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I give her a crooked smile. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”
She grabs the remote, flips on the TV, and settles into the cushions like she owns the place.
“Thought we could use a distraction,” she says casually, curling one leg beneath her.
I sit beside her, keeping a respectful distance—but not too much.
We end up watching some crime docuseries, the kind with moody narration and grainy surveillance footage. At first, we’re quiet. Focused. But then she shifts, her bare knee brushing against mine.
She doesn’t move it.
Later, my arm drapes casually across the back of the couch and her hair brushes against it—soft, damp strands like silk. When she leans back, her shoulder barely grazes my chest. Her body heat bleeds into mine. I don’t pull away.
A little while in, she laughs at something a little too dark to be funny, and I glance down.
Her lips are parted. Her tank’s riding up again.
She catches me looking and arches a brow. “You okay over there?”
I smile lazily. “Just thinking about some poison Ivy.”
“Mmm. Hot.”
The TV clicks off. The lights flicker once… then die completely.
Blackout.
The only sound now is the storm.
And the water.
We both turn our heads at the same time—just as a thin line of it begins creeping across the floor from the front of the unit.
“Shit,” I mutter, already on my feet. I rush over and start unplugging everything. “We need to get everything up, off the ground. Now.”
She’s already moving—grabbing power banks, phones, tablets. I unplug the TV, the lamps, the mini-fridge. Ivy packs up snacks, water bottles, and extra towels.
“The bedroom’s higher ground,” I say. “It’s sealed tighter, too.”
She nods, eyes wide but steady. “Let’s go.”
We retreat to the bedroom, arms full of everything we might need: chargers, granola bars, water, flashlights, her laptop, my backup power bank, and a Bluetooth speaker in case we need music or white noise to drown out the storm.
Once inside, I wedge a towel under the door just in case.
Then we’re there. In the dark. In bed.
Together.
I lean against the headboard, watching her as she curls up under the blanket beside me, her face still slightly flushed from the scramble.
“Comfortable?” I ask, voice low and thick.
She shrugs, adjusting her pillow without looking at me. “I’ve been in worse places.”
I smirk. “You’re lucky. I come with snacks, survival gear… and excellent company.”
She glances at me, amused. “You come with attitude, ego, and a very unhealthy obsession with peanut butter pretzels.”