He’s quiet for a second. Then: “We stay. Roads will flood.”
“So we’re stuck here?”
He nods. “Storm should peak in the next hour. Safer to wait it out.”
I force a nod, like that’s not a big deal. Just me and Owen. No power. No service. Half-built house. Raging storm. It’s fine. Completely, totally fine.
“Flashlights are in the closet,” he adds. “Emergency kit’s up top.”
“On it.”
The closet is a mess of tarps, tools, and unopened boxes. I dig around blindly.
“You need help?” Owen’s voice is close—closer than expected—and I jump, knocking my elbow against a shelf.
“Jesus,” I hiss. “Maybe announce yourself next time instead of appearing like a ghost.”
“Sorry,” he says, clearly not sorry.
He steps in beside me, which makes zero sense because the space barely fits me. I can feel him behind me—radiating heat, quiet, solid. The scent of sawdust and coffee clings to him, grounding and dangerously familiar.
“There’s a kit on the top shelf,” he says.
I reach up, feeling blindly.
“This is not a rom-com closet moment,” I blurt. “Just in case there’s any confusion. No kissing. No music swelling. Strictly flashlight retrieval.”
He doesn’t answer.
“In movies, this is the part where the two leads who’ve been denying everything end up trapped in a small space, and there’s this one charged moment?—”
We both reach for the shelf. His hand covers mine.
I go still.
It’s just skin. Just contact. But it crackles.
I should pull back. Crack a joke. Do something to break the tension that’s suddenly pressing in from all sides.
“Penny,” he says. Quiet. Low. And then?—
He kisses me.
Or maybe I kiss him. I don’t know. All I know is suddenly he’s there and I’m not thinking. His mouth finds mine and I’m pressed against the shelving, his hands in my hair, and all the noise in my brain goes silent.
It isn’t tentative. It isn’t safe. It’s two weeks of tension unspooling at once—sharp, hot, unfiltered. I drag my hands under his shirt, and he’s all warmth and muscle and anchored motion. He deepens the kiss and I answer it, instinctively, blindly, letting myself get pulled under.
One of his hands moves to my waist, thumb brushing the sensitive spot just below my ribs, and I gasp against his mouth.
And then—because timing is comedy’s favorite accomplice—my elbow jostles something. There’s a soft thunk, a slow roll, and the next thing I smell is open paint.
We freeze.
Lightning flashes, illuminating his face for a beat—swollen lips, ragged breath, eyes stunned.
I open my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. So I close it again, heart hammering so hard I swear he can hear it.
Owen clears his throat. “We should check on that paint.”
