Chapter 4
FOUR
WELLS
The lights click off with a soft snap, plunging us into darkness.
For one solid second, nobody breathes.
Then Elsie squeaks, “Daddy?”
“I’ve got you, bug.” My voice stays calm, steady, even though my pulse kicks up hard. “We’re okay. Just a power blip.”
Another flicker. Another pop. The stove goes quiet.
Not a blip.
Outage.
The storm is too loud outside. Too forceful. Something happened.
I run my hand along the counter until I find the small flashlight I keep clipped to the toaster. The beam cuts through the dark, and I crouch in front of Elsie.
“Hey,” I murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Let’s get you cozy, yeah? Celia’s gonna take you to bed.”
Celia is already beside her, calm as a steady flame. She’s good like that. Good at absorbing panic and giving back warmth.
“What about you?” she asks quietly.
“I’ll be right back. I need to take a look outside. Might just be the generator line.”
Her eyes flash with worry, but she nods, touching my forearm lightly. “Be careful.”
I shouldn’t feel that touch everywhere. Not right now. Not when there’s work to do.
I press a kiss to Elsie’s head. “Brush teeth, story, snuggle. Same as always.”
She nods bravely and slips her small hand into Celia’s.
I watch them disappear up the hallway before I grab my coat and step out into the storm.
The wind slams into me like a wall. Snow pelts sideways, blinding, icy, fierce. I hunch forward and force myself toward the tree line behind the cabin where the generator feeds into the main panel.
When I get there, my stomach drops.
A massive spruce has come down across the back fence, dragging the line with it. The weight of the branches snapped the connection clean in two. The generator itself is intact—but the line is done for.
“Dammit.”
I kneel, scraping snow away with my gloves. A repair is possible, but not fun. Not fast. Not safe in a blizzard. But we need heat. We need light. And I refuse to let my kid and the woman I’m trying not to want freeze.
I pull out the emergency kit from the shed and gather tools, working quickly, breath puffing white into the dark.
I’ve just stripped the line for a temporary splice when a voice cuts through the storm.
“Wells!”
My head snaps up.
Celia.
She’s trudging toward me, wrapped in her coat, hair whipping in the wind, cheeks flushed. And I swear my heart leaps straight into my throat.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” I bark, louder than I mean to. “You should be inside.”
“You weren’t back yet.” Her breath shivers in the cold. “Elsie fell asleep and I got worried. Please. Let me help.”
I want to drag her back into the house myself. But the look on her face—determined, fierce, bright—makes something inside me unclench.
I hand her the flashlight.
“Hold this,” I say. “Just like that. Don’t move it.”
She steadies her stance and angles the beam exactly where I need it. Her glove brushes my shoulder as she crouches beside me. Despite the freezing wind, heat slices through me.
“Is it bad?” she asks.
“Not great,” I admit. “Tree came down on the line. I can splice it enough to get us power for the night.”
She nods, eyes wide, trusting in that quiet, open way that feels more intimate than anything.
We work together, side by side, in the dark.
She never wavers, never complains, never looks away. Her breaths come in warm puffs at my cheek. Her flashlight beam is steady on my hands. And when my fingers go numb, she reaches out without me asking and warms them between her palms for three perfect seconds.
I think I fall a little more in love with her right then.
“Okay,” I mutter, securing the final connection. “Let’s test it.”
Inside the generator box, the small indicator light flickers, then glows a soft orange.
Celia gasps. “You did it!”
“We,” I correct.
She smiles like the storm just split open and sunlight poured through.
And then she throws her arms around me.
The hug is full-bodied, grateful, warm—and completely wrecks me. Her face presses into my chest. My arms slide around her waist without thinking. Her breath catches.
Slowly, I pull back, hands at her hips.
She looks up at me, snow dusting her eyelashes, lips parted, cheeks pink.
It happens before either of us moves.
The kiss.
Harder than the first. Hotter. Needier. As if this kiss is as necessary to the both of us as our next breaths.
I grab the back of her neck gently. She clutches my coat like she needs to anchor herself. Her mouth opens beneath mine, soft and sweet and desperate, and I swear I could drown in her.
It’s the kind of kiss a man thinks about for years. The kind he dreams of.
The kind he shouldn’t take but can’t resist.
The wind howls. Snow swirls around us. But her lips, her body, her warmth—everything else disappears.
When we break apart, both of us are breathing hard.
“Wells,” she whispers, voice shaking, “I—”
“Celia, watch your step—”
Too late.
The storm has disguised everything. Fresh drifts cover the uneven ground around the fallen tree, and as she backs up, her boot catches on a buried tangle of roots and she slips.
She cries out, sliding into the hollow left by the uprooted stump—deep and sudden and cold.
I move before I think.
“Celia!”
I dive forward, grabbing her by the wrist and hauling her up before the drift can swallow her whole. The snow is waist-deep in places around the stump, and if she’d fallen in fully, getting out would’ve been a nightmare.
She shakes, wide-eyed, clutching me.
“You okay?” I ask, breath harsh.
She nods, trembling. “I didn’t see—it was just—”
“I know.” I pull her into my arms, lifting her easily against my chest. “I’ve got you.”
Her arms loop around my neck. Her face presses into my collar. She shivers hard.
That’s all it takes. No hesitation. No thinking.
Just instinct.
I carry her all the way back to the house, fighting the wind, the snow, the pounding in my chest.
Inside, the power hums back to life, casting warm light across the room. I kick the door shut behind us and carry her straight into my bedroom, the one place that’s already warm thanks to the fire I stoked earlier in case the generator failed.
I set her gently on the bed and crouch in front of her. Her hair is damp with snow. Her cheeks flushed. She looks small and brave and wrecked in a way that makes my heart feel too big.
“Did you twist anything?” I ask, running my hands down her calves, checking her boots.
“No,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Just… cold.”
I rise to my feet.
She reaches for my wrist.
Her hand is small and shaking. It breaks my God damn heart.
“Wells,” she breathes.
I look down at her.
“Stay,” she whispers, eyes soft and pleading. “Please. Make me warm.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
I know what she means.
I know what she wants.
I know what I want.
Every line I’ve drawn burns away like paper in a flame.
And I sit beside her.
Because there is no universe, no storm, no rule that could keep me from her now.