Permission

chapter 6: Blackout

The power died at 3:17 a.m.

Elena woke up because the generator sound stopped. The low hum she had gotten used to over the last ten hours just... cut. And with it, the yellow lights, the red emergency glow from the darkroom, the faint buzz of the fridge.

Everything went black. Complete, thick, snowstorm black.

The only light left was the fireplace, down to a dull red.

"Jonah?" she whispered.

She heard him move in the armchair. "I'm here. Generator overheated. It does that on day two."

"Will it come back?"

"Not until I fix it. And I'm not fixing it in that storm at night." He stood. She heard his feet on the floor. "Don't move. There's candles in the kitchen drawer. Left side."

He fumbled, then a match struck. One small flame appeared, then two, then five candles spread around the living room. The house came back in soft, shaking gold.

In candlelight, the glass house looked different. The snow outside was invisible now, so the windows were just black mirrors. She could see herself reflected, wrapped in two blankets, hair messy. And she could see him reflected too, standing behind her.

He was not wearing his sweater anymore. He had taken it off in his sleep. Now just a white t-shirt, and she could see his shoulders, his arms, the faint scars more clearly.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better." She pulled the blankets tighter. "How long will it last?"

"The blackout? Could be hours. Could be until morning. Storm is at its worst now." He sat back down on the floor, closer this time. Not across, but beside her, with the fireplace between them.

The wind was louder without the generator to mask it. It rattled the glass in a rhythm.

Elena looked at the darkroom. No red light. No power at all.

"No darkroom, no cameras, no notes," Jonah said, following her gaze. "Storm rules, remember? No permission needed to talk."

"Then I have to ask without rules? That's harder."

"Try."

She stared at the candle flame. "When was the last time you were touched? Like... really touched? Not a handshake."

He went quiet. The candlelight made his eyelashes look longer.

"Three years," he said. "My brother, before he died. He hugged me. After that... no. I made the rule so no one would have to guess. So no one could say I took something without asking."

"And does it work?"

"It keeps me safe." He looked at her. "Doesn't make me less lonely."

Elena's heart beat so loud she thought he must hear it over the wind.

"Can I tell you something without permission?" she said.

"Storm rules. You can."

"My ex-husband never asked. He just took. My time, my opinions, my... body. He thought because we were married, permission was automatic. When I left, I swore I'd never be around a man who didn't ask again. Then I came here and you ask for everything and it's..."

"It's what?"

"It's confusing. Because I want you to stop asking for some things."

The fire cracked.

Jonah didn't move, but his breathing changed.

"Elena," he said, voice low. "You know I will not touch you unless you say I can. You have to be very clear."

"I know."

"So be clear."

She turned to face him fully. The blankets slipped off one shoulder. She didn't fix it.

"Do I have permission to be honest?" she asked, falling back into their pattern because it felt safer.

"Yes."

"I'm attracted to you. And I hate that I'm attracted to you because I'm supposed to be here for a book and you're supposed to be my subject and you live in a glass house in nowhere and you have a box of films of people who left."

"I'm attracted to you too," he said simply. "Since you got out of the Jeep and knocked even though the door was open."

She laughed, a little wet. "That's not very professional."

"No."

They sat there, candlelight shaking between them, storm shaking the glass.

"Do you want me to give you permission?" she whispered.

"I want you to want to."

She did. She really did.

She reached out her hand, palm up, in the space between them.

"May I touch you?" she asked, using his words from the shed.

He looked at her open palm like it was something fragile.

"Yes," he said.

She placed her hand on his cheek. His skin was warm, stubble rough. He closed his eyes for a second, like the touch was too much after three years.

Then he put his hand over hers, holding it to his face. Not moving it, just holding.

"Do I have permission to -" he started.

"Yes."

He leaned forward, slow enough that she could stop him at any inch. He didn't kiss her mouth. He kissed her forehead, right where her hair met skin, soft, lingering.

It was not s****l. It was reverent.

She made a small sound she didn't mean to make.

He pulled back, just an inch.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked.

"No. Do you have permission to do that again?"

"Yes."

He kissed her temple this time, then the corner of her cheek, every place but her mouth, asking with each inch.

The candles flickered wildly as a gust hit the house.

"Jonah," she whispered, and it was half warning, half plea.

"I know," he said against her skin. "We stop. We stop now."

He sat back. Her hand was still on his cheek. He gently took it and placed it back in her lap.

"Why?" she asked, breathless.

"Because if we keep going in a blackout, tomorrow you'll think it was just the storm. And I don't want to be just the storm."

He stood and added wood to the fire. The light grew stronger.

Elena pulled her blankets around her again, her cheek tingling where he had kissed it.

He sat back down, but this time on the armchair, not the floor. More distance. On purpose.

"Sleep," he said. "When the power comes back, we will pretend this was just candles making us say things."

"But it wasn't," she said.

"No," he agreed, looking at her in the candlelight. "It wasn't."

Outside, the storm reached its peak, screaming like it wanted inside. Inside, five candles burned down to nothing.

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End of Chapter 6