Chapter Twenty-Four
LIGHTS OUT, WALLS DOWN
Cole
The sun is already beating down by the time I pull into the station’s parking lot.
Lawn chairs and pop-up tents dot the grassy field behind the building.
Smoke curls from the grill, where Trey is manning it like his life depends on it, and the sounds of country music and laughter spill into the warm air.
It’s the annual summer cookout—a tradition as old as the station itself. Usually, I’m all in. But today?
Today, I’m distracted.
Because today, I invited Andi.
And I don’t know if she’s going to show.
I climb out of my truck, grabbing the six-pack I promised to bring, and nod at a few of the guys setting up the cornhole boards. There are storms in the forecast, but so far, the weather has held.
“Look who finally showed up,” Brennan calls, tossing me a beer from his cooler.
“Had to make an entrance.” I grin, catching it one-handed. Even as I joke, my eyes scan the lot, hoping and waiting—
A familiar beat-up sedan pulls in, and my heart kicks up.
She came.
Andi steps out, sunglasses on, a tank top hugging her frame, jeans cuffed at the ankles, and a pair of sneakers that have definitely seen better days. Her hair is pulled up, loose strands catching the breeze, and she clutches a store-bought container of brownies like it’s a shield.
I meet her halfway, trying to keep my grin under control.
“You came,” I say, stopping just short of her.
“Don’t act so surprised.” She shifts, glancing around. “I almost turned around twice.”
I reach for the brownies. “These for me?”
“Only if you earn them.”
I laugh, stepping closer. “I like a challenge.”
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile.
“Come on.” I nod toward the back. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
I lead her through the yard, introducing her to the guys as we go. Trey waves from the grill, apron on and tongs in hand.
“This her?” he calls.
“This is her,” I confirm, nudging Andi gently. “Andi, meet Trey. Grill master and occasional idiot.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, holding out a hand.
“Likewise.” Trey grins, shaking it. “Hope you like burgers.”
We grab plates, pile them with food, and find a spot under one of the tents. Brennan slides over to make room, and Andi sits stiffly at first, as if she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, Trey cracks a joke about the last cookout and someone’s disastrous attempt at karaoke. Brennan chimes in with a story about a rookie call gone wrong, and before long, Andi is relaxed, laughing, actually enjoying herself.
And damn, it’s a sight.
She leans back in her chair, legs stretched out, beer in hand, and I can’t stop watching her. The way the sun catches the strands of her hair, the curve of her smile, the way she snorts when Brennan makes a dumb pun about hot dogs.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking at me.
“Can’t help it.”
She flicks a piece of lettuce at me, but there’s no heat in it.
After a while, someone suggests cornhole, and Andi perks up.
“I’m in.”
“You sure?” I ask, standing with her.
She arches a brow. “What, you think I can’t throw a beanbag?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Good. Because I’m about to kick your ass.”
Game on.
We team up—her against me—and the trash talk starts immediately.
“You know, it’s cute that you think you have a chance,” I say, lining up my shot.
“Just throw, pretty boy.”
The beanbag hits the board and slides off the side.
She grins. “Lame.”
Her turn. She steps up, focused, and nails it—right in the hole.
The guys cheer, and I groan. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Please.” She smirks. “I’ve been hustling you since we got here.”
We play a few rounds, and by the end, she’s laughing, flushed, high-fiving Trey like they’ve known each other for years.
I’m watching her, heart full, when it happens.
A paramedic from another station—Jake, I think—walks over, beer in hand.
“Hey, I haven’t seen you around before,” he says, all charm and easy confidence. “You one of Cole’s sisters?”
Andi blinks. “Do I look like his sister?”
Jake laughs. “Guess not.”
I stand, stepping closer, but I don’t say anything yet.
“You work here?” she asks, cocking her head.
“Station 19.” He nods. “I’d remember seeing you, though.”
She gives him a tight smile, polite but cool. “I’m just here for the food.”
“You should come by sometime,” he offers. “We’ve got better beer.”
“I’m good,” she says, but her eyes flick to me, sharp.
Jake follows her gaze, finally noticing me.
“Oh. You two are—”
“Yup,” I say, stepping beside her. “We’re good here, man.”
He raises his hands, chuckling. “Alright, alright. No harm done.”
He walks off, and I exhale, forcing my fists to unclench.
Andi looks up at me, amused. “Cute.”
“What?”
She shrugs. “You’re cute when you’re territorial.”
“I wasn’t—” I start, but she’s already laughing.
“You were totally jealous.”
“Maybe a little.”
She grins, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Don’t worry. I’m not into pretty boys with no game.”
I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “Good. Because I’ve got enough game for both of us.”
“Debatable,” she teases.
But she stays there, leaning into me, and for the first time all day, I feel like I’ve won—even though I got my ass handed to me at cornhole.
The storm that was in the forecast today finally hits after sundown.
I’m halfway through folding laundry when the sky cracks open, thunder rolling so loud it shakes the damn windows. Rain slams against the roof, fast and relentless, and I glance at the clock—903 PM.
I drop the shirt I’m folding when I hear my phone.
Andi: Power’s out. Fantastic.
I grin.
Me: Come here. Mine’s still on.
No reply.
Another rumble of thunder.
I call her.
“Cole,” she answers, her voice low and annoyed.
I laugh, grabbing my keys. “Come on, you can’t sit in the dark all night.”
“I’m fine.”
“You hate storms.”
“I don’t hate them.”
“Get your stuff; I’m five minutes away.”
She huffs into the phone. “I don’t need—”
“Not asking,” I cut in, already heading for the door.
By the time I pull up to her place, the street’s pitch black. I spot her in the doorway, phone flashlight on, a hoodie thrown over her tank top and leggings, and a duffel slung over her shoulder. Beef is on a leash beside her, looking timid—like he doesn’t like the storm any more than she does.
I hop out, jog through the downpour, and grab her duffle.
She ushers Beef out into the pouring rain, and he hops up into the truck.
Inside my place, Beef charges in, and Andi steps tentatively inside, looking around. The storm still rages outside, causing a ruckus, with the low hum of the generator in the background.
“Welcome to civilization,” I say, locking the door behind us.
She peels off her soaked hoodie, leaving her in just the tank, rain-speckled and irritated. “You live like this?”
“Prepared? Yeah.”
She shakes her head, brushing wet strands from her face. “Show off.”
I installed the generator a couple of years ago after a particularly brutal storm—the remnants of a hurricane left my mom and me without power for days.
I toss her bag onto the couch. “Hungry?”
She eyes the kitchen. It’s small but clean. “No, I’m good.”
We settle onto the couch, with Beef at our feet, while the storm continues outside. I’ve got candles on the coffee table and a couple more by the TV, casting everything in a soft, golden glow.
“Should we watch a movie?” I suggest.
“That depends. If you pick something stupid, I’m leaving.”
“What kind of movies do you like? I don’t take you for a rom-com kind of girl.”
She laughs. “Not into rom-coms. And nothing with animals either. That sob-fest with the dog last year wrecked me.”
“I gotchu.” I scroll through the options until I find something.
“The Conjuring?”
Her head snaps toward me. “No.”
“Yes.”
She glares, but her voice wavers. “Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”
“Noted.”
Half an hour in, she’s tucked under the blanket we’re sharing, clutching a pillow like her life depends on it.
“Seriously?” she hisses as the music swells.
I chuckle, sliding a hand over the back of the couch, close—but not touching.
“You okay?”
“Shut up.”
Thunder rattles the windows, and she jumps.
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”
She punches my arm, but her knuckles are white against the pillow.
I give it ten more minutes before she’s practically in my lap.
“Alright,” I murmur, pulling her closer. “Come here.”
She hesitates, but then she exhales, sagging into me. Her head rests against my chest, and I wrap the blanket tighter around us, both of us breathing just a little easier.
The movie plays on, but I’m not watching it anymore.
I’m too busy memorizing this—her warmth, the way her fingers toy with the hem of my T-shirt. It’s distracting as hell.
“You okay?” I ask again, softer.
She looks up at me, eyes wide in the candlelight. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
She nods, barely.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
And she stays right there. Even when the credits end and the screen fades to black.
“You survived,” I say.
“Barely,” she breathes.
The storm fades, but we don’t move.
We talk. Quiet and easy.
First about nothing—worst dates, our favorite pizza toppings, weird childhood fears.
But then it shifts.
She tells me about her dad teaching her how to ride a bike, how he used to call her “Bug” when she was little. About her mom’s peach pie—how no matter how many times she’s tried, it never came out right.
And I just listen. Soaking up every word.
“You don’t talk about them much,” I say after a while.
Her head is on my chest.
I’m playing with her hair.
“Hurts less when I don’t,” she murmurs.
I nod. “Still. I like hearing about them.”
She turns to look up at me, something unmistakably soft in her gaze. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?”
“Good.”
I snort. “You don’t know me that well.”
“I know enough.”
She shifts, facing me more, one leg bent under her.
“This scares me,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“What does?”
“You. This. Needing someone.”
My throat tightens. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She leans in, mouth brushing mine. “Don’t make promises.”
“I’m not.”
Her hand finds mine under the blanket, and she laces our fingers together.
“Okay,” she says, so quiet I almost miss it.
And right there, in the soft light and fading storm, I know.
I’m in deep.
And I don’t want out.