Chapter 5
Roque
T he storm didn’t let up. If anything, it got worse, burying the roads under even more snow, making it clear that Sayla was stuck with me longer than either of us anticipated. That led to some unexpected domestic situations.
The storm finally knocked the power out sometime after midnight, but I was ready for it. I had two generators—one hooked up to keep the essentials running and a backup just in case. Within minutes, the hum of the generator filled the silence, keeping the lights, heat, and fridge running while the world outside turned into a frozen hellscape.
Of course, just because I had power didn’t mean the storm wasn’t still a pain in my ass. Living in Texas, you didn’t expect snowstorms like this, but when they hit, they hit hard. The first thing I had to do was get bundled up like I was heading into the Arctic, trudging through knee-deep snow to make sure my outdoor pipes weren’t freezing. I wrapped any exposed ones with extra insulation and left faucets dripping inside to keep the water flowing. Then, there was the matter of my driveway—shoveling was pointless since the wind just blew everything back, but I still had to clear a path to the generator and make sure the exhaust wasn’t getting blocked by ice buildup.
The shack out back needed checking, too. The storm meant my shed doors were probably frozen shut, and if I didn’t knock the ice off them now, I’d be dealing with a bigger headache later. And then there were the animals—Lynyrd and Skynyrd weren’t exactly outdoor survivalists, so I had to let them out just long enough to do their business before they came barreling back inside like their paws had been personally offended by the cold.
By the time I was done, my fingers were numb, my nose felt like it was about to fall off, and I was cursing whatever part of me thought living out here was a great idea. But at least the house was warm, the power was on, and I wouldn’t wake up to burst pipes or a driveway that might as well be an ice rink. That was something, at least.
And it meant that Sayla stopped fucking around with the thermostat because she didn’t want to overpower the generator. My home wasn’t tropical anymore, but it was finally comfortable.
Cooking together that night was a disaster when she refused to follow directions. “You’re supposed to stir, not annihilate it,” I said, watching as she aggressively attacked the pot of chili.
She scowled. “It’s called efficiency.”
“It’s called murder.”
Regardless of what she’d done to the chili, it still tasted okay. She was just so obstinate.
And I really liked that about her. The bickering made it fun, too.
After dinner, we decided to relax in front of the fire, and tonight my pets actually let me sit on the couch instead of trying to get comfortable in the recliner. I don’t know what it was about that chair, but it felt like it was swallowing me and made me feel claustrophobic, so I avoided sitting in it as much as possible.
The exhaustion from the day before—the adrenaline, the relentless storm, the work outside because of the snow and ice, and the effort spent beginning the cleanup at Sayla’s house so I could assess the damage properly—finally caught up with us. Before long, we were both yawning mid-conversation, barely paying attention to the movie playing on the TV as fatigue settled in.
Neither of us wanted to go to bed, though, and late-night confessions slipped out. It was the kind of exhaustion that made people too honest for their own good. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the fire crackling, Sayla sighed. “I should’ve gotten that inspection.”
I glanced at her. “Yeah. But then you wouldn’t be here, and let’s be real, where else would you find this level of entertainment?” I gestured at the room around us, including Lynyrd, currently gnawing on his tail, and Skynyrd, who was asleep while still sitting up.
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
The lull in conversation stretched between us, but instead of the usual comfortable silence, there was something weightier about it—like the kind of quiet that begged to be filled with something real. I figured if we were going down the road of oversharing, I might as well start with something light.
“When I was sixteen, my best friend, Kemble, and I decided we were cool enough to try weed.”
Sayla’s interest piqued instantly. She turned toward me, one eyebrow arching. “Oh, this should be good.”
“Oh, it was,” I assured her. “We stole a joint from his older brother, snuck out to the woods behind his house, and lit up. The problem was, we had no idea how much to actually smoke.”
She smirked. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” I shook my head at the memory. “Kemble took two hits and said he didn’t feel anything. So naturally, we both decided the only logical thing to do was to finish the whole thing.”
Sayla clapped a hand over her mouth, already laughing. “Please tell me you passed out in the woods.”
“Worse. We got paranoid and thought a deer was following us. So, we ran back to his house, locked all the doors, and spent the next three hours trying to convince his very unimpressed mother that we had, in fact, seen ‘a suspicious deer’ casing the neighborhood.”
Sayla let out an unfiltered, genuine laugh that made her nose scrunch up. “A suspicious deer? That’s next-level paranoia.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just say I didn’t try it again after that.”
She grinned, shaking her head, then fell quiet for a moment, something unreadable flickering across her face before she spoke again. “I have one,” she said, but her tone was different now—less amused, more cautious. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”
I stayed quiet, letting her take her time.
“It’s not like your story, so stop me if you don’t want to hear it.” I gave her a look that let her know there was no way in hell I’d stop her. I wanted to know everything I could about her. “When I was eighteen, I had a boyfriend my parents never knew about. He was… not the type of guy they’d approve of. Always getting into trouble, had a record, the whole ‘bad boy’ package.” She let out a small, dry laugh. “I thought I could fix him.”
My chest tightened, but I didn’t interrupt.
“I got pregnant.” The words were quiet but clear. “It was an ectopic pregnancy, and I had to have surgery to remove one of my fallopian tubes.” She swallowed. “I told my parents it was my appendix, and to this day, that’s what they think happened.”
I sat up, my exhaustion forgotten, my stomach twisting. “Sayla…”
She didn’t look at me, staring at the fire instead. “It was a long time ago. I got through it. But sometimes I think about how easy it was to lie to them, how they never questioned it. Then, I think about how much I want them to know the truth.”
I reached over, resting a hand on her knee and squeezing it. “I’m sorry you went through that alone.”
She exhaled slowly, finally turning to face me. “Me too.” After a moment, she added, “The second they wheeled me into surgery, he left.” Her voice was calm, but there was an edge of something raw underneath. “I called him when I woke up, over and over. He never answered.”
I clenched my jaw. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
She let out a humorless chuckle. “Nope. Guess ‘shit was too real’ for him. His words, not mine.”
I saw red. “What a fucking asshole.”
“Oh, absolutely,” she agreed easily, lifting her coffee cup in a mock toast. “A massive, grade-A pussy.”
I barked out a laugh, even as my hands curled into fists. “Where does he live now?”
She gave me a pointed look. “Somewhere else.”
“Shame.”
“Right?” She took a slow sip of her drink before setting it down. “But honestly? I don’t care anymore. I wouldn’t even waste my breath if I saw him today.”
I wanted to believe that, but I knew wounds like that didn’t just disappear. I could still feel the anger simmering under my skin, but I knew she didn’t want sympathy, didn’t want me to make a big deal out of it. So, I did the only thing I could—I changed the subject.
Wanting to break the tension before it became too much, I leaned back and smirked. “You know, I once got stuck in a drain.”
That earned me a confused look. “What?”
Sayla raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
I sighed. “I was twelve, and my baseball rolled into a storm drain, and I thought I could fit in there easily to get it. I could—just not when I wanted to get back out.”
She blinked. “You got stuck in a drain?”
“Oh, it gets better. I was freaking out the whole time, convinced the clown from It was going to get me.”
She gasped, then scrambled for her phone. “Oh my God, please tell me there’s evidence.”
I froze. “Sayla?—”
“Oh, there is,” she cackled, typing furiously.
“Don’t,” I warned, lunging for her, but she dodged and sprinted into the kitchen, phone held high. “Sayla!”
She pressed play, bursting into laughter as the grainy news footage played. There I was—twelve-year-old me, wide-eyed and dirt-streaked, being interviewed by a reporter.
“There’s no clowns in that drain… that I’m aware of,” my past self declared, eyes darting around.
Sayla wheezed, gripping the counter for support. I seized my chance, grabbing the phone as the reporter asked, “What were you thinking while you were stuck?”
Onscreen, young me sighed dramatically. “Honestly? That I was probably surrounded by shit and piss?—”
The bleep cut off the expletives, but you could clearly see my lips saying the words, even if you couldn’t lipread. By this point, Sayla was already in tears, laughing as she watched over my shoulder at my dad’s horrified expression as he stepped in front of me and took over the interview, like a man determined to salvage what was left of his family’s dignity.
I grimaced and turned the phone off. Sayla, still cackling, wiped at her eyes. “Oh my God, I needed that.”
I shook my head, fighting my own smile. “Yeah, yeah. Bedtime.”
She grinned but didn’t argue, heading toward the bathroom. I let out a slow breath. I wanted to kiss her more than anything, but she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
The following day, the incident happened. The one neither of us talked about, but both of us remembered it in excruciating detail.
The accidental, very steamy, very mortifying for Sayla shower encounter.
It wasn’t my fault, really, it wasn’t. The water pressure was finicky, and I’d warned her about it, but she didn’t listen, and when the pipe shuddered, and the water abruptly cut off mid-shower, she did what any rational person would do—yelled for help.
Unfortunately, in my haste to be the hero, I swung open the door without thinking.
Time slowed. Steam filled the room, swirling around her like some dramatic movie scene. My brain short-circuited, and I froze where I was just inside the doorway. Seeing me through the condensation in the mirror, she shrieked and spun around, nearly slipping as she grabbed the only thing available to cover her body up… which, unfortunately, turned out to be the translucent shower curtain I had every intention of replacing.
“Close the damn door, Roque!”
Right, yes, door. Important.
I slammed it shut and immediately walked into the wall because, apparently, my coordination had abandoned me in the face of absolute untouchable heaven.
For the rest of the day, neither of us made eye contact. Every interaction felt like stepping through a minefield, both of us carefully avoiding any reference to the morning’s disaster. Breakfast had been a silent, awkward affair—me staring way too hard at my coffee and her determinedly buttering a piece of toast with the precision of someone trying to solve a complex math equation.
Then there were the accidental touches—too many of them. Brushing past each other in the kitchen, both reaching for the same dish towel, our knees bumping when we sat on the couch. Every little contact sent a jolt through me, like my body had suddenly decided it was hyper-aware of her presence in thrilling and torturous ways.
The worst part was that I wasn’t just imagining it. I caught her looking at me when Sayla thought I wasn’t paying attention, her eyes lingering a little too long before she quickly looked away. She laughed at my dumb jokes more than usual. And when she walked past me at one point, she bit her lip like she was trying not to react to how close we were.
By the time the storm showed signs of letting up for a moment, I wasn’t entirely sure if I wanted to dig her car out or keep her here indefinitely to see what other chaos she could bring into my life.
But as I caught her laughing at something Lynyrd did, her guard dropping for just a moment, I realized something dangerous for her.
Snowstorms eventually passed. But this thing between us wasn’t going anywhere.