That’s when the wind howls, louder than before, and the power lines right outside the shop start to groan.
CRACK.
A pole goes down next to Seaside Sweets.
CRACK. CRACK. SNAP.
Like dominos, the poles topple—one jerking the next with a shriek of metal and a gut-deep groan. Each impact sends a jolt through the pavement, followed by a shower of sparks as the wires tear free and slap against the wet road, hissing like angry serpents. It's a terrifying chain reaction of snapping cables and firecracker bursts of light, and the sound alone makes my blood run cold.
“Move!” Ashe yells. He grabs Peaches by the collar with one hand and wraps the other arm around my waist, yanking us both backward away from the window just as a live wire smacks the sidewalk outside with a hiss and a spray of sparks narrowly missing his truck parked out front. The smell of ozone fills the air, and I swear I can feel the electricity buzzing in my teeth.
My heart is in my throat, pounding so hard it drowns out everything else. My knees go weak, wobbling like cooked spaghetti. Peaches lets out a sharp, confused bark that echoes off the walls, then promptly sits down—right on top of my foot—as if her tiny weight will anchor me in place. Her tail thumps twice, unsure, and she looks up at me withwide, searching eyes. The air crackles with tension, and even her bark sounds more like a question than a warning.
As the last pole crashes to the ground with a thunderous crack and the final spray of sparks fizzles out on the slick pavement, Ashe turns to me, chest heaving, eyes sharp with adrenaline. "We’re not going anywhere," he says, voice rough from the shouting and fear. "It’s not safe. Not with live wires out there. We stay put until this storm’s done throwing its tantrum."
We lock eyes. And I nod.
Just then, the lights above us flicker violently—once, twice—before blinking out completely, plunging the shop into darkness. I gasp. Ashe doesn’t move, just turns his head toward the now-blackened ceiling. The storm moans louder outside, like it's celebrating the power outage with a victory howl.
“Well, there goes the ambiance,” I mutter, trying to ignore the sudden lump in my throat. I’ve never liked storms much, and Tropical Storm Flossie is already high on my personal list of enemies—somewhere between mosquitoes and low-rise jeans.
Ashe shifts closer. “Are you okay?”
I nod again, even though he can’t really see it this time. But he’s still close, solid and steady beside me.
And for now, that’s enough.
“You okay?” he asks again, and I try to smile, brushing curls off my face like it’s no big deal.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, too quickly. “Just a little nervous. Like a floral-themed sponge that lives in a pineapple under the sea.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just watches me, eyes steady, voice low. “You sure? Because you don’t have to act like you’re not scared. It’s okay to be freaked out. This isn’t exactly a walk in the dog park.”
I swallow hard, the humor faltering on my lips. “I guess I thought… I don’t know. It’s just a tropical storm. A little wind and a little rain. So, why does it feel like the apocalypse?”
He sighs, looking toward the front of the shop watching the storm raging just beyond the windows. “Because even tropical storms can turn dangerous fast. Especially when power lines are down. Trees fall. Streets flood. And you’re here alone.”
That last part makes my chest tighten. I’ve been on my own for a long time—navigating every move, every mess, every minor hiccup without backup. It’s been years since someone looked out for me without strings attached. And hearing him say that—hearing it like a promise—makes something stir in me that I’m not sure how to name yet.
“But you’re not alone anymore,” he adds, gentler now. “Let’s head upstairs. Safer up there—and drier. We can ride it out together.”
Upstairs, in the loft, the air is close and warm, thick with the scent of dried lavender and old wood. It’s a cozy, compact space—one room with slanted ceilings, a small kitchenette against the far wall, and a mismatched collection of furniture that looks like it was thrifted with love. A worn-in armchair sits beside a bookshelf stuffed with gardening books and romance novels. The bed takes up most of the room, tucked under the eave with a quilt that looks handmade. There’s a skylight overhead, rain pelting it with a steady rhythm, and string lights looped along the beams, now dark without power. The wind and rain slam against the building like fists on a door, a constant reminder that Mother Nature is still throwing a tantrum, and we’re not out of her crosshairs yet.
Ashe glances around the loft, his eyes scanning the cozy space with quiet appreciation. "This is nice," he says, his voice warm. "Small, but it feels like you. Comfortable."
I smile, a little bashfully. "Thanks. It's growing on me. Most of this was left by my Aunt Violet—guessshe had an eye for cozy. Or at least an eye for not scaring people away with sterile furniture."
He steps over to the corner where my cleaning supplies are stacked and asks, "Where do you keep your emergency stuff?"
I point to a closet near the back. "If there's anything, it’s probably in there. Maybe behind the vases and crates of old ribbon spools."
Ashe crouches and starts moving things aside until he finds a large plastic tote labeledSuppliesin black marker. He tugs it out, setting it on the floor with a grunt. "This it?"
I squint at it, puzzled. "I think it’s just florist junk. Leftover foam blocks and weird glitter sprays Aunt Violet bought on clearance."
He opens it—and we both freeze.
Inside is a survivalist’s dream. Pop-Tarts. Cans of ravioli. Bottled water. A mountain of batteries, three flashlights, two ponchos, a hand crank radio, manual can opener, and what looks like a flare gun.
