I blink, then let out a short laugh, the sound bouncing nervously around the small loft. "Well. That’s... definitely not floral foam," I say, stating the obvious with a grin that’s equal parts amused and bewildered. "Unless Aunt Violet had a secret side hustle as a doomsday prepper."
Ashe lets out a low whistle as he pulls out another can of ravioli and what must be the fifth pack of Twinkies. "Nope," he says, eyes wide, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Looks like your aunt wasn’t just ready for a hurricane—she was prepped for a full-blown nuclear apocalypse. I mean, Twinkies? Those things will outlast the human race."
I shake my head. "I swear I’ve never even opened that box before. But this? This is hurricane prep on a whole new level."
He grins, already sorting through the gear like it's Christmas morning. "Good thing she thought ahead. We’re gonna be just fine up here."
“My hurricane kit before today was a candle shaped like a cactus and a bottle of rosé wine.”
He raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything, just starts checking the flashlights and organizing supplies like he’s done this a million times. And maybe he has.
I try not to feel self-conscious. I’m in my avocado pajamas and an oversized shirt that saysFlorals before Moralswith a coffee stain on the sleeve. Ashe, naturally, still looks like a Calvin Klein ad for disaster response.
Peaches is curled up on her doggie bed, her body forming a perfect golden donut of fur. She scootsover without hesitation, making just enough room for Smokey to join her. He hesitates for a moment, still on high alert—ears twitching and eyes flicking toward every creak and groan of the building. But eventually, he settles in beside her, their sides pressed close. Peaches rests her chin on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, while Smokey lets out a soft huff, still alert but comforted. They stay that way, sharing warmth and quiet vigilance, a reminder that even in the middle of a storm, companionship makes everything feel a little less scary.
“You grew up here?” I ask.
I spoon another bite of cold ravioli into my mouth, shrugging like it's no big deal, even though this feels like one of those moments people remember later—the kind that gets replayed when you're brushing your teeth and wondering when everything shifted.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice quiet. “Born and raised. Pelican Point’s always been home.”
“Must be nice. Having roots.” I can hear the melancholy in my own voice.
He shrugs, then grabs a can of ravioli and pops the top with practiced ease. "Not bad," he mutters after a bite, but it’s the strawberry Pop-Tart that really breaks the tension. He tears into it like a kid on Christmas morning, devouring it in three bites flat. Strawberry jam smears across his cheek, dangerously close to his jawline.
I laugh—can’t help it—and reach over with a napkin to wipe the sticky mess away. My fingers linger for a second longer than they should. We lock eyes and everything slows.
Then I blink, breaking the spell, and pull my hand back like I touched fire. "So," I say, clearing my throat and pretending I didn’t just have a near-romantic moment over a Pop-Tart, "do you want to share the bed, or do you want to test your luck with the armchair that squeaks like a haunted accordion and has at least three broken springs?"
He looks down at the offending armchair, then over at the bed. "If you can control yourself, I can too," he says with a crooked smile that hits me right in the ovaries.
I roll my eyes and gesture toward the bed. "Just remember to keep your hands to yourself, McAllister. Be a gentleman—like Smokey."
The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn’treply. Instead, he peels off his hoodie, revealing a plain gray t-shirt that clings to his arms a little too well, and drops it neatly over the back of the chair. I fidget with the edge of the quilt as I crawl to one side of the bed, still in my avocado-print pajama pants and my oversizedFlorals Before Moralsshirt that smells vaguely of lavender and panic.
We both move awkwardly, trying not to bump into each other like middle schoolers at a co-ed sleepover. He settles on his side, keeping a respectable amount of space between us, while I tuck the blanket up to my chin and exhale slowly.
It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind that makes you overly aware of every breath, every shift of fabric, every unsaid thought hanging between the sheets. Outside, the tropical storm whirls around the shop, wind howling and rain battering the roof like an angry percussionist. But up here, in this little loft cocoon, the silence feels louder than the storm.
But at least we’re safe. For now.
I fiddle with the corner of the blanket. “I didn’t have roots growing up. My mom died when I was seventeen. My dad… didn’t take it well. He drank himself into a stupor most nights until one day, he just didn’t wake up. We moved around a lot before that—he kept getting fired because of the depression. Losing her broke something in him, and we were always chasing a fresh start that never quite came.”
Ashe looks at me then. Really looks. But he doesn’t say anything. He just listens.
“After that, I bounced around. Jobs. Cities. Roommates who thought rent was a myth. But I always came back to flowers. I liked the way they didn’t need much to bloom. Just a little care. A little light.”
He nods slowly.
“I didn’t even know I had an Aunt Violet until her lawyer called. She left me this shop. This life. I figured, why not? Maybe it was time to stop drifting—time to stop pretending I didn’t want something steady. And, apparently, flowers are in my blood.” I smile, even as something tight and wistful curls in my chest.
Ashe shifts, his leg brushing mine. “I’m glad you did.”
The air tightens between us. Something about the way he says it, low and steady, sends a ripple down my spine, but now is not the time. Outside, the storm rages, but inside, the storm shifts.
And we just lie there.
Close.
