10. Clover
"Shit," I mutter, blinking as my eyes try to adjust to the sudden blackness. "Storm or the apocalypse?"
A blinding flash of lightning followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder that rattles the windows answers that question.
"Definitely leaning toward apocalypse." Banks chuckles, his voice suddenly much closer than I expected. "You have any candles stashed away somewhere?"
"Kitchen drawer, the one right next to the sink. And there should be a flashlight in the hall closet."
I can hear him moving through my dark apartment with surprising confidence, especially considering he's only been crashing here for two weeks. My eyes slowly start to adjust to the minimal light filtering in with the occasional flashes of lightning through the windows. It's just enough to make out vague shapes but not any real details.
"Found 'em," Banks calls out from the direction of the kitchen. The distinct scratch of a match breaks the silence and the darkness, followed by the warm, flickering glow of candlelight. He reappears in the living room with several lit candles balanced precariously on small plates, setting them down on various surfaces around the room.
The flickering light casts dramatic shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the fullness of his lower lip. He looks like every single bad decision I've ever wanted to make, all wrapped up in romantic firelight. I am officially in so much trouble.
"You okay, Freckles?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Yeah, fine. Just…" I scramble for literally anything to say that won't end with me throwing myself at him. "I'm not exactly a huge fan of thunderstorms."
He watches me for a long moment in the flickering light before finally nodding slowly. "I'll grab that flashlight then."
By the time he comes back, I've already scurried around and collected every single candle I own from my bedroom and bathroom, desperately needing to keep my hands busy with something other than reaching for him. The storm continues to pound against the building, which pretty much mirrors the chaotic riot currently happening in my head. My phone chimes with a notification, saving me from having to come up with any more awkward conversation.
"The power company says it could be awhile," I report, glancing down at the notification on my phone. "Apparently, a transformer blew a few blocks over after it got a direct hit from lightning."
"Good thing you’re so prepared." Banks tosses the flashlight onto the coffee table with a soft thud and then sinks back onto the couch, patting the empty spot right next to him. "Come here, Freckles. You're shivering."
Am I? I glance down at my arms, and sure enough, there's a fine layer of goosebumps all over my skin. But it's definitely not from the cold.
I hesitate for all of maybe two seconds before another loud boom of thunder makes the decision for me. I drop down onto the couch next to him, trying my best to maintain at least a sliver of distance between us. Fat chance when he takes up half of the couch—our thighs bump, sending a shock through me that has absolutely nothing to do with the raging storm outside.
"We're getting pretty good at this," Banks says, his voice dropping low enough that it vibrates through where our bodies are pressed together.
"At what? Surviving power outages?"
"Talking. Being real with each other for once." The flickering candlelight turns his eyes into this liquid gold color, and I have to force myself to look away before I do something incredibly stupid. "Two weeks ago, you were scaling the walls to avoid being alone in the same room with me. Now look at us."
He's right. Everything has shifted since that night outside Ember when he backed me against that wall and confessed all those dirty thoughts he's been having about me. Since I watched him walk confidently through that gas leak evacuation. Since I felt him standing behind me at the bar, his chest pressed against my back while I showed him how to make an Old Fashioned.
"Don't get used to it," I say, trying for flippant but landing somewhere closer to turned on. "This is just temporary insanity. Blame the storm and the fact that I'm currently trapped here with you."
He lets out a low laugh. "Sure thing, Freckles. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
We fall quiet, listening to the relentless assault of rain against my windows. His thigh is radiating heat against mine, and without meaning to, I find myself leaning just a little closer to him. The worst part is how right it feels, how my body instantly relaxes against his solid frame like it's been waiting for some kind of permission to finally let go.
"So, when did the whole color-coded bookshelf thing start?" he asks out of nowhere, his voice a low rumble that's almost drowned out by the storm.
I blink at him. "What?"
"Your books." He gestures with his head toward my rainbow-arranged shelves. "You've got them organized by color. I was just curious when that whole system began."
I could totally lie, make some lame joke about Pinterest or aesthetic Instagram feeds, but the darkness and the steady, comforting warmth of his body right next to mine somehow make the truth just… slip out easier. "After my mom died. Her books were just everywhere, no organization whatsoever." I swallow hard, the familiar ache in my throat making an unwelcome reappearance. "I spent pretty much the entire week of the funeral just sorting them while Kasen dealt with all the actual important stuff. It just… gave me something I could control, you know?"
Banks just nods, not offering some canned sympathy line or a bunch of probing questions, which I appreciate more than he probably knows. "What about the plants then? You know, your little green babies." He smirks at me, and I have to shift because I can feel that dirty grin all the way down to my damn toes. "With their cocktail-themed names. White Russian is my favorite, by the way."
I laugh because of course he’d love the struggling Monstera. It needs the most care and I’ve learned that Banks has a total hero complex. "It started in college." A sudden crack of lightning illuminates the entire room for a split second, making me jump. Banks's hand lands on my shoulder, and I try not to focus on how big and warm it feels through my t-shirt. "My dorm room felt like some kind of sterile hospital—with white walls, white furniture, absolutely zero personality. I got this sad little ivy plant my first week and just named it Manhattan after the first drink I ever successfully made. Having something alive in there made it feel a little less like I was sleeping in a morgue."
Thunder booms outside, rattling the windows again as the rain continues to pelt against the glass.
"It makes sense that you'd name them after cocktails," he says, his fingers now absently tracing slow circles on the back of my neck. But every tiny movement, every point of contact, sends little jolts of electricity dancing across my skin. "It's very… you."
"What about you, Priestly?" I shift slightly to face him, which is probably a mistake because now we're close enough that I can make out the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. "Got any weird organizational quirks I should know about before you start rearranging more of my stuff?"
His laugh rumbles low over the sound of the storm. "Nothing too neurotic, I promise. Though I do have a pretty specific system for my turnout gear back at the station." He's still tracing those damn circles on my neck, and I wonder if he even realizes he's doing it. "Everything has its exact place so I can get dressed in under thirty seconds when the alarm goes off. It's life or death, you know?"
I try to picture Banks at his locker back at the station, meticulously placing each piece of his gear, knowing that someday those precious seconds he saves might be the only difference between walking out alive and not coming home at all.
"Does it scare you?" I ask. "Running into fires? Especially after what happened with your dad?"
His jaw tightens, the muscle there flexing in the flickering candlelight. "Not the fire itself, not really. It's the unknowns that get you. A floor that gives way without any warning. A backdraft you can't predict." His fingers move from the back of my neck to my hair, gently twisting a strand around his finger. "The fear is a good thing, though. It keeps you sharp. The guys who start thinking they're invincible are usually the ones who don't make it home."
Just then, another bolt of lightning cracks right outside my window, followed immediately by a deafening clap of thunder that shakes the entire building. I startle against him, and his arm slides around my shoulders, like it belongs there, pulling me into the solid, comforting warmth of his side.
"Hey, thunder can't hurt you," he whispers, his lips so close to my ear I can feel his breath disturbing the tiny hairs there, sending a shiver cascading down my spine.
I really should move away. Put some much-needed space between us. That's what the sensible, rational version of me would do. But his body is so solid and warm pressed against mine, he smells so damn good, and somehow it just feels right to be tucked against him while the storm rages on outside.
“Tell me something,” I say. “Distract me.”
"I sleep better when I'm here," he says, and the way he blurts it out makes me think he didn’t mean to admit it. I wonder if he’ll stop, but he doesn’t. "It’s enough knowing you're in the next room. The nightmares don't happen as often."
I look up at him, finding his eyes in the dim light. "What nightmares?"
His chest expands with a deep breath, then slowly falls as he exhales. "There was a building collapse a couple of years ago. I was pinned under a support beam for almost three hours before they finally dug me out." His voice is surprisingly matter-of-fact, but his arm tightens around me, his fingers pressing a little harder into my skin. "I still wake up sometimes feeling like I’m trapped."
"I had no idea." And I really should have. How the hell did I not know something like that happened to him? Apparently, there's a whole lot I've missed about Banks over all the years I was too busy trying to ignore my crush on him.
"Only my therapist knows all the details." His fingers trail up and down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "And now you."
Something shifts between us with that admission. He's letting me see this piece of himself that he keeps hidden from everyone else, and it makes my chest tight, and an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight in my stomach.
"I sleep better too," I whisper, feeling the need to give him something for the gift he’s just given me. "I used to lie awake for hours in this creaky old building, jumping at every single sound." I force myself to keep my eyes locked on his so he’ll see the truth in my words. "Now I just… I know you're there. On the other side of the wall."
His arm pulls me tighter against him until my cheek is pressed against his chest and he presses a kiss to the top of my head. His steady heartbeat’s thumping against my ear while my own is going completely haywire.
Lightning flashes again, and the room lights up in brief, stark white. In that split second, I see the intense look in his eyes as he stares down at me. It's feral and predatory and oh my fucking god so hot.
"This is because of the storm, right?" I murmur, needing to blame the way I’m about to fold like a cheap card table on something. "Because it's dark and loud and we're trapped?"
"Sure," he agrees but his voice is rough, and his fingers tighten where they’re pressed into my skin.
I think it’s clear we're both liars.
The lightning and thunder decide to hit at the exact same time, booming so loud it feels like the windows are going to shatter in their frames. I jump, letting out this pathetic little squeak of a sound, and burrow even closer to him.
His arms tighten around me, one hand sliding up to grip the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. It’s possessive, the way his rough fingers tighten against my skin.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my temple. "Nothing's going to hurt you as long as I’m breathing."
I tilt my head back because my feminism’s got her protest signs all ready to go, but the words die in my throat the second I see his face in the flickering candlelight. His eyes are dark, almost black and locked onto me. I could count every single one of his long eyelashes if I wanted to. I can see the tiny, almost invisible scar cutting through his left eyebrow, notice the stubble starting to darken his jaw even though I know he shaved this morning.
"Banks," I breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than anything else. Or maybe it's an invitation.
He answers by slowly sliding his other hand up to my face, his thumb brushing back and forth over my bottom lip. The feather-light touch makes me tremble all the way down to my toes. When his eyes drop to my mouth, the raw, undisguised hunger burning there sets my body on fire.
"Tell me to stop, Clover," he whispers, his voice so deep and rough it barely even sounds like him.
I absolutely should. Every logical, rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop this right now. He's my brother's best friend. Giving in would complicate absolutely everything in ways I can't even begin to comprehend.
But logic doesn't stand a single goddamn chance against the way he's looking at my mouth like he'll actually die if he doesn't get to taste it. Against the heat of his fingers curled around my neck and pressing into my skin. Against all the years I've spent pretending I haven’t been dreaming of exactly this.
So, I answer him by closing the last little bit of distance between us and finally, finally kissing him.
He freezes for one heart-stopping second, and I start to spiral. Did I just make a monumental, life-altering mistake? Then he makes this guttural sound—half groan, half growl—that vibrates deep in his chest and up through my body, setting off a whole new wave of heat. His mouth crashes down on mine again, any hesitation long gone as the kiss turns feral. Wild. Desperate.
I gasp, and he takes immediate advantage, deepening the kiss as his fingers tangle in my hair, gripping almost painfully. He kisses like he’s been starving for a taste of me, like he’s trying to memorize every single sound I make and the way his mouth fits against mine.
And I surrender to my craving for him. Let loose the curiosity I’ve held back for years. Sink into his hold on me and the way his tongue tastes as it slides against mine.
The storm raging outside has absolutely nothing on the one that just broke loose in here between us. It’s a hurricane unleashed, and we’re both being swept away.