Page 20

Lauren

The wind tore at my soaked clothing as Logan pulled me forward through the storm toward whatever the measly building was.

Each gust felt like invisible hands trying to knock me sideways, and I had to lean into Logan’s grip just to stay upright.

My boots slipped on the muddy ground, now more river than ground, and twice, I would have gone down if not for his steady hand on my arm.

Rain pelted us sideways, each drop feeling like a tiny needle against exposed skin.

The storm had transformed from merely bad to absolutely vicious in the past hour, and visibility had dropped to maybe ten feet.

I kept my head down, following the dark shape of his back as branches whipped past us in the growing tempest, some snapping off entirely and becoming projectiles in the howling wind.

The main building was mostly collapsed, its roof caved in and walls tilting at dangerous angles, but a smaller concrete structure attached to it looked more promising. Built to last, probably meant to store equipment or supplies back when this place was operational.

He tested what was left of the door, running his hands along the frame, checking the hinges. When it wouldn’t budge, he stepped back and shouldered his way through it. The wood splintered with a crack that was immediately swallowed by the storm.

Within seconds, we were inside, and the sudden absence of wind felt like stepping into another world.

The silence was almost deafening after the constant roar outside.

Water streamed off us both, pooling on the cracked concrete floor in expanding puddles that reflected what little light filtered through the broken window.

“This looks like some old mining outpost.” We both looked around, eyes adjusting to the dimness. Dust motes danced in the air, disturbed by our sudden intrusion. “Stay here while I check it out.”

I nodded, hugging myself against the chill that was starting to set in now that we weren’t moving. The metal roof rattled ominously with each gust, a rhythmic banging that sounded like someone hammering on a steel drum, but the structure seemed secure.

An old desk had been shoved against one wall, its surface warped with water damage and age.

Empty crates were scattered around, some broken down to bare wood, others still intact.

Previous occupants had left behind the detritus of abandonment—rusted tools that might have been wrenches or hammers once, moldy papers turned to pulp, and a calendar from 2019 with a picture of a tropical beach that seemed like cruel irony, given our current situation.

Logan returned, carrying what looked like metal sheeting and wooden planks, his arms full of salvaged materials. “Seems relatively secure and no critters. Not pretty, but will keep us alive in the storm. Found these in the main structure. Help me secure that window.”

We worked in efficient silence, falling into an easy rhythm. I held boards steady while he hammered them into place with a rock he’d found, the impacts reverberating through the small space. He showed me how to wedge strips of metal into gaps, creating overlapping barriers against the wind.

The work was methodical, almost meditative, and I found myself focusing on the task rather than our near-death or near-crushing experience just hours before.

“Angle it like this,” Logan instructed, adjusting my grip on a piece of sheet metal. “We want the edges to overlap so water runs off instead of pooling.”

His hands covered mine briefly, guiding the placement, and I tried not to notice how warm they were despite the cold rain.

We reinforced the one broken window first, then moved to shore up a section of wall that seemed less stable than the rest. Logan tested each board before placing it, making sure it would hold against the wind.

By the time we finished, our little shelter felt almost cozy.

The wind still howled outside, a constant reminder of the storm’s fury, but the worst of it couldn’t reach us anymore.

The rattling had diminished to a dull roar, and no more rain was driving through gaps.

We didn’t have much light, but we could see each other enough, our eyes having adjusted to the gloom.

“Not bad,” he said, surveying our handiwork with obvious satisfaction.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets flying.

Water dripped from his hair, running in rivulets down his face, and his soaked shirt clung to his chest, outlining every muscle, but he was actually smiling.

It transformed his face, made him look younger, less burdened.

“Reminds me of this one time in Nicaragua. Monsoon season, caught us completely off guard.”

I wrung water from my ponytail, trying not to notice how good he looked all wet and pleased with himself. “What happened?”

“Four of us holed up in an abandoned church for three days.” He dug through the bag, pulling out our one change of dry clothes with careful hands.

“Ty tried to convince us he could predict the weather by reading tea leaves. Had this whole elaborate system with the patterns and the steam. Even drew diagrams in the dirt to explain his methodology.”

He chuckled at the memory. “Turned out he was just making shit up to pass the time, but it kept us entertained. Jace kept score of his predictions—he was right exactly twice out of thirty-seven attempts, which is worse than random chance.”

The easy way he talked about his team, the genuine warmth in his voice—this was a side of Logan I hadn’t seen much of.

Fighting against nature instead of people seemed to bring out something lighter in him.

His shoulders had lost some of their constant tension, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at the memory.

“There was this other time in Somalia,” he continued, stripping off his wet shirt without self-consciousness.

The movement was fluid, practiced, speaking of years of changing in less-than-ideal conditions.

“Sandstorm, not rain, but same principle. Visibility down to maybe three feet, sand getting into everything—and I mean everything.”

“Jace rigged up this whole ventilation system using MRE boxes and duct tape. Must have used six rolls of tape. Looked ridiculous but actually worked. We called it the Jace Air 3000. He even made a logo.”

I turned away as he changed, ostensibly organizing our supplies but really trying not to stare at the play of muscles across his back.

Each movement revealed new scars, a road map of survived dangers.

My own wet clothes felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to every inch of skin, but I couldn’t bring myself to change in front of him.

Not after almost squishing him a few hours ago. The memory made my cheeks burn despite the chill.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” Logan said, now in dry cargo pants and a black T-shirt. His voice carried that practical tone that meant he was thinking tactically, not personally. “Hypothermia’s a real risk, even in this heat.”

“I’m fine.” The words came out more defensive than I’d intended.

He narrowed his eyes but didn’t push. I could see him cataloging my stubbornness, filing it away. Instead, he pulled out two nutrition bars and offered me one, the wrapper crinkling in the quiet space. “Okay, maybe in a little while. Here. We missed lunch with all the running and hiding.”

“I’m not hungry.” My stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, betraying me.

“Lauren, you need to—” He stopped, really looking at me for the first time since we’d gotten inside.

His expression shifted from practical concern to something more perceptive.

I’d positioned myself as far from him as the small space allowed, pressed against the opposite wall like a sulky teenager, arms wrapped around myself.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” I focused on a water stain on the wall, shaped vaguely like Australia.

“Right. That’s why you’re acting like I’ve got the plague.” He set the nutrition bars aside on the desk with deliberate movements and leaned against it, arms crossed. The pose was casual, though his eyes were anything but. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” My voice sounded thin even to my own ears.

“Lauren.” Just my name, but weighted with patience and determination.

“I said I’m fine.” The words came out sharper, edged with the embarrassment I was trying so hard to hide.

“You’re standing as far away from me as physically possible in a room the size of a closet. You won’t eat, won’t change out of wet clothes, and you’ve barely looked at me since—” He paused, and I could practically see the pieces clicking together in his mind. “Since we hid from those scouts.”

Heat flooded my face. Of course he’d figured it out. The man noticed everything, cataloged every detail with that tactical mind of his. He probably had my mortification levels calculated down to the percentage, could read my body language like a mission brief.

“It’s nothing,” I mumbled, addressing my words to the fascinating water stain.

“Try again.” His voice remained patient, but I could hear the determination underneath.

“Logan, please just—” I gestured vaguely at nothing, hoping he’d let it drop.

“No.” His voice stayed calm but firm, the tone that meant he’d made a strategic decision and wouldn’t be swayed. “We’re stuck here at least all night, maybe longer. Whatever this is, we’re dealing with it now. Were you scared? That would be totally understandable. Let’s talk it out.”

“No, I wasn’t scared. I mean, yes, I was, but…” Damn it, I didn’t want to say any of this. The words felt stuck in my throat, tangled with two years of built-up insecurity.