E L L A R A

The lights go out two minutes after I tell Marina we’re not evacuating.

One second, the clinic is humming under emergency power with low glows in the hall, pulse lamps in each triage bay. The next, the storm roars louder than the generator and everything drops into black.

No warning. No flicker. Just gone.

“Hold positions,” I call out. My voice bounces off the tile and panics. The wind claws at the shutters. Rain hammers the roof like fists.

Asha’s flashlight clicks on across the room, shaky but solid. “Patients are stable,” she says. “Two in observation, three waiting. No trauma.”

“Good. Stay lit. No one moves unless we say.”

I cross to the supply wall by memory. My fingers find the lantern. Twist, click and dim yellow blooms in the dark.

The power grid’s been moody all week, but this is worse. The island feels cut off, like the ocean itself pulled the plug. And the air smells wrong with ozone and copper. Like something’s burning underground.

The clinic doors slam open.

He fills the space like thunder.

Adrian’s soaked to the bone, his shirt plastered to him, hair dripping, breath ragged. His eyes sweep the room, wild, until they land on me.

“You’re still here?” His voice is lightning. Not controlled. Not cool. Raw.

I square my shoulders. “We’re holding.”

“The whole upper grid’s offline. Guest wings, boardwalk, bars. There’s talk of fire in the generator corridor.”

I grab the radio. Static. Dead.

His hand slams the door shut behind him. Wind rattles the glass. He stalks toward me, stopping just shy of touching. Rainwater drips from his jaw. His body radiates heat and fury.

“You should’ve cleared out,” he says.

“We had patients mid-infusion.”

“You could’ve died.”

I meet his glare with ice. “So could they.”

For a moment, neither of us breathes. Then a groan from the pipes, a shudder through the ceiling. The lantern swings. The storm wants in.

He curses under his breath. “Skybridge Bar has a lower shelter. Move now. We regroup downstairs.”

I nod once, sharp. “Grab the med packs. Everyone goes together.”

He steps closer, jaw flexing. “Not together. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

—

The walk from the clinic to Skybridge shouldn’t feel this long. It’s maybe thirty meters, a smooth ramp built for serene sunsets and cocktail arrivals. But under stormlight, it’s a gauntlet.

The wind howls through the pillars. Lanterns flicker and die in bursts. Thunder cracks so close it rattles my molars.

Adrian takes points. One hand on my shoulder, the other gripping a flashlight that barely cuts the dark. His grip is too tight. So is my heartbeat.

Asha moves behind me with the patients, her voice low and soothing. We reach the bar in a staggered line, ducking through the heavy doors just as lightning splits the sky in two.

Inside, the Skybridge Bar is chaotic.

Guests crowd the interior like frightened birds. Candles scatter the tables. Someone’s crying. Glass crunches underfoot near the back where bottles shattered from a dropped tray. A server huddles in the corner, whispering into a dead radio.

Adrian steps in and the room stills. His presence lands like a command.

“Everyone to the central floor,” he says. “Away from windows.”

No one argues.

Asha and I get the patients into a booth far from the glass. One of them, a woman in her sixties with a portable oxygen tank, squeezes my hand and whispers, “You’re calm. That helps.”

I nod once, throat tight. I’m not calm. I’m counting minutes. I’m watching for signs of internal collapse.

Adrian appears beside me again, wet, wild, his flashlight now clamped between his teeth as he secures emergency latches on the back doors. The wind screams. The candlelight paints his jaw in sharp shadows.

“You good?” he murmurs, dropping beside me.

“Fine,” I lied.

He looks at me, too long, like he sees straight through it. And then..

The lights flicker once. Die again.
A collective gasp. Then silence.

And it’s just us in the dark. No power. No protocol. Just breath and storm.

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe both of us. Maybe the storm moves us. One second I’m standing, the next I’m in his arms, his mouth crashing against mine.

It’s not soft.

It’s blackout need, wet skin and soaked clothes and the ghost of the cave between us.

I gasp against his lips, and he swallows it whole.

—

His hands are fire on my waist, then under my soaked shirt, dragging fabric up until I’m bare from navel to ribs. His mouth is frantic, hot, wet, claiming. My spine slams into the wall between two wine shelves, and still I don’t tell him to stop.

I gasp as he lowers, his breath skating down my stomach. “Tell me no,” he says again, voice breaking.

“I can’t,” I whisper. “Don’t ask me to.”

He drops to his knees.

The floor is wet, cold, glass-strewn, but he doesn’t hesitate. He hooks his thumbs in my waistband, peels damp fabric down my thighs. One of my legs lifts automatically, braced over his shoulder, and then..

Oh god.

His mouth is on me. Tongue, lips and heat. I bite my knuckle to muffle the sound that rips out of me. He groans, arms wrapped around my thighs, holding me open like worship.

“You taste like the storm,” he murmurs against me.

His tongue flattens, circles, plunges. One finger slides inside me, then another. I buck against his face, breathless, drowning.

“More,” I beg.

He gives it.

The orgasm slams through me with the violence of thunder. My back arches, heel digging into his shoulder, pulse breaking apart. He doesn’t stop. He licks me through it, drawing every last tremor.

He finally pulls back, breath rough, hands steadying me as I shake. We’re both quiet, undone. I tug my pants back up with shaking fingers. He helps, gentle for once, tucking my shirt down like he can fix all the rumpled pieces. But nothing about this is neat. Not us. Not now.

When I finally slide down the wall, he catches me.

His hands find my face. My waist. My mouth. We kiss like we’ve been starved for years. He presses me against the wine rack, grinding against my thigh, hard through his pants.

“I need..” he breathes.

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Not here. Not like this.”

He swears into my mouth, forehead against mine. We’re both trembling. He kisses me again, slow, deep and reverent.

That’s when the lights come back.

Not bright. Just enough to show us.

Fully dressed again. But tangled. His hands on my cheeks, my shirt half-wrung, my breath caught in his mouth. One kiss away from ruining everything.

—

The light is brutal.

Flickering fluorescents buzz overhead, throwing us into full relief with me half-dressed, lips swollen, back pressed to the wine shelf. Him still holding me, breath ragged, jaw tight.

And around us… silence.

Dozens of guests.

Some frozen. Some wide-eyed. A few with phones lifted, mouths half-open. One woman has her hand over her child’s eyes. Another recording.

Adrian pulls back, barely. His hands slide away like they’re guilty.

We don’t say a word.

We both know what this looks like.

My lips are flushed. His hair’s a mess. I’m trembling. He looks wrecked.

“We can’t keep almost,” he says, voice low and raw.

I blink. “Then stop starting.”

He stares at me for one heartbeat longer. Then he turns and walks away, out of the stormlight, out of the eyes.

Leaving me with every single one of them.