20. The Storm Inside
The Storm Inside
COOPER
The sky over Lakeside Lodge didn’t just darken; it bruised, turning a sickly shade of violet that promised violence.
I stood by the window of our cabin, watching the pines whip back and forth like they were trying to shake the very earth loose.
It was the kind of weather that made you feel small, the kind that reminded you that for all our high-tech podcasting gear and corporate strategies, we were just guests on a planet that didn't particularly care about our booking errors.
"The heater is officially a lost cause," I said, turning back toward the room. "I think it’s actually blowing cold air now. It’s a bold choice for a luxury retreat, really. Very avant-garde."
Sloane didn't answer. She was sitting on the edge of the oversized bed, her laptop screen the only light in the dimming room.
She looked smaller than usual, her shoulders pulled tight toward her ears.
Usually, Sloane Donovan occupied space like a high-stakes litigation attorney, but here, in the shadows of the lodge, she looked like she was trying to disappear into the fibers of the duvet.
"Sloane?" I stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under my boots. "Are you okay? You’ve been staring at that same spreadsheet for twenty minutes. I know you’re a genius, but even you can’t find deep meaning in the catering budget for that long."
She didn't look up. Her fingers were curled into the edge of the mattress, her knuckles white enough to glow in the dark.
I realized then that she wasn't breathing—not really.
It was a series of shallow, jagged hitches that barely moved her chest. The air in the cabin suddenly felt thick, charged with the same static that was currently rattling the windowpanes.
The sky let out a crack of thunder that sounded like the roof was being torn open.
Simultaneously, the flicker of the overhead light died.
The hum of the broken heater cut out, leaving a silence so heavy it felt like it had its own weight.
We were plunged into a darkness so absolute I couldn't even see my own hands.
"Sloane," I said, my voice low and steady. I didn't reach for her yet. I knew enough about the walls she’d built to know that a sudden touch could be a match to a powder keg. "The power's out. It's just the storm. I'm right here."
I heard it then—a soft, jagged sound that caught in her throat, like a gear stripping in a fine watch.
It wasn't a sob. It was the sound of someone whose internal machinery had finally seized under the sheer, grinding weight of being okay. I moved toward her, navigating by the memory of the room’s layout, until my knee brushed the side of the bed.
"I can't," she whispered. It was the smallest I’d ever heard her. "I can't... the air. There isn't enough."
I sat down beside her, making sure to leave a few inches of space.
Even in the pitch black, I could feel the heat radiating off her—not the warmth of comfort, but the feverish energy of a body in full flight-or-fight mode.
Her breathing had sped up into a frantic, rhythmic panting that tore at something deep in my chest.
"Sloane, listen to my voice," I said, pitched in that low, grounding register I used when the world was falling apart on air. "You’re in the lodge. You’re in the cabin. There’s plenty of oxygen.
You’re just having a moment where your brain is telling you lies, and we’re going to ignore it until it stops. "
I reached out, moving slowly, and let my hand rest on the mattress next to hers.
I waited. I gave her the choice. After a heartbeat, her hand shifted, her fingers fumbling blindly until they found my wrist. She gripped me with terrifying strength, her nails digging into my skin.
It didn't hurt. It felt like a lifeline.
"Focus on my hand," I told her. "Tell me three things you can feel. Not the panic. Not the dark. Just physical things."
"Your... your sleeve," she managed, the words vibrating against my skin. "It's cotton. Waffle-knit. It smells like the dryer."
"Good," I said, moving my other hand to cover hers, sandwiching her cold fingers between my palms. "That's one. Give me another."
"The bed," she choked out. "The duvet is heavy. It's too heavy."
"Okay, ignore the duvet. Focus on me. What's the third?"
"You," she whispered. "You’re warm. Why are you always so warm, Cooper? It’s irritating."
A small, huffed laugh escaped me. Even in the middle of a systemic collapse, Sloane Donovan found room for a critique. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. It meant she was still in there, tucked behind the terror.
"It’s a gift," I said. "A sunny disposition and a high metabolic rate. Now, breathe with me. In for four. Hold. Out for six."
I exaggerated my own breathing, making the rise and fall of my chest audible in the dark.
She followed me, haltingly at first, then with more rhythm.
The frantic grip on my wrist loosened just a fraction.
I could feel her pulse under my thumb, a wild, drumming thing that was slowly starting to find a steadier pace.
"There you go," I murmured. "The storm is outside. We're inside. You're safe. Milo is safe with Tasha. Everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be."
She slumped forward, her forehead coming to rest against my shoulder.
It was a staggering act of surrender. This was the woman who had built her entire life around the idea that she didn't need anyone, that vulnerability was just a back door for people to hurt you.
And yet, here she was, leaning on me in the dark while the world outside tried to blow itself down.
"I hate this," she whispered into my henley. "I hate being like this. It’s weak. It’s a flaw in the design."
"It’s not a flaw, Sloane. It’s a response. You’ve been carrying the weight of a ten-story building on your back for years. Eventually, the floor is going to creak."
I shifted, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her more fully against my side.
She didn't resist. She tucked herself into the curve of my body as if she’d been carved to fit there.
The scent of her—expensive espresso and something sharp like ozone—filled my senses, grounding me even as it made my head swim.
"Is it over?" she asked after a long silence. The wind was still howling, but the frantic edge had left her voice.
"The panic? Yeah, I think so. The storm? Not even close. It sounds like the pines are having a grudge match out there."
She shivered, a violent tremor that went through her entire frame. The cabin was freezing now, the residual heat from the day having vanished with the power. I could feel the cold seeping through the walls, a literal physical weight pressing in on us.
"We need to get under the covers," I said, the words feeling heavier than they should have. "The temperature is dropping, and we don't have a heater. It’s purely survival, Sloane. Professional, ice-age survival."
"Right," she said, though she didn't move. "Survival. Very Bear Grylls of us."
I stood up, pulling back the heavy layers of the duvet and the sheets.
I could see the faint outline of her as she climbed in, huddled into a ball.
I followed, sliding in on the other side.
We stayed on our respective halves at first, the expanse of the mattress feeling like a neutral zone that neither of us was quite brave enough to cross.
But the cold was relentless. It didn't care about professional boundaries or the complicated history of our podcast metrics. It was a slow, creeping thing that found its way under the wool and the down.
"Cooper?" her voice came out of the dark, small and uncertain.
"Yeah?"
"I’m still cold. Like, my bones are actually vibrating."
"Come here," I said, not giving myself time to overthink it. "Seriously. Just for the heat."
She moved toward me, a slow slide of fabric against fabric, until she pressed her back against my chest. I hesitated for a second, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs, then I reached out and pulled her closer.
I tucked my arm around her waist, drawing her flush against me.
My knees nested behind hers, my chin resting just above the crown of her head.
She was still shaking, but as the heat of my body began to transfer to hers, the tremors slowed.
She let out a long, shaky exhale, her body finally going soft against mine.
It was the most intimate thing we’d ever done—more than the banter, more than the shared secrets in the studio.
It was the quiet admission that we were both human, both cold, and both tired of being alone.
"You're like a human space heater," she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion. "It's actually offensive."
"Glad to be of service," I replied, my hand resting over her heart. I could feel it settling, the rhythm becoming a steady, comforting thrum. "Go to sleep, Sloane. I'm not going anywhere."
The silence that followed was different from the one before.
It wasn't empty. It was full—full of the sound of her breathing, the scent of her hair, and the terrifying realization that I was falling for a woman who would probably kill me for even thinking it.
I closed my eyes, the roar of the storm fading into the background, replaced by the simple, profound reality of her weight in my arms.
I didn't sleep well, but for the first time in years, I didn't mind the dark.