Page 65 of Screwed

Nate’s eyes shifted between Ethan and me, focused on every word that came out of our mouths, and I could practically see the moving cogs in his brain. “You guys want to seal off the access lines by detonating it here.”

I let out a low, impressed whistle. “Damn. That military training sure comes in handy, huh?”

He gave me a narrow-eyed glare, but there was no real malice in it. More a promise that I was going to pay for the sass later, and I for sure hoped that was going to happen.

“That’s exactly it,” Ethan said, picking up the crates and moving them to the table in the living room. Nate and I followed closely behind. “We just have to pray to God he brings back the right equipment. Otherwise, we’re just looking at a bunch of expensive paperweights.”

Nate crossed his arms and nodded at the boxes. “Start praying then. We should wrap the charges now and wait for him to bring the missing pieces.”

We nodded, and the three of us began sliding the cache down the floorboards into the safety of the dry basement hatch as we waited for Deacon. But the weather had a curveball to throw at us, which was almost expected at this point.

We’d just come back up from the basement when the gray afternoon vanished entirely, swallowed by an ugly, purple sky that unleashed a downpour of biblical proportions. The wind howled through the upper tree line, rattling the roof trusses until a sudden, blinding flash of lightning ripped through the shadows, followed by a crack of thunder that made the floorboards vibrate.

Then, the lights flickered twice and died.

“Well, so much for the grid,” Ethan muttered, his voice a low rumble in the sudden pitch-blackness. I heard the sharp scuff of his boots against the floor as he navigated the dark by memory, his hand brushing against my hip as he passed.

“Don’t move, Ava. I’ve got a stash of emergency wax candles in the utility drawer.”

“I’m right here,” I whispered, my heart already ticking faster against my ribs.

A match struck, the sudden, tiny flare illuminating the sharp lines of Ethan’s jaw and the tight, focused set of his shoulders before he touched the flame to three thick blocks of wax.

Across the room, Nate stepped out of the shadows near the reinforced front entryway, his large silhouette bathed in the candlelight's glow. He didn’t look relaxed; his arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his dark eyes constantly darting toward the drafts whistling through the log timbers.

“Deacon should’ve been back by now,” Nate said flatly, his jaw locking as a particularly violent gust of wind slammed into the side of the house. “The lower access valley lines are going to be a wash if this rain keeps up for another hour.”

“He knows how to drive these ridges in the mud, Nate,” Ethan countered, setting one of the glowing candles down on the dining table. He pulled out a chair for me, giving my shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze that lingered just a second too long.

“Come on. Sit down. We’ve got nothing but time until he gets back. Might as well make the most of it.”

*

The rain was a relentless drumming overhead, a sound so loud we had to raise our voices just to carry across the heavy table.

“Alright, my turn,” Ethan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the wood. The scant light caught the sharp angles of his face, softening the fatigue around his eyes as he gave me a small, deliberate smile. “I’m thinking of something. Twenty questions. Go.”

“Is it some kind of hardware tool?” I asked, pulling the wool blanket tighter around my shoulders. My boots were still damp from the trek up the ridge.

“Nope. Not even close,” Ethan chuckled, shaking his head. “Nineteen left.”

“Is it something you can find in this room?” Nate asked from the corner. He wasn’t sitting down. He stood near the entryway, his large silhouette framing the darkness as he paced a three-step perimeter, his fingers lightly trailing along the structural log header we had bolted down a day ago. His eyes never stayed on the table for long; they kept darting toward the slivers of black sky visible above the plywood.

“Technically, yes,” Ethan answered, his eyes tracking Nate’s movement before settling back on me. “But you’d have to look hard.”

“Is it that ancient pocket knife you carry everywhere?” I tried, offering a faint, forced smile. I wanted to believe in the game. I wanted to pretend we were just three friends passing the time during a typical Pacific Northwest storm, waiting for another friend to drive back with takeout instead of black-market hardware.

“Eighteen. And no, it’s not the knife,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into a softer, quieter register that made the space between us feel incredibly small. He reached across the blueprints laid out on the table, his calloused fingers lightly brushing the top of my hand. “It’s something a lot more valuable.”

I held his gaze, my heart giving a sudden thud that had nothing to do with the storm outside. The memory of what we had shared in the dark hours before dawn—and the confession inside the damp air of the mine shaft—hung between us. I looked over at Nate, whose pacing had stopped. He was watching us, his jaw unclenching just a fraction as the hard, defensive lines of his shoulders dropped. There was no jealousy in the room, just a profound, unspoken understanding that we were locked into this together.

“Give us a hint, Ethan,” Nate rumbled, stepping into the ring of candlelight. He placed a large, heavy hand on the back of my chair, his physical proximity making the drafty room feel safer. “Ava’s running out of patience.”

“It’s something that keeps me warm,” Ethan murmured, his thumb tracing a slow line across my knuckles.

“A blanket,” I guessed, my eyes darting between the two of them.

“Wrong again,” Ethan smiled, his eyes dark and intensely focused. “Sixteen left.”