Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 38

"You remember how to start the generator?" Dad asks, frowning out the rain-streaked window like he might will the power back on through sheer dad energy.

"Not really," Mom says, biting her lip. "I mean, I know we have one. Somewhere."

They both look at me.

I sigh, pushing up from the kitchen counter where I was drying plates in the dark.

"I’ll figure it out."

Dad claps me on the back. "Knew we kept you around for a reason."

I grab my phone, flicking the flashlight on, and head for the basement door.

The house groans as another gust of wind slams against it, but the stairs hold steady under my weight as I move down, phone light bouncing against the walls.

It smells like old wood, damp stone, and forgotten Christmas decorations.

I navigate by instinct more than sight, stepping over old boxes and discarded furniture without hesitation.

Darkness never bothered me.

Penny had asked me yesterday — half-joking, half-curious — if I was scared of the dark.

I’d shrugged, told her no.

It’s true.

When you're trained right, you don’t need your eyes to survive.

You listen for shifts in the air.

Feel vibrations under your feet.

Trust your gut when it tells you something's wrong.

Darkness isn’t the enemy.

Complacency is.

I find the generator shoved against the far wall behind some rusted gardening tools.

Big, ugly, old-school.

But workable.

I flip the necessary valves, prime the fuel, and yank the starter cord.

It coughs once, twice, then roars to life.

A few seconds later, the overhead lights buzz back on, humming with steady, stubborn life.

I kill the flashlight and climb back upstairs, wiping my hands on my pants.

The kitchen glows warm again.

Mom exhales like she’s been holding her breath.

Dad grins. "Our hero."

I snort under my breath and start heading toward the stairs — planning to shower again, maybe sleep for a week — when Mom gasps.

Sharp. Immediate.

I turn fast, instinct kicking in before logic.

She’s clutching Dad’s arm, eyes wide.

"Penny," she says. "Oh my God, what about Penny?"

Dad’s face hardens instantly.

He glances outside — at the houses swallowed in darkness, the flicker of weak emergency lights a few blocks away.

The whole street's dead.

Dad turns to me without hesitation.

"Can you check on her?"

I’m already putting my shoes on.

"Yeah."

The storm is worse when I step outside.

Rain pelts down hard enough to sting.

Wind slices sideways, soaking me in seconds.

I shove my head down, bracing against it, moving fast.

Her house isn't far.

I move by memory now — vision useless in the sheets of rain.

Her porch light is dead.

The windows are black.

No movement inside.

I climb the steps and knock once — hard enough to be heard over the storm.

Nothing.

I knock again, sharper this time.

Still nothing.

I lean closer to the door.

"Penny," I call, voice cutting through the rain. "It’s Asher."

There’s a pause.

Then the door creaks open a few inches.

A flash of candlelight glows behind her — small, flickering, weak.

She peers out, hair loose, hoodie zipped up halfway.

Her eyes are wide but sharp.

"Why didn’t you open the first two times?" I ask, scanning her face.

She shrugs, a quick, defensive move.

"You could’ve been a serial killer," she says, like it’s obvious.

Good. She’s cautious, for once.

"Fair," I mutter.

She opens the door a little wider.

"Why are you here?"

"My parents were worried," I say. "They saw the outage and wanted me to check if you have a generator."

"I... I don’t know," she admits, stepping back.

I wipe my boots on the mat and step inside, the door clicking shut behind me.

The house is colder than I expected.

No heat.

No power.

Only two tiny candles trying to fight the storm pressing against the walls.

"Can I check?" I ask.

She nods, pulling the hoodie tighter around her.

The basement door sticks a little, but I yank it open.

I head down with the flashlight on again, scanning the space.

No generator.

No backup.

Nothing.

When I come back up, thunder cracks so loud overhead that the house physically shudders.

Penny jumps — full-body flinch — her hands clutching the edge of the counter like she’s bracing for impact.

I cross the room quickly, voice low.

"You got any more candles? Flashlights?"

"Yeah," she says, voice small. "Somewhere."

She rummages through a drawer and comes back with two tiny tea-light candles and a half-dead flashlight the size of a Twix bar.

I stare at the pathetic collection.

"That’s not enough," I say flatly.

She huffs. "I’ll be fine. I have blankets. I'll just stay in bed."

"No," I say immediately.

She frowns. "It’s not a big deal, Asher."

"It is," I snap.

She crosses her arms. "Why?"

"Because without power, the heater doesn’t work. And without heat, this place is going to turn into an icebox in about twenty minutes."

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off.

"You’ll get cold, Penny. Fast. You’ll think it’s manageable until it’s not."

"I’ll pile on blankets—"

"And if the windows blow out?"

She blinks, caught off guard.

"If the storm rips a branch through your living room?" I continue, voice low but cutting. "What then?"

She swallows, looking away.

"I’ll be fine," she mumbles, weaker now.

I step closer, lowering my voice even more.

"You don’t stay alone in a blackout during a storm. Not when you don’t have backup. Not when you don’t have heat. Not when you don’t have light."

Her hands curl tighter around the sleeves of her hoodie.

I soften — just a little.

"Come with me," I say.

She hesitates.

Thunder cracks again, louder, angrier.

The lights flicker from the flashlights barely holding on.

She looks at the candles, the shaking windows, the endless dark outside.

Then she looks at me.

I lift a hand — not touching her, just offering.

"Come on."

For a second, I think she might dig in stubborn again.

But then she sighs — a defeated, breathless sound — and nods.

"Okay. Let me grab my shoes."

She moves quickly, shoving her feet into sneakers, yanking on a thicker hoodie.

I open the door for her, bracing my shoulder against the wind trying to slam it shut again.

She pulls her hood up over her head and steps outside, clutching the zipper closed with both hands.

I follow her into the storm.

The door shuts behind us, the lock clicking faintly under the roar of the rain.