s soon as the door clicks shut, I head up to my bedroom to change. There's a tingling in my fingers, the kind that happens whenever I'm nervous, which is absurd. It's not like this is the first time Jordan and I have been somewhere alone; what am I so afraid of?

My outfit of choice is an oversized black hoodie and black yoga pants. I figure the more clothed I am, the less likely it is that Jordan and I will succumb to our urges, though it's just a precaution. Jordan and I are mature enough to stay in a house together regardless of what I'm wearing. I'm certain.

Outside, the rain has eased to a light pitter-patter, though the sky still has this heavy look, like it could change at a moment's notice. I close the blinds, dab on some perfume, and close the bedroom door behind me.

Jordan is in the hallway in a back tee and sweatpants, his hair still damp from the rain. There's this second where we're completely still, quiet, like the hallway is somehow too small for us both.

"I'll show you your room," I say. I squeeze past him, ignoring the way my heart pulsates at the touch of his skin, and show him to the guest room. "It's small, but the bed is super spacious."

He raises an eyebrow and steps inside, resting his bag on the armchair. "It's nice."

"Are you hungry?" I ask. "We could order a pizza. Your favorite, right?"

The corner of his mouth lifts like he's surprised I remembered, but quickly drops when he remembers he's mad at me. "Will they even deliver?"

"You really are a city boy, aren't you? They deliver here right up until a warning is announced," I say. "Come on."

We head downstairs and into the living room, where I retrieve the remote from the side of the sofa and turn on the tv. We fall into an awkward silence as I flip through channels while he finds the pizza app.

When I settle on the news channel, his head snaps up. The hurricane watch has turned into a warning, with a category 2 heading this way. I'm not surprised, these things always change direction in what feels like an instant, but the worry on Jordan's face is even more noticeable under the slight blue glow of the tv screen.

"It's really nothing to worry about," I say. "We get category 2's all the time."

He turns to me now, all serious. "Evvy, they're telling people who live near the coast to evacuate. On what planet is that considered nothing to worry about?"

"They always say that," I say, "because they have to, but hardly anyone here ever does. These houses were built to withstand at least a category 4. Plus, the houses on this side of the island are well above sea level, so there's minimal risk of flooding. Most we can expect is some damaged cable lines, fallen trees, and power outages."

Just as I say this, rain pounds the windows like pellets, making him jump. I'm about to give him the speech again, but my phone pings with a message from Dad – he's seen the update, too.

, I say, and I put my phone away. "Are you ordering the pizza?" I ask. "I'd like extra cheese, pepperoni, sweetcorn, ham, peppers and pineapple." I lean over his shoulder, expecting him to have up the pizza app open, but he's busy Googling Category 2 hurricanes.

He pulls his lip between his teeth. "It says the wind range can reach 110mph. There's a big risk of injury or death, buildings may see major roof damage, and many trees will be uprooted. Residents should expect near total power loss, with outages lasting anywhere from a few days to a few weeks."

"Yes," I say, "but we're inside of a house built for this, Jordan. You aren't going to die. Plus, we've got flashlights and–"

A crack of thunder rumbles through my words, turning Jordan as still as a statue. My hand immediately reaches for his and squeezes it tight.

"It's fine," I say.

He nods but doesn't speak. I quickly jump up and close all of the curtains, blocking the view of the boarded-up windows. But even with the curtains closed, the jolt of lightning hitting the street floods the room in white light.

"Maybe we should go upstairs," I say. "Do you think you'd feel better if you tried to get some sleep?"

He closes his eyes. "I'll never be able to sleep."

"Stay here," I say. "I'll go and grab my laptop and we can watch a movie, okay? I'll even let you pick." I get to my feet, but he grabs my hand, keeping me still.

"Don't leave."

"I'll be back in a second. We need something to distract you."

He looks almost pained as he pulls me in closer. "Find another way."

I try to think fast, because any moment now he's going to have a panic attack. The cogs keep on turning, and then, in what must be the stupidest idea to known to man, I climb onto his lap and straddle him.

Every muscle of his stills. "What are you doing?"

"Distracting you."

His hands grab my waist now, pulling me closer. I lean forward slightly, placing both of my hands on his chest, but I don't push away.

His eyes darken. A curtain of hair falls over my shoulder and brushes his face. He tucks it back, letting his fingers linger. "Mission accomplished."

There's an army of butterflies waging war in my chest, the way they always do around him. I go to pull back, but his other hand keeps me firmly in place, refusing to let me go.

For about a second, we are still. This all feels familiar, like we're reliving the night we were stuck in his inn. I want to kiss him so badly, to remember what it feels like to have his hands beneath my shirt, but one of us needs to be smart.

"Pizza," I say, when lightning strikes again, "can you remember what I'm having?"

He nods briefly. "Unfortunately. Your order is an abomination to pizza lovers everywhere."

He's still holding me like everything between us is normal, and for a moment, I want to believe it is. With everything that's happened since he got to the island, we've hardly had moments like this. Perfectly ordinary moments that sit between the big things, the kind that ties each memory together. The kind you hope will last forever.

"What's wrong with my order?" My voice sounds shaky. Faint. I pray he doesn't notice.

"I'm not even going to touch the pineapple thing," he says, drawing me closer, "that pretty much speaks for itself. But sweetcorn, too? Pepperoni and ham together?" His breath feels hot as his lips brush my ear. "What's wrong with you?"

A shiver descends my spine. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize there was a right way to order pizza. What are you having?"

"Meat feast, like a normal person."

"Are you saying I'm not normal?"

"I've been saying that from the beginning."

The beginning. He makes it sound so perfect, like a story. My heart is suddenly pounding twice as fast. He lowers his head, letting his lips brush my cheek. A fire erupts in the pit of my stomach, then pools between my thighs. Without meaning to, I tighten my grip, which forces him to let out a low, heavy breath.

Slowly, his mouth brushes mine, then quickly retreats. It's not a kiss exactly, but more of a question, the kind you don't know the answer to. He buries his face in the side of my neck as another flash of light fills the room. I slip a hand beneath his tee, placing it over his heart. It's beating hard, even harder than that time in the cafe.

"It's not the storm," he says. "Not completely, anyway. It always happens when I'm around you."

He draws me in closer. This time when our lips brush, I know it's going to lead to a kiss, and the truth is I want it, even if it leads to pain further down the road. Even if it all blows up and I'm left with nothing but shrapnel and rubble – I want it. But then lightning what sounds like a pylon, a zap rings out, and we're thrown into darkness.

❤️