Chapter 4
Sayla
T he blizzard hit like a freight train, burying the town under an unforgiving blanket of white and trapping everyone in their homes. It was fine by me, I’d stocked up, locked my doors, and was fully prepared to ride it out alone, wrapped in blankets and fueled by snacks and an unholy amount of coffee.
In fact, I’d just curled up on my couch under some blankets and was flicking through Netflix when disaster struck.
It started with a noise. A deep, ominous creak from above, the kind of sound that immediately makes your soul leave your body. I initially thought someone had broken in and was farting but, to be honest, if someone farted like that, they had bigger issues than I did, and that said something. I barely had time to register it before my bathroom ceiling gave up on life entirely.
With a deafening crash, my bathtub—my actual, literal bathtub—plunged through the floor like it was auditioning for a disaster movie, taking half my pipes with it. Water exploded everywhere, drenching my floors, walls, hopes, and dreams.
I just stood there for a second, stunned, watching my former bathroom turn into a rapidly expanding indoor swimming pool. Then I sprang into action, or at least what could generously be called action—mostly running around in circles, cursing, and trying to remember where the hell my main water shut-off valve was.
I’m lying. I didn’t know where it was because I hadn’t paid attention or put the effort into memorizing that fact. I’d call my “remembering where the main water shut-off valve was,” me technically screaming swear words, mainly fuck, and opening cupboard doors to see if there was anything labeled ‘water’ inside them.
Within minutes, water was spreading into my living room, and I was making frantic noises that didn’t resemble words so much as distressed animal sounds. Just as I contemplated whether abandoning my house entirely and living in my car was socially acceptable, a knock sounded at my front door.
Oh no.
Not now. If there was a god or any justice in the world, this wasn’t happening.
I flung open the door, and of course, there he was. Roque, standing in the middle of the blizzard, like he was some winter apocalypse rescue team, his arms crossed and his expression equal parts smug and concerned.
“You good?” he asked, peering past me.
At that exact moment, a massive, freezing splash of water lapped at my feet like a cruel punctuation mark.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, gripping the doorframe so I didn’t launch myself into the snow. “I’m fine.”
He lifted an eyebrow, gaze flicking to the disaster unfolding behind me. “Yeah, that’s convincing.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Look, unless you happen to be an expert in flood management, home repair, or time travel to stop this from ever happening, I don’t need?—”
Roque brushed past me, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, his boots squelching against my increasingly waterlogged floor. “Where’s your main shut-off?”
I hesitated, then admitted, “I have no idea.”
He sighed but, to his credit, didn’t say anything smug about it. Instead, he marched straight for the kitchen, heading to the basement door like he somehow had my house memorized.
“I—wait, how do you know where?—”
“I helped Mrs. Hendricks with hers last year,” he called over his shoulder. “Same layout.”
I stared after him, torn between horror at my house falling apart and annoyance that Roque was swooping in again like a smug, know-it-all handyman.
A few minutes later, the gushing sound stopped, replaced by an eerie, waterlogged silence. Was it possible for silence to even be waterlogged, or was it just my home? Roque reappeared, shaking snow out of his hair like some kind of heroic lumberjack.
“Well,” he said, glancing at the wreckage of what used to be my bathroom. “On the bright side, you’ve always wanted an open floor plan.”
I picked up a soggy throw pillow and threw it at his head. The moment the pillow left my hand, I realized two things: one, my aim was worse than I thought, and two, Roque had reflexes like a damn cat. He barely moved, tilting just enough for the soggy missile to miss his face by an inch before it landed with a wet splat against the ruined floor.
He turned back to me, one eyebrow raised in amused challenge. “Feel better?”
I huffed, crossing my arms. “Not really.”
Roque glanced around at the disaster zone that was now my living room. “So, what’s the plan?” he asked, ever so casually, like I was about to whip out a five-step solution to survive my house actively trying to evict me. “Because, in case you haven’t noticed, the roads are shut down. Snow’s too deep, no one’s driving anywhere, and unless you’ve got an inflatable raft tucked away somewhere, you’re kinda up shit’s creek.” He cautiously peered up through the hole, seeing the toilet only feet away. “Almost literally with that one, too.”
I pressed my lips together, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he had a point. Instead, I followed his gaze up at the gaping hole where my bathroom floor used to be, considering my options. Calling my dad was out of the question. Not because he wouldn’t help but because it would involve admitting that I had, in fact, skipped the very basic, very important step of getting a home inspection before signing my name on the dotted line. And if there was one thing I wasn’t ready for, it was the absolute earful I would get about how reckless that was. It was also dangerous outside, and he was the type of dad who’d say, ‘fuck it,’ and try and make the drive in this weather anyway.
Roque must have read my mind because he crouched next to the mess, poking at a piece of wood jutting out from under the fallen bathtub. The moment his fingers pressed against it, the thing crumbled apart like wet cardboard. He let out a low whistle. “Yeah, definitely don’t call your dad.”
I groaned, rubbing my temples. “You know, you could at least pretend to be helpful instead of enjoying this a little too much.”
“Hey, I am being helpful,” he shot back, still grinning. “I just saved you from getting an ‘I told you so’ speech that would haunt you for years. That’s gotta be worth something.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, I’m your best option right now, as is you staying at my house.”
I hated that he was right. Again. The reality of my situation settled over me like a soggy, freezing blanket—I couldn’t stay here. Not with part of my house in ruins and the temperature dropping fast.
I inhaled sharply, knowing exactly where this conversation was heading but refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing it first. “Fine.”
His eyes sparkled with something entirely too arrogant. “Fine, what?”
I clenched my jaw. “Fine. I’ll stay at your place until I can get someone out here to fix things.”
Roque beamed like I’d just handed him a trophy. “Now, was that so hard?”
I pointed a finger at him. “Don’t push your luck, Edwards.”
Chuckling, he clapped his hands together. “Alright, first things first—we can’t just leave your house like this. Water’s still everywhere, and if it starts freezing, you’ll have even bigger problems.” Before I could argue, he was already heading toward the door. “I’ll grab my shop vac. Should help clear out some of this mess.”
While he was gone, I stood there, arms crossed, watching the water creep farther into my living room and wondering how, exactly, my life had come to this.
When Roque returned, he wasted no time setting up the shop vac, working with the efficiency that suggested he had too much experience dealing with disasters. Reluctantly, I grabbed my phone and started texting around the neighborhood, swallowing what little pride I had left.
Me: Hey, does anyone have a dehumidifier I can borrow? Minor flood situation.
Within seconds, the responses started rolling in.
Mrs. Hendricks: Oh dear! Are you okay, sweetie? I can send my grandson over to help.
Me: No need, just need to dry things out.
Mr. Calloway: I got one. But you gotta bake me something in return.
Me: Deal.
I looked up to find Roque smirking at his own phone. “What?”
He held up his screen. “Seems like half the neighborhood already knows you broke your house. They’re sending advice on how to fix it, how to get rid of the water that’s apparently already seeping under your front door and freezing, and offering towels, dehumidifiers, and firewood so you can keep the fire going and stop it freezing inside the house. Seems people know you better than you know yourself.”
I groaned. “Of course they do.”
Roque grinned, going back to vacuuming up water. “On the bright side, at least now you don’t have to explain it to everyone individually.”
I grabbed another soggy pillow and lobbed it at him. This time, I didn’t miss.
Roque
After hours of fixing as much as I could and getting rid of as much water as possible, I was exhausted. Our neighbors had come through for her, though, dropping off a total of seven humidifiers that were now powered by an extension cord running from my home that we’d buried under the snow. We’d also set a small fire and some portable heaters that’d also been dropped off to keep her home warm. My electricity bill would be hell, but at least we’d managed to stop more damage to the property lemon she’d bought.
By the time we trudged through the snow to my place, Sayla looked like she was mentally preparing herself for war. Not a physical, weapons-drawn battle, but the kind of war where she had to accept that she owed me for saving her from her sinking ship of a house. I was going to savor every second of this.
“Make yourself at home,” I said, kicking the snow off my boots as I stepped inside. “Oh, wait, you already are.”
She shot me a glare that could’ve melted the blizzard outside. “Enjoy this while it lasts, Roque. I’m out of here the second I can get a plumber and someone to patch up my ceiling.”
I smirked. “Sure, sure.”
I’d had a thing for Sayla longer than I cared to admit, and the worst part? I hadn’t even been trying to fight it. There was no point. She was in my blood, under my skin, and lodged in my brain like an unshakable tune. The problem was that life—mostly work—kept getting in the way of me doing anything about it properly. And when I did try? Well, let’s just say my execution had been… less than stellar.
Take our one-nighters, for example. In my head, they were supposed to be my way of showing her I was interested, a stepping stone toward something more. In reality? It had backfired entirely, cementing me in her mind as the guy who didn’t do commitment. Not exactly the grand romantic gesture I’d envisioned. So, I’d switched tactics, trying a different approach that included being around, making her laugh, and finding every ridiculous excuse to help her out, even if it meant rescuing her from her disaster-prone tendencies.
The truth was, I knew I’d screwed up with her. If I could go back and do things differently, I would. But life didn’t come with a rewind button, and the only thing I could do now was prove, in my own stubborn, slow-burning way, that I wasn’t going anywhere. Even if that meant letting her turn my thermostat up to tropical levels—which she was currently doing. Because when it came to Sayla? I was playing the long game, and for once in my life, I wasn’t in a hurry to win.
Before she could threaten me with bodily harm, Lynyrd and Skynyrd bolted into the room like a furry missile, skidding to a stop in front of Sayla. Right behind them, Dog strolled in with the unbothered attitude of a king inspecting his kingdom. The moment Sayla crouched down, Lynyrd and Skynyrd wiggled their entire bodies in excitement, and Dog, in a move that could only be described as betrayal, rubbed his head against her leg like she was his new favorite person.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered as Dog flopped onto his back, all four legs in the air, demanding belly rubs. “I provide food, shelter, and unconditional love, and yet you turn on me the second she walks in?”
Sayla smirked as she ran her fingers through Dog’s fur. “Maybe they just have good taste.”
I rolled my eyes and headed toward the kitchen, turning the thermostat back down again to a normal person’s preferred temperature instead of Hades-worthy temperatures, grumbling under my breath about loyalty.
The first night went about as smoothly as expected when two people with unresolved history and entirely different living habits were forced into close quarters. It started with the thermostat war.
Sayla, apparently, wasn’t built for the Arctic, cranking the heat up to what could only be described as tropical. On the other hand, I preferred not to sweat inside my house and wasn’t about to let my utility bill skyrocket because she didn’t believe in multiple layers of clothing—which I’d risked my life to get from her bedroom— and blankets. I’d even lit a fire and moved the couch closer to it, but that apparently wasn’t enough for her.
“This is a perfectly reasonable temperature,” she insisted, standing in front of the thermostat as she dramatically pulled her hoodie tighter.
I kept my hand over it so she couldn’t mess with it again. “For a greenhouse,” I shot back, crossing my arms.
“Maybe I don’t want to turn into a human popsicle.”
“And maybe I don’t want to sweat in my own home like I’m on the surface of the sun.”
Lynyrd sneezed from his bed by the fireplace as Skynyrd snored, and Dog, who had somehow managed to sprawl across an entire chair like he paid rent here, flicked his tail in what I could only assume was judgment.
“Could we at least turn it up, say, ten degrees?” she asked, pouting. It was already on seventy-five, and with the fire, the house was fighting back against the freezing, blizzard climate outside. I was close to pulling out some shorts and a T-shirt, but it seemed wrong, given the weather.
“No.” I was sticking firm to this.
Rolling her eyes at me, she walked back to the couch, shooting over her shoulder, “You’ve got to fall asleep at some point.”
Damn, she was a brat. I liked it, but I was fighting everything not to reach out and give her ass a swat to the point my fist was clenched—the one not still guarding the thermostat, that was. Glaring at me, she sat back down and dramatically reached for not one but three blankets, tucking them in around her like her life depended on it. Then she made a point of extending one side over my cat, called over the dogs, and wrapped them up, too, when they lay on the floor in front of her.
Like they’d ever freeze. The damn animals had better beds and food than I did.
With Dog still hogging his portion of the couch and the dogs now curled up where they were, I sighed and walked through to the kitchen to do something that’d piss her off. I shook their treat tins, making them snap out of their naps and scramble to get to where I was, inevitably dragging the blankets with them and making her squeal.
The toothpaste debacle was next. Before bedtime, we discovered that I squeezed from the middle, which apparently made me a barbarian, and Sayla squeezed from the bottom, which apparently made her superior in all things toothpaste-related.
Later that night, I woke up to her kicking me.
“You’re snoring,” she hissed, shoving my shoulder.
“I do not,” I muttered, still half-asleep, though deep down, I knew I probably did. It was one of the reasons I kept the house on the cooler side—too much heat dried out my sinuses, and I’d inevitably wake up with a raw throat, the unfortunate consequence of snoring all night.
Sayla, however, was not about to let me off the hook. “You do. It’s like a chainsaw in slow motion.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Tell that to my last remaining brain cell.”
I smirked into my pillow. “It left around the time you bought that house.” The pillow smacking me over the head was immediate, but I took the hit like a champ, burrowing deeper into my blankets with a satisfied sigh. “If you don’t like it, you can sleep on the couch.”
I knew she wouldn’t. The couch was comfortable as hell, but the second she settled in, she’d be ambushed by my personal zoo. It had been cute earlier—her sitting there, sipping tea, Lynyrd sprawled across her lap like a contented boulder, Skynyrd perched on the armrest, and Dog licking her elbow like she was his last meal. It was all fun and games until she tried to move, at which point she’d realized Lynyrd had the body mass of a small bear, and Dog and Skynyrd had some unsavory habits regarding personal space and grooming. She wasn’t about to relive that experience all night.
With a frustrated growl, she turned onto her side, tugging at the duvet in an apparent attempt to steal it away from me. Unfortunately for her, I’d already anticipated this maneuver and had it securely trapped under me, holding fast. The result? She yanked, not expecting the resistance but definitely not quite prepared for the way it jerked her back toward me.
“Ugh, you’re impossible,” she grumbled under her breath before giving up, muttering something that was probably a curse in my direction.
To make sure she knew I was at least ten steps ahead of her, I let out a slow, satisfied chuckle before yawning dramatically, rubbing it in. What I wasn’t expecting was the sharp jab of her heel connecting directly with my ass. It wasn’t exactly excruciating pain, but it was definitely in the ‘mildly unpleasant’ category. Not that I’d ever admit it.
I grunted but didn’t react otherwise, letting the silence stretch between us. After a beat, she sighed and shifted again, pulling the blanket to her chin as if nothing had happened.
Yeah. This was going to be fun.