees up, curls into herself, and I lift my arm so she can lean against my chest. She does—gently at first, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed. Then she relaxes into me, her head settling over my heart.
Her body is warm, soft, pressed close, and I try—God, I try—not to read too much into it.
But my arm curls around her instinctively, my hand settling low at her waist, fingers grazing the curve of her hips, and she’s warm—so damn warm—and every breath she takes presses her closer like her body trusts me even if her mind’s still catching up. She fits against me like she was made for this, forme,and I want her—not just in the way a man wants a woman, but in that deep, gut-clenching way that makes it hard to breathe. Her hair brushes my jaw, soft and sweet-smelling, and my fingers tighten slightly, grounding myself so I don’t lose control, because I could so easily kiss her shoulder, taste thepulse at her throat, and make her forget the whole world—but I don’t. Not yet.
Because this isn’t about me. It’s about her—about her needing safety, needing stillness. And right now, I’m the only thing between her and the storm. Still… she shifts, just a little, and her ass brushes against my hips. My breath catches, and I swear I feel hers hitch too. She knows.She knows.I bite down a groan and force my body to stay still. To behave. Because yeah—I want her. But I wanther trustmore.
And when she finally gives me that? There won’t be anything soft or sweet about what I do next.
The storm howls outside. But in here, there’s nothing but quiet breath and warmth.
“I don’t usually do this,” she whispers after a long silence. “Let people in.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared, Zeke.”
I tighten my hold. “You don’t have to be. Not with me.”
She doesn’t answer, but the way she nuzzles closer says enough. And slowly—slowly—her breathing evens out. I feel her start to drift, her fingers unclenching, her body finally letting go of the tension she’s been gripping for years. And she falls asleep in my arms.
I don’t move. Not even when the thunder shakes the walls. Because tonight, she asked me to stay. And I’m not going anywhere.
