Sara bows, but it’s Nathan who puts on a show of mock outrage, challenging Cassie to a rematch. As they argue, I find myself watching not just the way his hands move, quick and sure, but the way he pays attention. He listens to Cassie’s questions, answers them without condescension, and when Sara looks tired, he’s the first to suggest a break. He fits into the rhythm of us like he’s always been here.
At some point, the four of us fall silent, the only sound the hiss of rain and the rare, distant boom of thunder. I study the faces around me. Sara, regal even when slumping in her chair; Cassie, eyes heavy, smiling at something only she can see; Nathan, head bowed, the curve of his neck lit gold by the dying flame. My own heart is full, bursting with something new—not quite love, but the shape it will take if I let it.
I think about what Cassie said, about wanting to know what it feels like to belong somewhere else, even for just a night. Maybe that’s what we’re all doing here, testing out new configurations, hoping something fits.
For the next hour, we ride out the worst of the storm together, playing games by candlelight, eating too many cookies, listening to the wind try and fail to scare us. Sometimes the thunder is close enough to rattle the glasses, and sometimes the rain softens, and we all pretend not to be waiting for it to start again.
Every so often, I catch Sara watching us, as if she’s seeing something that the rest of us can only feel. I wonder what she thinks, if she remembers what it was like to sit in the dark with someone you wanted to know better while the world around you tried its best to come undone.
Eventually, the candles start to burn out, dwindling down into tiny blue flames that battle against the encroaching darkness.
Sara notices the diminishing light first. “I keep emergency candles in the hallway closet,” she says, her voice softer now, tired in a way that makes my chest go hollow. “Diane, would you mind?”
“I’ll go,” I say, standing too quickly and setting the game pieces rattling.
Nathan unfolds from the chair beside me. “I’ll help.”
The hallway is a tunnel of shadow, narrow and lined with the old, heavy kind of wallpaper that absorbs noise and time. I lead with a tea light, its flame feeble but determined. Nathan walks just behind, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, which is animal, electric.
We reach the closet, and I balance the candle on a shoebox while I kneel to rummage through the bottom shelf. Nathan crouches beside me, and in the tiny pool of light our faces are inches apart. He smells like rain and the faint, honest sweat of someone who’s been physically afraid.
The shelves are cluttered with old batteries, more board games, a half-deflated beach ball. We’re both reaching for the back when our hands collide, and for a heartbeat neither of us moves. The air is thick, oxygen-poor, and my pulse is so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
He looks at me, not smiling but not backing away, and the light from the candle turns his irises a color I don’t have words for. His voice is a whisper, like the end of a secret. “Can I…?”
Before he finishes the sentence, the candle gutters and plunges us into darkness.
I gasp, a small sound absorbed by the encroaching shadows. My fingers tighten around his, my first instinct to hold onto something real in the suffocating blackness. I feel him stiffen, then relax, his warmer hand enveloping mine.
“Yes,” I whisper back, even though I am not sure what he was asking. My heart hammers against my chest, each thump aquestion mark. I hear him shift, then feel his fingers trace a path from my wrist up to the curve of my elbow. A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the hallway for a split second, revealing his face inches from mine. The sight sends my heart into overdrive, and I realize how close we are. Too close.
The walls of the house shrink around us, and all our pasts, all our futures, are crowded into this tiny closet space. Time seems to still, stretching out and collapsing into the span of a heartbeat. I am aware of everything—the whisper of his breath against my cheek, the faint scent of earth and sea on his shirt, the way our fingers interlace so perfectly.
Then suddenly, he's pulling me closer, his hand firm around my waist. My heart leaps into my throat as he leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. The words he whispers are lost in the rush of blood pulsing through my veins, but the tone sends a shiver cascading down my spine. It's not fear, but an awareness of the distance we’ve crossed, the line we’re about to blur even further.
His lips, warm and slightly damp against my skin, pull away, leaving a trail of heat that dissipates almost instantly. And then, he’s standing. He doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, his grip tightens subtly as he helps me to my feet.
I find the candle box, thrust it between us like a peace offering. “Found it,” I say, and my voice is shaky, too bright.
He takes it, fingers lingering just a second too long, and then we’re walking, our shoulders bumping as we make our way back down the hall.
At the threshold of the living room, the light from the remaining candles casts our shadows huge and awkward on the wall. Cassie’s voice calls out, “Did you get lost?” and Sara, from the depths of her chair, just smiles.
We set the new candles in every dish and empty mug we can find, and when they flare to life, the room is just as before. Except, of course, it isn’t.
Nathan sits farther away from me this time, but every movement he makes feels charged with the memory of our moment in the dark.
I look at Sara, and for a second her eyes meet mine. There’s amusement there, but also a quiet understanding, as if she remembers what it’s like to live at the edge of possibility, half-wanting and half-terrified by what comes next.
We play another round of games, the four of us, but every time I reach for the dice or move a piece across the board, I feel the echo of Nathan’s hand against mine, the potential for contact humming just beneath the surface.
At some point, Cassie dozes off, her head on Sara’s lap. Sara strokes her hair absently, humming that same off-key tune from earlier. Nathan glances at me, and his smile is a promise, not of anything grand, just the next morning, the next game, the next time the wind picks up.
By the time the storm gives up, the house feels even quieter than before, a kind of hush that’s both earned and uneasy. I check the clock on Sara’s mantelpiece. It’s midnight, or thereabouts, though it’s hard to tell since the power’s still out, and the old pendulum sometimes loses the thread for minutes at a stretch.
Sara yawns, covering her mouth with her good hand, the other curled against her chest. “I’m calling it,” she says, her voice rough at the edges. “If I don’t get at least four hours, I’m no good to anyone.”
I help her stand, and this time she doesn’t protest. Nathan appears behind me, hovering just close enough to steady her elbow if she falters. We walk her down the hall, the shadows fatter and slower now that the storm has faded.