Page 9

JULIE

T he storm rolls in like a beast that’s been waiting to strike. One second I’m sorting inventory for tomorrow’s supply check, and the next, I’m jumping at the sound of thunder so loud it rattles the windows.

I don’t scare easy.

But this one? This one’s got bite.

Wind howls outside like it's trying to rip the mountains in half, and the rain slams against the admin cabin in thick, chaotic bursts. The lights flicker once—twice—then everything goes black with a sharp pop that makes me let out a definitely-undignified yelp.

“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Just perfect.”

I fumble for my phone. No bars. Zero. Even the “SOS” signal gives up. I’m mid-eye-roll when the cabin door opens, wind blasting through, and a flashlight beam blinds me.

“You good?” comes Torack’s voice, rough and steady.

“Define good,” I say, shielding my eyes. “Because if it includes functioning power, dry socks, and basic human dignity, then I’m solidly failing.”

The door shuts with a solid thud behind him. Torack’s silhouette is big in the dark, shoulders tense, flashlight tucked in one hand. “Generator’s out. Backup battery’s probably fried. It’s too rough out to fix anything until the morning.”

“Well, that’s great,” I say, flopping back onto a folded-up sleeping bag on top of a crate. “I always dreamed of being stranded in a power outage with an orc who scowls at thunderstorms.”

He huffs. “I don’t scowl.”

“You glared at the lightning like it owed you money.”

“It interrupted my comms check.”

“Still. Very personal vendetta vibes.”

Torack sets the flashlight on a table, angling it upward. The beam throws shadows across the low-beamed ceiling and wooden walls, casting everything in moody flickering light. Cozy, if you ignore the wind screaming like banshees outside.

He glances around. “At least we’ve got supplies.”

“Mm-hmm. Romantic glow sticks and granola bars. Peak ambiance.”

He raises a brow. “Are you cold?”

“Nope,” I lie, tugging the sleeves of my hoodie down. The air’s damp and sharp, but I’m not about to admit weakness. Not while sitting across from a man who looks like he could arm-wrestle a bear and win with emotional repression alone.

He reaches into the bin and tosses me a blanket. “Take it.”

I catch it, just barely. “Are you always this chivalrous?”

“Only when you’re turning blue.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, even as I wrap the blanket around me like a burrito of stubborn pride. “Thanks.”

He sits on a crate across from me, elbows on his knees, flashlight shadows making his tusks gleam faintly. For a moment, all I hear is the rain, the creak of the cabin settling, and the sound of my own heart beating too loudly in the silence.

“You’re always like this,” he says suddenly.

I blink. “Like what?”

“Talking. Filling the quiet. Even now.”

“Better than sitting in awkward silence waiting for the roof to cave in.”

“It’s not awkward.”

“You say that like awkwardness is a weakness.”

He looks at me then, eyes locked, voice low. “It’s not. Just… unfamiliar.”

The words settle between us like something heavier than storm clouds.

I don’t respond. I can’t. Not when he’s looking at me like that—like he’s seeing me for the first time and also the hundredth. Like I’m both a problem he wants to solve and a puzzle he wants to keep unfinished.

I clear my throat, trying to focus. “You ever do this before?”

“What?”

“Get stuck somewhere. With someone. In the dark.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture softens. “Once.”

“Was it a total nightmare?”

“It wasn’t this quiet.”

He says it like a confession, and I don’t press. But something in me unfolds, just a little.

We lapse into silence again, but this time it’s softer. Easier. The kind of quiet that holds weight without pressure.

Then he says, “You handle storms better than most.”

“I grew up with chaos,” I reply. “You learn how to either steer it or surf it.”

“Which one are you doing now?”

“Bit of both.”

He chuckles, just barely. “I thought you’d panic.”

“I never panic. I catastrophize proactively.”

Torack leans back slightly, arms crossed now, watching me. “Do you always deflect with humor?”

“Yes. And caffeine. And spreadsheets.”

“You’re not just funny,” he says. “You’re… good. Steady.”

I laugh, but it’s not as sharp as usual. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re my mess right now.”

That stops me cold.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just sits there, waiting for me to catch up.

“I’m not yours,” I say, breath catching slightly.

“No,” he says, softer now. “But I’m thinking maybe I want you to be.”

And the silence after that… It’s electric.

My heart stutters. My skin buzzes. I lean forward before I think better of it. He meets me halfway, slow, deliberate, eyes dropping to my mouth—and for one perfect second, the air between us cracks with possibility.

He smells like cedar and wet pine and something warmer. Something steadier. I want to touch his jaw, feel the rough line of it beneath my fingers, trace the edge of something that might, just might, be tender under all that stone.

His hand brushes my cheek, fingers barely grazing skin, and I forget how to breathe.

knock knock knock

We freeze.

The door rattles. The storm wails.

Then comes the small, unmistakable voice: “Daddy?”

Torack pulls back instantly. Not harsh, but fast. Like he’s yanked back to earth.

I stand too quickly, blanket slumping off my shoulders, pulse still roaring in my ears.

“It’s okay, Lil!” I call, voice too bright. “Come in!”

The door creaks open and there she is—Lillian, tiny and disheveled, pajama-clad and clutching her pillow like a shield.

“There’s a bug in my cabin,” she says, voice grave. “It had eyes on its knees. ”

Torack moves. Gentle now. Steady. “I’ll check it.”

Lillian grabs his hand without hesitation. “And it hissed at me.”

He looks back at me—one beat, one breath—then disappears into the night, her small frame tucked close to his.

I sit back down, fingers trembling, heartbeat refusing to settle.

So close.

So nearly.

Almost.

And now I’m just sitting here in the dark, a storm still raging, wrapped in a blanket and wishing I hadn’t closed my eyes quite so soon.