The Wrong Kind of Right

chapter 9

The storm rolled in faster than the forecast promised, turning the sky the color of a bruise while Ethan and I were still out checking the last of the moorings.

"We're not going to make it back before this hits," he said, scanning the horizon with the flat, assessing look he got whenever a problem needed solving instead of feeling. "Boathouse is closer. Come on."

We made it inside just as the sky opened up, rain hammering the roof in a way that made conversation feel almost pointless. The boathouse smelled like cedar and motor oil, one bare bulb swinging slightly from a beam overhead, throwing long shadows across the hulls stored for the season.

"Well," I said, wringing water from my sleeve, "this is very on brand for the summer I'm having."

"Could be worse." He grabbed a couple of old towels from a shelf, tossing one to me. "Power's probably going to go on the main line. This place has its own generator, at least."

"Very reassuring, given I'm currently soaked and trapped in a shed with you."

"Boathouse," he corrected, and I caught the ghost of a smile before he turned to flip a breaker switch, casting the space in warm, low light instead of the flickering overhead bulb.

We sat on an overturned crate, close enough that our shoulders touched, listening to the storm hammer the roof. Neither of us said much for a while. It didn't feel like it needed filling.

"You cold?" he asked eventually, noticing me shiver.

"A little."

Without making it a whole thing, he shifted closer, offering an arm, not quite around me but close enough that I could lean in if I wanted to. I wanted to. I did.

"This is a bad idea," he said quietly, more to himself than to me.

"Which part?"

"All of it. This—" he gestured vaguely between us. "I'm not exactly a safe bet right now."

"I didn't ask if you were safe," I said. "I asked if you were cold too."

That surprised a real laugh out of him — low, unguarded, the kind I hadn't heard from him all summer. "You're impossible."

"You keep saying that like it's a bad thing."

He looked at me then, really looked, the storm light catching the scar above his eyebrow, the careful walls he kept up slipping just enough that I could see straight through them. For a second — one long, charged second — I thought he was going to kiss me.

He didn't.

He looked away first, jaw tight, like he was fighting something. "We should get some sleep. Long night."

I didn't push. But neither of us moved apart, and we ended up falling asleep like that — his arm loosely around me, the storm easing into a steady patter against the roof — and if either of us noticed how naturally we fit together, neither of us said so out loud.

Not yet.