12. As Long as We Have the Firewood and Eachother
12
AS LONG AS WE HAVE THE FIREWOOD AND EACHOTHER
EZRA
It feels like the atmosphere itself is bracing for impact, the tension so thick it’s almost suffocating. The air is heavy, dense with the promise of rain, and I swear I can feel the static crackling along my skin, a warning of what’s to come.
I can feel the storm rolling in before the sky even darkens. It’s there in the shift of the wind, in the way the temperature drops just enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. The island feels different—like it’s holding its breath.
My stomach churns as restlessly as the water beating against the shore at the thought of Kruz being stuck here during a storm. I will be fine—I’ve been through worse, weathered worse—but she’s different. She doesn’t belong here, not like I do. And I will make sure she is fine, no matter what. But neither of those facts will assuage her anxiety.
Who knows? Maybe she’ll roll with it. Maybe she’ll surprise me, take it in stride like she has with everything else.
She’s been mostly fine with being kidnapped, after all. That thought shouldn’t amuse me, but it does, a dry, humorless smirk tugging at my lips before I shake it off.
Just outside the cottage, I squint into the growing gusts, the wind stinging my eyes as I assess the sky. The clouds are thickening, stretching over the horizon like ink bleeding into water, swallowing the last traces of daylight.
The waves crash harder against the rocks below the pier, its usual rhythm replaced by something more erratic, more violent.
It’s going to be a rough night.
I check the small shed behind the cabin where we keep firewood and drag a couple of crates of it inside to stack by the hearth. The wood is dry for now, but the air is damp enough that I can already smell the rain coming.
I’ve kept the fire going for most of our time here, its steady glow a small comfort in a situation that offers few. But I want to make sure we are fully prepared if I’m unable to make it back out to restock us during the storm. The last thing I need is for the fire to die out when the power inevitably cuts off, leaving us in the cold, in the dark.
The thought of being trapped here with Kruz, cut off from the rest of the world, sends a wave of unease through me.
I ignore it, shoving another log into the hearth before wiping my hands on my jeans. It’s just a storm. We’ll get through it.
Who knows how long it will last? Storms out here have a way of lingering, stretching on for hours, sometimes even days. The generator isn’t always reliable, sputtering out at the worst possible moments, and if it goes down, we’ll need every bit of warmth we can get. The solar panels only provide electricity for as long as the sun provides light, and the sky is already growing darker by the minute, the thickening clouds swallowing the last traces of daylight.
I rub a hand over my jaw, glancing toward the horizon. There’s a heaviness in the air, an eerie stillness beneath the rising wind, like the island itself is waiting.
I head down to the beach to find Kruz. She left not long ago for a walk, probably needing a moment alone after everything. I get it—I do—but I don’t like the idea of her being out there with the storm creeping in. I’m surprised she hasn’t already started making her way back with the shift in the atmosphere.
The gusts pick up, stronger now, kicking up loose sand and forcing me to adjust my jacket tighter around me. The fabric rustles against the force of it, the chill sinking in despite the layers.
I scan the shoreline, searching for any sign of her, my pulse ticking up a notch. She should be heading back by now. She should already be inside.
A crack of thunder rumbles in the distance, a warning.
I pick up my pace.
When I reach the shore, the beach is empty, per usual, save for a scattering of rocks and driftwood. The waves roll in gently, leaving behind a glistening film of seafoam before retreating again, their rhythmic pull almost hypnotic. The wind carries the briny scent of the ocean, mixing with the damp earthiness of the storm rolling in.
I crouch down, my fingers brushing over the cool, damp sand as I reach for a particularly unique seashell—a small spiral with a pearlescent sheen that catches the fading light. It’s delicate, yet weathered, worn down by time and tide. I turn it over between my fingers, considering it for only a second before slipping it into my pocket.
Kruz will want this one.
She started collecting them on our second day here, sifting through the sand with the same kind of intense focus she gives to the books she devours. At first, I thought it was just something to pass the time, a distraction, but now every windowsill in the house is lined with her findings—tiny fragments of the sea she refuses to leave behind. She says she likes the imperfections, the way each shell is worn down by the water, reshaped into something new. I wonder if she sees herself in them.
I run my thumb over the ridges, already picturing where she’ll place this one, maybe on the nightstand next to the others she keeps close.
The air shifts, and before I even turn, I feel her presence. A familiar pull, something in the way the wind changes as if it carries her with it.
I glance up, and there she is, making her way down the beach, her hair wild in the wind, her steps slow but sure.
She’s bundled up in one of my shirts again, the oversized fabric billowing in the wind as she squints against it. The sleeves hang past her fingertips, swallowing her hands, and the sight makes something in the pit of my stomach tighten. It’s ridiculous, maybe even selfish, but seeing her like this makes me glad I didn’t bring many of her clothes with us. My shirt looks better on her anyway.
Her eyes move carefully over the beach, scanning every inch of sand as she bends to pick up anything that catches her attention. A smooth piece of sea glass. A shell with a perfect spiral. A pebble worn down by years of relentless waves. She collects them all with the same delicate precision, inspecting each one like it holds a secret only she can decipher.
I don’t say anything at first. I just watch her, letting the roar of the incoming storm fill the silence between us. The wind howls through the trees, the ocean churns, but she moves unbothered, like she’s in her own world, separate from the chaos around her.
She’s beautiful like this.
There’s a kind of serenity in the way she crouches down, her brow furrowed, lips slightly parted in concentration. She doesn’t seem to mind the storm or the wind nearly as much as I thought she would. Maybe she even likes it. Maybe, for once, she’s not thinking about everything she’s lost, everything she’s running from.
And yet, there’s something about her—something about the way she moves, the way she carefully selects what she wants to keep and what she lets go—that makes her seem untouchable. Like the world around her doesn’t matter, even when I know she feels like it’s falling apart.
Feels like I’ve ripped it apart.
“It’s going to storm soon,” I say, my voice barely audible above the howling wind.
She looks up from her task, her gaze meeting mine with a blank expression. A single strand of hair whips across her face, but she doesn’t bother to push it away. “No shit, Sherlock,” she mutters, glancing up at the darkening clouds above as if I’ve just stated the most obvious thing in the world.
I shake my head, exhaling a quiet laugh, and move to the water’s edge. The ocean stretches endlessly before me, its surface shifting, restless. The wind has picked up even more now, sending waves crashing against the shore with an intensity that wasn’t there earlier.
It’s coming hard and fast.
That’s what she said.
I huff out another laugh, this one just for me, but it doesn’t do much to ease the unease that’s settled over me.
There’s something about storms on the island that makes everything feel more vulnerable, like the isolation becomes heavier, suffocating. Most of the time, I don’t mind it. I’ve always been good at being alone. But with her here, everything feels different. It sharpens the edges of my concern, makes me hyperaware of every little thing that could go wrong.
I turn back to her as she watches me, nestling another shell into the side pocket of her bag. The wind whips around us, tugging at her clothes, her hair, but she doesn’t look afraid. If anything, she looks… at ease.
It makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind being stuck here with me as much as I thought she did.
She seems calmer about this than even I am. Maybe she doesn’t understand how potentially bad it might be. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
But then again, maybe she’s just used to pushing through whatever storms life throws at her.
The thought sticks in my mind, heavy and unshakable. She’s weathered worse things than this, hasn’t she? I think for a second about the fact that she probably considers me one of those storms—something to endure, to survive.
I don’t like that thought at all.
I walk back toward her. She doesn’t move away, just watches me. A gust of wind sends a spray of saltwater into the air, misting against my face.
I glance at the sky one last time. The storm is almost fully on us now, the dark clouds rolling in fast, swallowing up what little light remains. The waves crash harder, the wind howling through the trees behind us.
It won’t be long before we’re trapped here—no power, no light, just the fire and us to keep each other warm.
And I’m not sure which part of that unsettles me more.
My cock jerks against my zipper.
Now is not the time, sir.
“We should head back,” I suggest, trying to make my voice sound calm even though my instincts are telling me to hurry. “Let’s get inside before it gets worse.”
She nods, her face turning toward the cottage, the wind whipping her hair around, and I have the strongest urge to pull her against me and kiss her fucking stupid. The thought comes out of nowhere, slamming into me with the same force as the storm rolling in. It’s reckless, dangerous—even more than everything else I’ve already done—but it lingers, tempting.
She walks ahead of me, the cloth bag of seashells swinging lightly from her fingers, and something I’m not sure I want to name weaves its way around my ribcage. It’s been there for a while now, gnawing at the edges of everything, impossible to ignore.
I mean, I’ve known. But goddamn if it doesn’t scare the shit out of me.
The wind howls through the trees, the first drops of rain cold against my skin as we make our way up the path. The storm is almost here, wrapping its fingers around the island, locking us in.
We’ll be fine here, I remind myself. As long as we have firewood and each other, we’ll be alright.