Page 106 of Check & Chase
By the time Emma emerges from the shower, hair damp and curling around her face, wearing leggings and one of my hoodies she’s appropriated, the world outside has disappeared entirely behind a curtain of white. Max is cradled in her arms like a furry baby, purring loudly.
“Looks like we made the right call,” she observes, joining me at the window where I’ve been watching the storm’s progress.
“Told you. My weather instincts are impeccable.”
“Your weather app, you mean.”
I lean in to kiss her temple, only to have Max hiss at me and burrow deeper into Emma’s embrace, claiming his territory.
“He officially hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just… protective.” She tries to hide her smile, scratching behind Max’s ear which make him purr even louder. “Aren’t you, baby?”
Max shoots me a smug look that clearly says ‘she’s mine.’
Traitor.
We make dinner together—pasta with sauce from a jar, nothing fancy but comforting in its simplicity. Emma insists I sit while she handles most of the preparation, but lets me help with seated tasks like grating cheese. The domestic routine feels as natural as breathing, punctuated by Max’s demanding presence and the storm’s increasing intensity outside.
The first flicker of the lights comes just as we’re finishing our meal, plates cleared and stacked in the dishwasher. Emma immediately goes into preparedness mode, gathering candles and matches with efficient movements.
“Just in case,” she explains, placing them around the living room in strategic locations.
Her foresight proves prescient. Twenty minutes later, midway through a card game Emma is thoroughly trouncing me at, the house plunges into darkness. The sudden absence of the furnace’s gentle hum makes the storm’s howling seem louder, more immediate.
Max bolts from Emma’s lap like he’s been shot from a cannon, disappearing into the shadows with a startled yowl.
“Perfect timing,” I comment as Emma calmly lights the candles, their warm glow creating intimate pools of light that transform the familiar living room into something more mysterious, more romantic.
“Poor Max,” she murmurs, peering into the darkness where my traitorous cat has vanished. “He hates storms.”
“He’ll find us when he wants to. Probably still won’t come to me first though.”
The temperature begins to drop almost immediately, the house’s insulation no match for the furnace’s absence. We abandon the card gamein favor of the couch, sharing a throw blanket while the candles flicker around us.
“Will the heat stay on?” Emma asks, already knowing the answer but needing the confirmation.
“No, gas furnace needs electricity to run the blower. It’s gonna get chilly.”
“Guess you’ll just have to keep me warm,” she teases, tucking herself against my side with movements that have become second nature over these weeks of recovery.
We settle into comfortable conversation, voices kept low as if the storm demands reverence. The wind continues its assault outside, occasional gusts strong enough to rattle the windows and remind us of nature’s power. But here, cocooned in candlelight and shared warmth, we’re safe.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Emma prompts when our discussion of her grocery store adventures winds down.
I consider the request, my thumb tracing circles on her shoulder through the soft fabric of my hoodie. “I wanted to be an astronaut before hockey. Had glow-in-the-dark stars all over my ceiling, knew all the constellations.”
“Really?” Emma shifts to see my face better in the flickering light, genuine surprise coloring her voice. “What changed?”
“My dad took me skating when I was five. Said if I could master it, we’d build a rocket ship together.” The memory brings a bittersweet smile, tinged with the complicated emotions that always accompany thoughts of my father. “But I hated it. Fell constantly, couldn’t get the hang of it. Just wanted to go home and read my space books.”
“Wait.” Emma’s eyebrows raise in astonishment. “You hated hockey?”
“Despised it,” I confirm with a laugh. “Dad gave up after a few sessions, frustrated with my lack of natural talent. But when I was eight, my grandfather decided to give it another shot. He was patient where my dad wasn’t, encouraging where my dad was demanding. Made it fun instead of work.”
The memory of those early morning sessions with my grandfather fills me with warmth despite the cooling house. His weathered hands guiding mine on the stick, his gentle corrections when I fell, the way his eyes lit up when I finally managed to stay upright for a full lap.
“That explains the space books in your bedroom,” Emma muses, wonder threading through her voice. “I thought they might belong to an ex.”
