Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Quinn
A Storm Is Coming
Tommee Profitt, Liv Ash
The storm starts as a suggestion. The clouds a dark band bruising the horizon.
Wind tugging at the trees like it’s impatient.
A low, distant rumble that could be thunder, or maybe it’s just the city being itself.
By the time the first sheets of rain slap against the windows of Dean’s house, it’s no longer a suggestion. It’s a decision.
I stand at the kitchen island, scrolling through apartment listings on my phone, trying to convince my brain that this is productive and not just a way to keep my hands busy. The house is too quiet.
Sadie and Dean are at the studio. Actually, everyone is at the studio except me.
Because I told Sadie I’d stay behind and rest. Because my body is still catching up from the drive and the emotional whiplash of moving my entire life across half the country.
Because I told myself I wanted the quiet.
Now that I have it, I’m not sure I like it.
The rain intensifies, rattling the gutters and pounding the patio stones like it’s angry.
Another distant crack of thunder rolls through the air, deeper this time, and I glance instinctively toward the living room windows.
I hate thunderstorms. Something about the loud booms always make me jumpy.
Probably because I’ve watched way too many horror movies, and not for any other rational reason, but it is what it is.
I realize that mid-west storms aren’t like a New York City storm. New York storms come with drama and sirens and the hum of a city that refuses to pause. Here, the wind feels wider and louder. Like it can reach right through the glass and grab you if you let it.
My phone screen dims. I tap it awake and force myself back into the list of one-bedrooms and studios with overly cheerful descriptions: Cozy! Charming! Great natural light!
None of them mention the neighbor who practices trombone at midnight. Or walls so thin you learn exactly when the couple next door breaks up. Or the way “cozy” often means you can touch the fridge while sitting on the toilet.
I sigh and set the phone down, rubbing at my temple. The lights flicker. Once. Twice. My stomach tightens immediately, my body reacting before my mind can talk it down.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself out loud, because it’s harder to spiral when you can hear how irrational it sounds. “It’s just a thunderstorm.”
The third flicker is longer. The kitchen dims, brightens, dims again, and then everything goes dark. The refrigerator hum dies. The overhead lights blink out. The entire house plunges into a sudden stillness so complete it makes my ears ring.
I freeze where I’m standing, hand bracing against the counter like the wood might anchor me. Outside, the storm continues to rage. Rain lashes the windows. Wind whistles around the house. Thunder cracks sharp and close, and I flinch involuntarily.
I exhale slowly through my nose and feel for my phone.
The small rectangle of light feels ridiculous and necessary all at once as I unlock it and hold it up like a lantern.
The flashlight icon stares back at me. I tap it.
A cone of harsh white light floods the kitchen, carving shadows into corners that were never meant to be visible.
Okay, it’s just a power outage. In a nice neighborhood. In a house full of guitars and expensive furniture. Nothing is going to happen. This is not a scene in a horror film. I know all of this, so why is my heart still thumping like it’s not convinced?
Another boom of thunder shakes the windows, and I jerk, the light wobbling in my hand.
The sound is too big. Too sudden. Too close.
I take a breath, then another, trying to lower my pulse.
I could call Sadie. But then Dean would probably come home too.
No hesitation. Probably drag half the band with him.
That seems a bit excessive. And I know they’re trying to finish up a track.
Or, I could just handle it. So, I do what any rational person does when they’re alone in a dark house and the weather is acting like it has unresolved issues; I start searching for candles.
Dean’s kitchen is organized in a way that tells me he may have some control issues.
I find a drawer full of matches. A cabinet with emergency flashlights.
Another drawer with a little stack of pillar candles, neatly lined up like someone planned for this.
Who knew Dean was such a control freak? Not that I’m complaining right now.
I carry a bunch of the candles into the living room, the phone flashlight bouncing along the walls. The room looks different in the dark. It’s bigger and full of shapes instead of details. I set them on the coffee table, light them one by one, and watch the flames flicker to life.
The soft glow immediately changes the room, warming the shadows, making everything feel less ominous.
Still, when the wind howls outside and the house creaks faintly, my shoulders lift.
I sink onto the couch and curl my feet under me, pretending I’m perfectly calm.
Pretending I don’t feel like the storm might crawl through the chimney like a horror movie villain.
My phone buzzes. A text from Sadie.
Sadie: Hey sis! How you doing? Storm getting crazy over there?
I stare at the message, thumb hovering. Before I can answer, another text pops up.
Sadie: If the power goes out, there are candles in the kitchen. Dean says he’s got “emergency protocols.”
I huff a laugh, relieved despite myself.
Me: Power’s out. Candles found. Emergency protocols engaged. Tell Dean he’s a psycho.
Sadie: He knows You want us to come home?
I hesitate. The storm rattles the window again, as if reminding me I’m not as brave as I want to be.
Me: I’m okay. Really. Don’t ruin the studio vibe. I’ll survive.
Sadie: You sure? Mikey’s here. I can send him if you want.
My pulse jumps at his name. It shouldn’t. It does anyway.
Me: No. It’s fine. I’m fine.
The lie tastes like pride. Sadie doesn’t respond immediately. I can practically hear her eyebrow lifting. The phone buzzes again.
Sadie: Okay, but if you change your mind, say the word. Love you.
I set the phone down and stare into the candlelight. It’s fine. The storm is just weather. I’m just in a quiet house. The thunder cracks again, and this time my breath catches, sharp and involuntary.
I squeeze my eyes shut, furious at myself.
I deal with traumatized teenagers for a living.
I’m trained to regulate emotions, to ground, to breathe through panic.
And yet, in this moment, my body has decided that a thunderstorm is a worthy adversary.
I sit, wound tight as a ball of tape, trying for the next twenty minutes to convince myself I’m completely safe.
A knock echoes through the house. I go completely still.
The sound is muffled through the storm, but it’s unmistakable.
Three firm raps against the front door. My heart lurches.
Who the hell would be out in this storm?
Another knock. I sit up, phone snatched into my hand so fast it’s almost comical.
I shine the flashlight toward the hallway like I expect to see a masked intruder.
“Hello?” My voice comes out higher than I want.
“Quinn?” The voice on the other side familiar, low and calm.
Relief hits so hard my knees feel weak. I stand and walk quickly to the door, unlocking it before yanking it open.
Mikey stands on the porch, rainwater dripping from his hair, shoulders damp, a hoodie pulled over his head like he tried to outsmart the weather and lost.
He had to have come straight from the studio, and something about that, about him showing up like it mattered, steals the breath from me for a different reason.
His eyes sweep over me in a quick assessment. “You, okay?”
I swallow, trying to find my composure. “I’m fine.”
Mikey’s brow lifts slightly, his gaze flicking past me into the dark house. “Power’s out.”
“Really,” I quip, defensive for no reason. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He steps inside without asking, closing the door behind him and shaking water off his sweatshirt like a dog. “I came to see if you wanted to come over to the studio,” he explains casually. “Storm is pretty bad. Figured you might not want to be here alone.”
I tighten my grip on the phone. “I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.” His tone stays easy, but his eyes catch mine; steady, unflinching. “I said you might not want to be alone.”
The distinction matters. My throat tightens. “Did Sadie tell you to come?”
Mikey’s mouth twitches. “She mentioned the power might be out. I heard the thunder and,” he shrugs, “decided to check.”
Check. Like I’m something worth checking on.
He walks into the living room, pausing when he sees the candles.
The warm glow lights his face in soft gold, carving shadows into his cheekbones and jaw.
He looks different here. Less like a rockstar and more like a regular man. Which is much more dangerous.
He spots me hovering near the doorway like I don’t know where to put myself, and his expression softens. “You already got the candles going,” he notes approvingly. “Look at you. Survivalist.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I mutter in an attempt to hide a smile, the sting gone.
He laughs quietly as he yanks the wet hoodie over his head and drapes it over the back of a chair before dropping onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “I’m not patronizing. I’m impressed.”
I notice that his t-shirt is a bit damp, causing it to stick in all the right places. I hover a beat longer before I sit on the opposite end of the couch, leaving an unreasonable amount of space between us.
Mikey glances at me. “You want to go to the studio?”