Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
WILLOW
The rain starts as a whisper. Soft. Steady. Almost calming. I’m curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over my legs, a half-finished show playing on the TV that I’m not really watching. The house feels too big tonight. Too quiet.
It’s been like that a lot lately. Ever since—
I press my lips together and force the thought away before it can fully form. Instead, I focus on the sound of the rain tapping against the windows. It gets a little louder with every passing minute, a little heavier, like something building.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, making me jump. I reach for it, heart already picking up speed when I see his name.
Dad.
I answer immediately. “Hey—”
“Willow.”
His voice cuts through me.
Sharp. Urgent. All the calm from a second ago evaporates instantly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I need you to listen to me,” he says, and there’s no hesitation, no softness—just pure command. “There’s a hurricane coming in faster than they expected.”
I sit up straighter, the blanket slipping off my legs. “What? I thought it was still—like—two days out.”
“It was,” he says. I can hear wind on his end, loud enough that he has to raise his voice. “It sped up. A lot. They’re saying it could hit tonight.”
Tonight.
My stomach drops.
I glance toward the window. The rain is already coming down harder now, streaking against the glass in uneven sheets.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says, clipped. “But it’s happening. I’m about an hour out. I’ve got your sister with me. We’re coming to get you.”
My chest tightens. “Okay. Okay—should I start packing? Or—”
“No.”
The word is immediate. Firm.
“You stay where you are,” he continues. “Do you understand me?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“Doors locked?”
“Yes.”
“Windows?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” There’s a pause, like he’s checking something on his end. “Stay inside. Stay away from the windows. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
The wind howls through the phone, loud enough to make me flinch.
“Dad…” My voice wavers before I can stop it. “Are you sure you should be driving in this?”
“We’re fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “I’ve driven in worse.”
I don’t believe that for a second. But I also know better than to argue with him when he sounds like this.
“I’ll be here,” I say instead.
“Good.” His voice softens just slightly. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“Okay.”
“And Willow?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
A chill slides down my spine.
“Okay,” I repeat, quieter this time.
The line clicks dead. I stare at my phone for a second longer before lowering it slowly into my lap. The house feels even quieter now.
But the storm? It doesn’t. The rain is louder.
I stand, moving toward the window despite what he said, drawn by something I can’t explain.
The sky is dark. Not just night-dark. Storm-dark.
The kind that swallows everything, that makes the world feel smaller, tighter, like there’s nowhere to go.
The trees outside bend under the wind, their branches thrashing violently, leaves tearing free and disappearing into the chaos.
A sudden gust slams against the house, rattling the windows hard enough to make me step back.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Okay, okay.”
This is real. This isn’t one of those storms that passes by. This isn’t something that just looks scary on the news. This is here.
Right now.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to steady the sudden rush of fear clawing up my chest. Dad said to stay put. So I stay. I double-check the locks, even though I already know they’re secure.
Front door. Back door. Windows. All locked. All sealed. I grab a flashlight from the kitchen drawer, setting it on the counter like that somehow makes me more prepared. Another gust hits the house, stronger this time.
The lights flicker. My breath catches.
“Don’t,” I whisper, staring up at the ceiling like I can will them to stay on.
They hold—for now. I exhale slowly, my heart pounding harder than it should.
It’s fine. He’s coming. An hour. That’s all. I can handle an hour. I move back into the living room, pulling the curtains closed this time, blocking out the view of the storm. It doesn’t stop the sound, but it helps.
I sink back onto the couch, tucking my legs under me, phone clutched tightly in my hand. The rain pounds harder. The wind screams louder. The house creaks around me like it’s feeling every hit.
And all I can do is wait. Wait for the headlights in the driveway. Wait for the door to open. Wait for my dad to walk in and tell me everything’s going to be okay.
An hour passes. Then two. The power goes out first.
Not all at once. It flickers—once, twice—like the house is trying to hold on. Then everything goes black. I sit there on the couch, frozen, my phone clutched in my hand even though I already know it’s useless. No signal. No internet. No way to call him. No way to know where he is.
“Dad…” I whisper into the dark.
The storm answers for him. The wind screams against the walls, rattling the windows so hard I swear they’re going to shatter. Rain pounds relentlessly, louder than anything I’ve ever heard, like the sky has opened up and decided to drown everything beneath it.
I force myself to move.
I grab the flashlight with shaking hands, clicking it on, the beam cutting through the darkness in a thin, unsteady line.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself, even though it doesn’t feel fine. “He’s coming. He said he’s coming.”
But it’s been two hours. Two. He should be here by now. Something’s wrong. The thought lodges in my chest, heavy and cold, and I can’t shake it no matter how hard I try. A loud crack echoes from somewhere outside—like a tree snapping—and I flinch, my heart jumping into my throat.
“Okay,” I whisper again, pacing now, the flashlight beam bouncing across the walls. “Okay, okay…”
I don’t know what I’m trying to convince.
Maybe myself. Maybe the house. Maybe the storm. A sudden splash stops me cold. I frown, turning toward the sound. My stomach drops.
“No…”
I rush forward, the flashlight shaking in my grip as I swing it down—
Water. Seeping in from under the back door. Not just a little. Not something I can ignore. It’s already pooling across the floor, creeping inward, slow but steady.
“Oh my God.”
My breath comes faster now, panic clawing up my chest as I back away. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. The water keeps coming. It spreads across the tile, then into the living room, inching closer to the couch, to my feet—I stumble back, turning in a slow circle, trying to think.
What do I do?
What do I—
The windows. Dad said stay away from them. But Dad isn’t here. And the water is. Another gust slams into the house, harder than anything before, and the walls groan under the pressure.
I don’t have time. I move. Fast.
I grab the flashlight, my phone, anything within reach that feels important, even though I know none of it matters right now. The water is already at my ankles.
Cold. Fast. Rising.
“Okay,” I breathe, my voice shaking. “Up. I need to go up.”
But upstairs won’t help if the water keeps rising.
The roof. I have to get to the roof. My heart pounds as I rush to the nearest window, yanking the curtain aside. The glass rattles violently under the storm.
“Please don’t shatter,” I whisper, fumbling with the lock.
It sticks. Of course it sticks.
“Come on—come on—”
I shove harder, my hands slipping, panic rising with the water behind me—It gives. The window jerks open with a loud crack, wind and rain immediately blasting into my face, stealing my breath. I gasp, gripping the frame as I stare out.
The yard is gone. Completely gone. Just water. Rushing, churning water.
My stomach twists. There’s no time to think about it. I climb. One leg over the sill. Then the other.
The wind nearly knocks me back inside, but I hold on, gripping the frame with everything I have before pulling myself up, scrambling awkwardly onto the slanted roof.
Rain soaks me instantly. I crawl upward, fingers slipping against the shingles until I reach the peak, my chest heaving as I finally stop. The world looks unreal.
Water rushes past the house in violent waves, carrying debris, branches—things I don’t want to look too closely at. The rain is still falling, but not as hard now. Not as punishing.
Like the storm is moving on. But the damage—the damage is already done. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering violently, my wet clothes clinging to my skin.
“Dad…” I whisper again.
But there’s no answer. Just the water. Just the wind. Just the endless, suffocating quiet of being completely alone.
Time stretches. Minutes. Hours. I don’t know. The sky darkens slowly, the last light fading until everything is swallowed in shadows.
I’m still here. Still waiting. And then—a sound. Faint at first. I lift my head, straining to hear it over the rushing water. A low thrum growing louder. My heart leaps into my throat.
“No way…”
I push myself up onto my knees, scanning the sky.
And then I see it. Lights cutting through the darkness. A helicopter.
“Hey!” I scream, my voice raw, waving my arms wildly. “I’m here! I’m here!”
The helicopter circles once, then again—and then it steadies right above me. Wind blasts down from the rotors, whipping my hair around my face, nearly knocking me sideways as I brace myself against the roof.
A rope drops. My breath catches. And then—a figure slides down. Landing on the roof like it’s nothing. I freeze.
For a second, everything goes still. Even with the storm. Because something in my chest recognizes him before my mind does. He straightens, turning toward me, his gear slick with rain, his presence solid and grounding in a way that makes my knees weak.
“Willow!”
My name. That voice. It hits me like lightning.
“Garrison?”
It comes out as a breath. Impossible. But it’s him. It’s really him. He’s already moving toward me, closing the distance in seconds, his hands coming to my arms, steadying me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“Hey, hey—easy,” he says, his voice rough, urgent, but there’s something else there too. Something softer. “I’ve got you.”
My chest tightens, everything rushing back all at once—the garage, the kiss, the way he looked at me—
“Garrison,” I whisper, my hands gripping onto him without thinking.
He pulls me closer. Not hesitating. Not holding back. One arm wraps around me, solid and strong, anchoring me against him as the water lashes around us.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice right next to my ear. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
I bury my face against his chest, my body shaking, not just from the cold anymore.
“You came,” I breathe.
“Of course I did.”
Like there was never a question. Like there was never a world where he wouldn’t. His hand comes up, cradling the back of my head, holding me there for just a second longer than necessary.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, softer now. “I’m not going anywhere.”
My heart stutters. Because that sounds like more than just a rescue. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching my face, intense and focused.
“Listen to me,” he says. “We’re getting you out of here, alright? I’m going to get you up to that helicopter, and you’re going to be safe.”
I nod quickly, even though my hands don’t want to let go of him.
“Okay.”
His grip tightens slightly, like he feels it too.
Like he doesn’t want to let go either.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he says, his voice low, steady, unbreakable. “Not now. Not ever again.”
My breath catches. Again. The feeling of leaning into his chest floods my heart with all the emotions of that night two years ago. I clutch him tightly. Half because I’m suspended in air; half because the warmth and comfort of his chest are the only place I’ve ever wanted to be.
Because standing here, wrapped in his arms with the storm raging around us—I’ve never felt safer in my life.