Page 52 of Blocked Shot
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows as snow piles up against the glass. Jake watches it swirl under the glow of the streetlamp, fat flakes cutting sideways through the night. He’s seen his fair share of winter storms, but this one’s the real deal—relentless, thick, the kind that buries cars and keeps people locked inside for days.
He adjusts his position on Natalie’s couch, stretching his legs out onto the coffee table. The house is warm; the fireplace casts a soft flickering light across the living room. The scent of burning wood mixes with something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or whatever makes her smell so damn good. He lets himself sink into the cushions, feeling finally at ease.
Natalie is curled up in the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, half-buried under a fleece blanket. She looks content, comfortable in her childhood home, even with him here.
“This feels weird,” she says suddenly, shifting to look at him.
He arches a brow. “What does?”
“Having you here. On my couch. In my house.”
He smirks. “Do you want me to go?”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says, watching her. “But you don’t seem too upset about it.”
She doesn’t answer right away, instead tugging the blanket up higher and fixes her gaze on the TV. The storm rages on outside, wind whipping against the house, and Jake lets himself enjoy the quiet between them. No tension, no fighting the pull—just this.
A particularly powerful gust of wind rattles the windows. The television screen flickers once, twice, and then the entire house plunges into darkness. The hum of the heater silences, and the only light left in the house is the flickering glow of the fireplace.
“And there it goes,” Jake says into the sudden silence.
“Damn it.” Natalie’s voice is tight, higher than usual.“I knew this was going to happen.”
Jake looks over at her, noticing how nervous she looks. The firelight emphasizes the crease between her brows and pinched expression.
“I’ll go grab some candles,” she says, getting up unsteadily. Jake reaches for her, his hand circling her wrist gently, stilling her.
“Natalie, look at me. What’s wrong?”
“I hate storms.” She hesitates, her thumb and forefinger rub the little golden heart at her throat. “My parents’ accident?—”
“I get it,” Jake says quickly. He closes his hand around hers, squeezing. “But we’re here safe. I’m here. Whatever comes next, we’ll handle it together.”
Natalie smiles weakly, nodding. She waves off Jake’s offer to come with her to look for the candles, claiming he could bump his ribs and hurt himself. In the dim light of the flickering fireplace, Jake can make out her figure in the doorway, stretching her hands forward to feel for the walls. “Be right back.”
Jake sits on the couch, the house eerily silent. The only sound is the wind outside, and the faint crack of embers in the fireplace. He can hear Natalie rummaging around in the kitchen, and sees the light from her phone approaching.
She deposits the gathered supplies—candles, a barbecue lighter, flashlights—onto the coffee table. With an effort, Jake slides off the couch and busies himself with building up the fire that had been smoldering in the hearth, adding logs gingerly with the arm on hisuninjured side. The fire roars to life, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Natalie arranges candles around the room, the small flames creating a warm, intimate glow.
“The heat will go soon,” she says, rubbing her arms.
Jake nods, trying not to notice how the firelight brought out caramel highlights in her hair. “We’ve got the fireplace. It’ll be enough to keep this room warm.”
A moment of awkward silence stretches between them before Natalie’s eyes light up with sudden inspiration.
“Wait, I know what we need.” She disappears into the darkness of the hallway, the beam of her phone light bouncing against the walls. Jake hears the creak of a closet door, followed by rustling and a triumphant squeal.
“Found them!”
When she returns, her arms are laden with several boxes. She sets them down on the coffee table with a satisfied grin.
“Mitchell family tradition during power outages.” She pulls out Scrabble, Monopoly, Clue, and a deck of cards. “Pick your poison, MacDonald.”
Jake leans forward to examine the tattered boxes and reaches for Scrabble. “Prepare to be destroyed.”
Natalie’s eyebrows shoot up, her competitive nature triggered. “Oh, it’s on.”
