Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Noah
The lights flicker on, power restored. A moment later, the television hums back to life—the movie resuming mid-scene. I pause in my bedroom doorway, listening. The sound drowns any footsteps.
Chances are the storm caused the outage. Still…
The downstairs bedroom has one entry point—one door. The narrow windows near the ceiling don’t qualify as egress, which any fire marshal would flag, but tonight that works in my favor.
“I’m gonna do a loop. Check things out.”
I stride to the bedside table and remove my handgun.
“It’s just the storm.”
“Probably,” I say, agreeing with Alicia. “I’m still going to do a loop. Stay here.”
Rain lashes at the windows. The shades are drawn and the hall is dark. By the stairs, I flick a switch, blanketing the downstairs in light.
“Widespread outages are being reported,” Alicia calls from the bottom of the stairs, holding her phone.
I grit my teeth—she’s not doing what I told her.
The security panel glows red down the hall—solid light, system secure.
“Stay down there,” I call.
I pull out my phone and check the app I loaded on my phone when Alicia gave me the security company file. We lost electricity, but the app shows the backup kicked in—the system was never down.
Within five minutes, I’ve cleared the second and third floor. There’s no sign of entry. No telltale wetness near an entry point.
Upon returning to the basement, the film is paused but Alicia’s already on her feet, the empty popcorn bowl and our glasses in hand like she’s been waiting to make her exit.
“I’m going to call it a night. Paused it for you.”
“You’re not going to stay and finish?” The question comes out before I can stop it—more interested, more disappointed than I should be.
She won’t quite meet my eyes. “It’s late. I'll see you in the morning.”
Something shifted while I was upstairs. Maybe it was sitting here in the dark together, rain outside, movie playing—too much like something real. Too comfortable.
She’s already halfway up the stairs before I can respond.
I tell myself it’s nothing, but when I finally stretch out by the monitor, the sound of rain isn’t what keeps me alert.
It’s the memory of her laugh during the movie.
The way she’d curled her feet under her on the couch.
How right it felt before everything shifted.
By the time I fall asleep, I still haven’t figured out what I did wrong.
Sunday morning, nothing’s clearer. The blinds are open to reveal a gray cloudy day. There’s no sign of Alicia.
I take out my phone to check in with my dad.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
“Hey there, son,” he says, his words warm, his tone less so.
“You heading to church?”
“We are. Linda’s finishing getting ready. What about you?”
“Working today,” I answer reluctantly. Work isn’t a good subject with Dad. “Did that storm hit you guys last night?”
“Hugged the coast. We didn’t get more than a couple of inches of rain. Upstate got some sleet. Winter’s coming.”
“Yeah, it is. What’ve you guys got planned for the day?”
“Meeting some friends for lunch. I might catch some of the game.”
“Who’s playing?”
“The Giants. Can’t remember who they’re playing though. Seahawks, maybe. You got any news?”
“No.”
“But you’re working on a Sunday—still in DC?”
“Yep. For now.”
“Putting in the time, but what kind of advancement is possible?” Same conversation, different week. In Dad’s world, if you’re not building toward something the world measures—you’re wasting your time. After all, he started as a lowly mechanic and became a franchise king.
I hold in the sigh—he’ll hear it and it will spark an argument. “That’s not what this is about.”
“What kind of work are you doing?”
“That’s not for me to share.”
“Linda saw Sarah Watkins at the market. Her son’s a captain now.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I don’t offer one.
“You think you’ll be home next weekend?”
Doubtful. “Not sure.”
“If you are, plan on joining us for church. We can catch the games after.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Alright, son. I gotta go.”
The call ends with all of the standard unsaid things. He’ll never get it. Never understand that some things matter more than a ladder to climb. He’ll likely never forgive me for leaving the Army—at least not until I can tell him I’ve achieved a rank others recognize.
I rinse out my coffee cup and head down to Alicia’s home gym. She’s got a nice set-up. A top-notch treadmill, rowing machine, stationary bike, a full weight set, and three television monitors on the wall that her cardio machines face.
Thirty minutes into a hard run, testing the limits of Alicia’s treadmill, the wall monitors flicker on. I nearly trip, catching myself as I hit the red stop button.
Alicia’s in form-fitting leggings, a matching jog bra, and running shoes. Her dark hair is up in a smooth ponytail, and she’s intent, pointing the remote like she’s wielding a weapon.
Newscasts from three different channels flick on, all set with subtitles. The overhead speakers come alive with The Weeknd.
“Morning,” I say.
Her gaze snags on me—sweaty, shirtless, still breathing hard. Her eyes track down, then quickly back up.
Alicia raises a brow, the faintest smirk curving her mouth. “You’re giving that treadmill a workout.”
“Figured I’d make sure your equipment survived the storm.”
“Always thinking of my welfare.”
Her tone’s teasing, but there’s something behind it. I don’t trust myself to look too long at her.
“There’s no damage from the storm outside,” I say, grabbing the towel from the side rail. “Security system never went down. Backup held.”
“Guess I should’ve trusted you,” she says lightly, adjusting the volume on one of the TVs.
“Guess you should’ve stayed where I told you.”
That earns me a look over her shoulder.
“I’m not great at following orders.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve noticed.” Her mouth quirks, and for a second the air shifts. There’s nothing playful in her expression now—just awareness, sharp and magnetic.
She breaks the stare first, taking a long drink from her water bottle.
Alicia Morgan doesn’t break eye contact—she wins it. Which means something just rattled her.
“You want breakfast?”
“I was gonna make you something,” I say. “Figured you earned it after surviving the blackout.”
“Coffee and heroism. Hard to beat that combo.”
“I do my best work in emergencies.”
She laughs, soft and real, and the sound goes straight through me. I should head into my room, grab a shower, reset the morning. Instead, I find myself leaning against the doorframe, unwilling to move.
“You always this put together on a Sunday morning?” I ask.
“You always this sweaty before coffee?”
“That depends. You always watch three news channels at once?”
“Helps me get all sides of the story.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The music overhead fills the space between us.
She tugs one earbud free, her voice quieter now. “Last night… Thanks for hanging out.”
“Wasn’t a big deal.”
“It felt like one,” she says. Her gaze lifts to meet mine again. “For a minute there, I thought…” Her lips part, like she has more to say.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. If she’s going to finish that sentence, I’m not going to be the reason she doesn’t.
The silence stretches with a charge, the kind that feels like it could ignite if either of us moved an inch closer.
The left screen flashes red—breaking news. The moment shatters.
Judiciary Committee Schedules Closed-Door Hearing with Senator David Crawford.
Alicia turns back to it, blinking, her expression shuttered again. “Apparently the storm took out power in three counties. Looks like power’s restored across the grid,” she says, reaching for the remote. “Guess life goes on.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Guess it does.”
But when she walks past me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine, I feel her everywhere. She doesn’t apologize. Just gives a small, knowing smile before seating herself at the rower.
I stay where I am, towel still in hand, heart rate climbing again for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio.
She settles at the rower, muscles flexing as the machine whirs to life.
The controlled power in every movement, the focused intensity on her face—I’m watching her the way I’d watch a threat.
Except everything in me knows she’s dangerous for entirely different reasons.
Every flex of muscle, every controlled movement—I should look away. Should head upstairs. Instead I’m memorizing the curve of her shoulder, the line of her thigh, the way she moves like she’s in complete control of everything. Including me.
I need to move. Need to get upstairs, get space, get my head back in the job. Instead, I grab my water bottle and head for the weight bench. If she can pretend last night didn’t happen, so can I. Even if neither of us believes it.