Page 12 of Silent Night Temptation

I focus on the immediate, the present. The warmth of the blankets, the soft hum of the storm outside, the pleasant ache of my full stomach, the memory of the easy conversation over dinner. And then… Mr. Davenport. The mere thought of him calms me, just enough. I cling to it. To the memory of his presence and to the safety of it. Slowly, ever so slowly, the tightness in my chest begins to loosen. My breathing evens out, and eventually, exhaustion takes over.

I drift off to sleep, holding onto the fragments of calm I’ve gathered.

And then…the calm shatters.

I wake with a start, heart racing as the sharp sound of a spark pierces through the silence, ripping me from the fragile peace of sleep. The house plunges into complete darkness, and the once subtle hum of electrical appliances vanishes in an instant, swallowed by the deafening roar of the storm outside. The wind screams against the walls, a relentless force that feels as though it’s clawing its way into the house, rattling windows and doors with savage intent. My pulse quickens, every nerve in my body snapping awake as terror grips me.

I reach for my phone. The cold light of the screen cuts through the blackness. It’s just past midnight, and with a shaky breath, I switch on the flashlight. The small beam casts long, eerie shadows across the room. The wind howls again, louder this time, almost as if it’s mocking my fear. A primal dread clenches in my chest, squeezing tight, and I know I can’t stay here, alone, in this suffocating darkness. I need to move. I need to find him.

I throw off the blankets and rush out of bed. My bare feet barely make a sound on the cold floor as I hurry into the hallway. My breath is coming fast now, shallow and uneven. Panic threatens to overtake me with every step. The storm outside feels alive and furious. I can hear the branches of trees thrashing violently against the side of the house while the wind’s wails grow louder and more insistent.

And then I see him.

Mr. Davenport appears at the end of the hallway, a flashlight in hand, his face illuminated by its steady glow. He moves toward me with the same calm authority that always seems to follow him, as though the chaos outside could never touch him. His presence, even in this moment, is a balm to my frayednerves. I stop in my tracks, breathless, but relieved beyond words to see him.

“I was just about to come check on you. Are you alright?” His voice, low and soothing, cuts through the noise of the storm like a lifeline.

I nod, though the tightness in my chest betrays my attempt at composure. “Yes… I’m fine,” I say, though my voice trembles slightly. “What happened?”

“The wind,” he replies, his tone reassuring. “It’s caused an electrical problem. The power’s out.” He pauses for a moment, reading the fear that I haven’t quite hide. “But don’t worry,” he continues, that unflinching calm never wavering. “There’s a backup generator. It won’t power the entire house, but it’ll keep the living room lit, and the fireplace can keep us warm.”

The way he speaks is so assuring. It makes the situation seem almost mundane, as if a storm strong enough to knock out the power were nothing more than a passing inconvenience. He turns, heading toward the back door without another word. I’m left standing in the hallway, momentarily frozen by the contrast between his unwavering composure and the chaos that rages just beyond the walls.

Minutes later, the living room comes back to life. The soft glow of lamplight spills into the room as the backup generator comes on. The wind continues its relentless assault outside. But in here, the space is warm from the fire in the hearth that crackles softly. It’s as though the storm has been reduced to a distant threat.

Mr. Davenport walks back in, the flashlight now turned off, and glances at me as he crosses the room. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern as he sits down across from me on the couch.

I’m not sure if I am. My heart is still pounding; the fear is still gnawing at the edges of my mind. It’s strange how quickly he cansettle me, how his calm becomes my calm, how the storm seems to lose its power the moment he’s near.

For a while, we sit there in silence. The wind still howls and the storm still rages, but in this room, there’s only the soft crackle of the fire and the quiet rise and fall of our breathing. The quiet isn’t uncomfortable; it’s not the silence that makes me feel alone. Instead, it’s a shared stillness, a moment suspended in time where the world outside doesn’t matter, and the storm doesn’t exist.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His profile is illuminated by the firelight, his features softened by its flickering glow. There’s a serenity in his expression, the same unshakable composure that’s been there since the moment I first met him. But now, sitting here with him, there’s something more, something I can’t quite put into words. It’s a quiet understanding that I can’t explain.

I close my eyes, taking a slow, steadying breath as I let the warmth of the room and his presence seep into me. The fear fades, little by little.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to trust the quiet.

***

Marcus

Time passes quietly, yet everything in the room feels still and calm. The soft light from the fireplace holds my attention, its warmth a comfort as different thoughts drift through my mind. The storm outside has caused an electrical problem, but I’m thankful the backup generator is working well, keeping this space lit and warm.

I glance at Nyree. Her eyes are fixed on the flames, and it’s clear she has no plans to return to bed tonight. It surprises me, considering the flight, the time spent waiting in the airport and the cold outside, but I understand. This living room is the only place powered by the generator, and I imagine she doesn’t want to be alone in the darkness of her room. A sense of protectiveness rises in me. I feel the need to stay close to make sure she’s okay.

The silence brings back earlier memories, and a wave of guilt washes over me. I remember how she reacted when I brought up something she clearly didn’t want to discuss. She had beenstarting to relax, but my question made her retreat again. Now, looking at her, she seems more like the shy person from the car ride than the one who was at ease during dinner.

I stand up and try to shift the mood. I ask, “Would you like some wine?”

She smiles, a sweet smile that makes me feel lighter.

In the kitchen, I choose a bottle of red wine and pour us each a glass. When I sit back down, we sip in silence, the warmth of the wine and the fire keeping the cold at bay.

“Hmmm, this is great,” Nyree says softly after a few sips, her tension seeming to ease as she nearly drains her glass.

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites,” I reply, watching as the light in her eyes returns.

We continue drinking, and before long, the bottle is almost empty. The atmosphere between us grows lighter, more relaxed, though neither of us seems ready for sleep. I look at the clock on the wall, almost 5 a.m. Something about the early hour, combined with the wine, sparks an idea in my mind.

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