4. The Space Between Lightning
1334 Words
The Strike
The world did not fade back in gently.
It crashed.
Vicki felt the lightning before she heard it — a violent pressure exploding through the air, forcing the breath from her lungs. The white-hot flash swallowed everything — stones, sky, the man standing before her.
Then the ground disappeared.
Her stomach lurched violently as if she’d stepped off a building.
Wind ripped past her ears.
She was falling.
There was no graceful descent, no mystical floating.
Just gravity.
Hard.
Her shoulder clipped something solid, sending pain radiating down her arm. Her boot struck earth, twisted, and she pitched forward fully—
—and landed directly on something warm, solid, and very much alive.
Arms locked around her instinctively.
They hit the ground together.
A grunt of air left the man beneath her.
Vicki’s eyes flew open.
She was straddling him.
Chest to chest.
Her palms splayed against the coarse fabric of a wool shirt. She felt muscle beneath it. Real. Solid. Breathing hard.
The storm was gone.
Not fading.
Gone.
The sky above was grey but calm. Heavy. Still.
She pushed herself up slightly, breath coming in sharp, frantic pulls.
The man beneath her stared back in equal shock.
Grey eyes. Storm-colored. Close enough that she could see flecks of silver in them.
“You’re—” she began.
Her voice sounded wrong. Too loud in the quiet.
He didn’t release her.
Didn’t move.
Just looked at her like she’d fallen from heaven or hell — and he hadn’t decided which.
“You’re flesh,” he said hoarsely.
His accent was thicker up close. Highland. Rough and low.
Her brain scrambled.
The stones were behind him — but the landscape had shifted.
The cottage was different.
Smaller.
Rougher.
The fence line was gone.
Her heart began to pound harder.
“What year is it?” she asked.
His hands tightened reflexively at her waist.
“What kind of question is that?”
“What year?” she repeated, breath shaking.
His jaw flexed. “Nineteen forty-seven.”
The words slammed into her.
Her body went cold.
“That’s not possible.”
He studied her face — searching for deceit, madness, something he could explain.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Her mind raced violently through every rational explanation.
Concussion.
Dream.
Psychotic break.
But the air smelled different. Thicker. Less polluted. Earthier. The faint scent of peat smoke lingered on him.
His hands were calloused.
This wasn’t a hallucination.
“I’m Vicki,” she whispered faintly. “I was just— I was in 2025.”
Silence stretched between them.
A sheep bleated somewhere down the hill.
He did not laugh.
Did not mock.
He simply watched her — assessing.
“You fell from the sky,” he said finally.
“I noticed.”
They were still tangled together.
Still too close.
Her thighs pressed against his hips. His hands still at her waist. Their breathing uneven and shared.
Heat flushed her face.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted, scrambling awkwardly to climb off him.
Her boot caught in his coat.
She lost balance again.
And once more ended up sprawled half across his chest.
He let out a short, incredulous breath that might have been the beginning of a laugh.
“This is highly inappropriate,” she muttered.
“Aye,” he agreed quietly. “It is.”
But he didn’t sound displeased.
She finally managed to roll off him and sit up in the grass, heart hammering. He rose slower, pushing himself up on one forearm before standing fully.
He was tall.
Taller than she’d realized.
Broad shoulders. Wind-tossed dark hair. A faint scar tracing along his jawline. His shirt sleeves rolled, revealing forearms strong from labor, not gym machines.
He looked real.
Solid.
1947 real.
She turned in a slow circle.
No modern fencing.
No parked car.
No visible road.
The air carried no distant engine noise.
Only wind and open land.
“This isn’t funny,” she whispered.
“It’s not meant to be,” he said.
He was watching her carefully now — not frightened.
Concerned.
“You’re not dressed like anyone I’ve seen,” he added slowly. “And I know everyone within twenty miles.”
Her clothes suddenly felt absurd. Fitted denim. Modern boots. A lightweight jacket with a zipper that would look foreign here.
She met his eyes again.
“This is going to sound insane.”
He gave a slight nod. “I’m prepared for that.”
“I stepped into the stone circle,” she said carefully. “There was lightning. The ground shifted. You were there.” Her voice wavered. “And now… I’m here.”
His gaze darkened slightly.
“The stones,” he murmured.
“You felt it too,” she said quickly. “The vibration.”
A pause.
“Aye.”
Wind moved through the grass between them.
Neither spoke for several long seconds.
Finally, he asked quietly, “What did you see?”
She swallowed.
“You.”
His breath caught — subtle but unmistakable.
“You were standing just outside the circle. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
He studied her face for a long moment.
“I saw you,” he said.
A strange, electric silence settled between them.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“Neither do I.”
He stepped closer, cautiously — like approaching a wounded animal.
“You’re not injured?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
He reached out, hesitated — then gently turned her wrist to inspect it where she’d scraped it during the fall.
His touch was warm. Steady.
Real.
“You’re bleeding,” he murmured.
She looked down at the thin line of red along her palm.
That small, ordinary proof nearly undid her.
“I don’t belong here,” she said faintly.
His eyes lifted to hers.
A muscle worked in his jaw.
“Neither do I,” he replied softly.
The confession slipped out before he could stop it.
Something shifted in the air again — not magical this time.
Human.
She looked at him differently then.
Not as a stranger.
But as someone carrying weight.
“What’s your name?” she asked gently.
“Alec. Alec McKenzie.”
She repeated it quietly. “Alec.”
The way she said it did something unexpected to him.
He straightened slightly.
“You can’t stay here on the ridge,” he said after a moment. “If anyone sees you—”
“They’ll think I fell from the sky?”
“Aye.”
“That’s not comforting.”
A faint ghost of humor touched his mouth.
“There’s a cottage,” he said. “Down the slope. It’s mine.”
She hesitated.
Every rational instinct screamed at her not to follow a strange man in 1947 Scotland.
But nothing about this felt like danger.
Unbelievable.
Terrifying.
But not dangerous.
He noticed her hesitation.
“If I meant you harm,” he said evenly, “you wouldn’t be standing.”
She studied him.
He wasn’t wrong.
And somehow she knew it.
“Alright,” she said softly.
He offered his hand.
She looked at it — rough, strong, steady.
Then placed hers in it.
The contact jolted through both of them.
Not lightning.
Not magic.
Just something unmistakable.
He helped her to her feet.
And for a fleeting second, neither let go.
The wind moved gently around them now.
As if satisfied.
As if something long suspended had finally fallen into place.
“Vicki,” he said carefully, testing the name again.
“Yes.”
“If what you’re saying is true…”
She held his gaze.
“It is.”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the standing stones behind them.
Then back to her.
“Then God help us both.”
And together, without fully understanding why, they began walking toward his cottage — toward a life neither of them had planned.
Behind them, the stones stood silent once more.
Waiting.
- Writer
