Chapter 13
Lucky
I must’ve passed out again.
One minute I’m strumming the same three chords, letting the vibration hum through my bones, telling myself it’s just a lazy afternoon on the porch. The next—
Cool drops tap my cheek.
I blink awake to the sky turning the color of bruised steel. A massive dark cloud crawls across the lake like something alive.
Shit.
I sit up too fast, and the lounger swings. My guitar nearly slides off my lap.
I must’ve fallen asleep right after lunch. Great. Real rockstar behavior: unconscious in broad daylight like a sedated housecat.
The wind kicks up hard enough to rattle the wind chimes. The first fat raindrops splatter on the deck boards.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, scooping my guitar and notebook and the empty iced tea glass I don’t even remember finishing. I hustle everything inside, dumping it all onto the kitchen counter in a messy pile.
The storm isn’t polite about its arrival.
Within seconds, leaves swirl across the porch like they’re fleeing something.
The sky growls — deep, rolling, familiar in the worst way.
I slide the door shut just as the clouds break.
That’s when the world snaps.
A white flash sears across the windows.
A crack splits the air open.
The lights flicker—
Then die.
Total darkness.
Thick.
Absolute.
Suffocating.
My breath stops mid-inhale.
No.
No, no, no.
The house hum vanishes. The fridge, the AC, the little overhead buzz I’d tuned out hours ago — silent.
The kind of silence that presses against your skin, gets into your teeth, makes the walls feel too close.
My pulse spikes so fast I get dizzy.
My fingers go useless, tingling.
Not the dark.
Not the dark, goddammit.
Not the silence.
I stumble backward, slamming my hip into the counter. The tiny sound is swallowed instantly, as if the room were a throat.
My heart stutters. My hands rise on instinct — shaking, stupidly searching for something to grab.
A memory cuts through me like a blade: a dressing room blackout, hands on me that weren’t supposed to be there, my screams eaten by thick studio walls.
No script.
No control.
Just blind, choking panic.
I gasp, sucking air too fast, too shallow. My lungs refuse to open fully.
“Come on,” I whisper, but it’s useless. My voice trembles. “Come on, Lucky—”
A sudden knock slams through the silence.
I flinch so hard I nearly drop my phone.
Another knock — firm, steady, familiar.
“Lucky?” Ethan’s voice. Low. Grounded.
A lifeline wrapped in a British accent.
I freeze.
“You alright?” he calls, closer now, like he can feel the panic leaking through the door.
My throat won’t work.
I force air in, push my feet toward the sound, navigating by muscle memory.
My fingers find the lock, twist it.
The door swings open.
Ethan stands there, soaked from the rain, flashlight in hand, chest rising with fast, worried breaths. His eyes scan me instantly — wild-eyed, trembling, caught halfway between flight and collapse.
Something in his face cracks.
“Lucky,” he says, softer now. “Hey. I’ve got you.”
And just like that, the dark isn’t empty anymore. It has him in it.
He steps inside, careful, measured. The flashlight swings in his hand but never directly at me — just enough to cut through the dark, enough to keep me visible without blinding me.
Every step is deliberate, like he’s bridging the space between me and safety, and I can feel it even before he touches me.
“Hey,” he says again, low, steady. “You’re shaking. Come sit down.”
I nod, barely able to speak. My fingers curl over the doorframe as if holding on will stop the world from spinning.
“You’re cold,” he murmurs, and I feel the hand brushing against my arm — not rough, not grabbing, just steady. Solid. Safe. Like the storm can’t touch me when he’s here.
“I—I was just—” I start, voice trembling. “I didn’t… I didn’t know the power went out—”
He interrupts softly, almost a whisper: “I know. It’s okay. Breathe.”
I try. I try to follow him inside, but every step feels heavy. Every flash of lightning makes me flinch like it’s some signal that everything could collapse again.
He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t make me explain. He stays close enough that I can feel the heat from his chest, hear the even rhythm of his breathing — a tether.
“Sit,” he murmurs, guiding me toward the couch. His hand barely brushes my elbow. Just a whisper of contact, but it shoots straight through me, a jolt of heat that has nothing to do with the storm.
He steps closer, slow, deliberate, careful not to crowd me. The flashlight in his hand casts long shadows across the walls, bouncing off his damp hair and highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw. Even soaked, he’s impossibly solid — a lighthouse in the dark, and I can’t look away.
I fold into the cushions, heart hammering. The world is nothing but him: the way the rain streaks his hair, the intensity in his eyes, the quiet steadiness that makes my chest ache.
He crouches slightly, hand brushing mine again, thumb grazing the back of my fingers. My pulse spikes — sharp, electric. My skin pricks under the touch. The storm is loud outside, but the silence here, the weight between us, is louder.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs again, just under his breath. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”
My stomach twists, my chest thumping with something more than fear. My hands are still trembling, but the panic is starting to dull, replaced with an ache I don’t quite understand — a pull toward him, toward this strange warmth in the middle of the storm.
“Lucky,” he says softly. “Look at me. You’re okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The words hit me like an anchor. My chest tightens — not from panic, but from wanting. Wanting the safety, the closeness, the protection. Wanting him here.
I lift my gaze to meet his. His eyes are fixed on mine, unwavering. I can almost feel the pull, the magnetic gravity of him leaning in — closer, closer — until the air between us feels like it’s charged.
His eyes drop to my lips for just a fraction of a second. And I swear the air between us thickens. I can feel him leaning in, just a hair closer, his scent — rain, soap, something undeniably him — curling around me.
I tilt my head up almost instinctively. My heart’s a drum in my chest, my lungs suddenly too small. I want it. I want it more than I should.
He pauses. Close enough that I can feel his breath, taste the storm on him. Close enough that the world tilts. Close enough that I start to imagine what it would be like to let it happen.
“Lucky,” he murmurs. A warning. A plea. A question.
I don’t answer. I only lean a fraction closer. The electricity in the air is unbearable, tangible.
Then… his hand slides down to rest lightly on my arm, firm and grounding. He pauses, hesitates. And just as my lips part, the phone in his back pocket vibrates loudly.
His body stiffens instantly, a line drawn. He swears under his breath, snatches the phone, and checks the screen. Lily.
“I’m coming, sweetheart,” he says into the phone, voice clipped but gentle.
He glances at me, briefly, eyes softening. “My parents and Charlotte are in town tonight. Do you want to come around my place for a bit? You can stay with Lily while I check the fuse box.”
I nod, words caught in my throat. My chest is still racing, my mind a whirlwind.
“Great,” he says, and there’s a flicker of relief in his tone. “I’d feel more comfortable if someone were with her during the storm.”
I realize then — really realize — how gorgeous he is. The dark hair plastered by rain, the light grey of his eyes catching the faint glow from the flashlight, the curve of his jaw, the way his muscles flex as he moves toward the electric box.
Something in me settles in a way I didn’t think was possible. My chest softens, but the tension lingers — sharp, sweet, unbearable.
And for the first time tonight, I allow myself to remember how close he was. How I wanted him to kiss me. The almost-kiss. The warmth in his hand. The pull between us that refused to be ignored.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying to act normal, but normal is impossible. He’s gorgeous. He’s dangerous. He’s steady and chaotic all at once.
And I want him anyway.
Even as the storm rumbles louder, even as the house hums in darkness, I cling to that tiny, impossible thought, letting it fill me as he bends down to fiddle with the fuse box, oblivious to the effect he has on me.
The storm is wild. But inside, in this moment, my heart is wilder.