Page 45 of What Remains of Grace

By the time he climbed down the ladder, she was already at the door, heart pounding. She waited until he stepped off the last rung before calling out, “You’re going to get struck by lightning doing that!”

He turned, rain running down his face, water dripping from the brim of his cap. “It came loose,” he said simply. “Didn’t want the bakery to flood.”

“You could’ve called,” she said, grabbing a towel from the laundry shelf by the door.

“You were asleep.”

“So? You were on the roof in a thunderstorm.”

He didn’t answer. Just took the towel when she held it out, wiped his face once, and handed it back as if it burned him.

“Come inside,” she said, stepping aside to open the door wider. “You’re drenched. At least dry off.”

He shook his head. “Can’t. I’ll ruin your subfloors before we even lay the finishes.”

“Cole—”

But he was already backing away, rain hitting his shoulders like a curtain. “It’s fine,” he said, voice low but firm. “Go back to bed, Jenna. It’s handled.”

Then he turned, boots squelching against the gravel, and disappeared into the storm.

She stood there, door still open, watching the red glow of his taillights fade down the street.

He’d driven here. In the rain. Fixed the roof. And then refused to step inside.

Her fingers tightened around the towel, the fabric still warm where he’d touched it. “Just work,” she whispered to the empty doorway. “Right.” Biscuit meowed from somewhere behind her, unimpressed.

“Yeah,” she murmured, closing the door. “Me neither.”

12

The Turning Tide

The first sound was rain: hard, steady, the kind that pressed against the windows like a heartbeat. Then a shadow filled the doorway.

Cole.

In her dream, he wasn’t on the roof or drenched in storm light. He was inside, the air around him warm and charged, his voice quiet when he said her name. The whole room seemed to shift with him, the scent of rain and cedar curling in behind his body as he stepped closer.

She should’ve told him to stay outside, that it was late, that this was just work, that she didn’t need him.

But nothing in her would form the words. The storm swallowed every objection whole.

When he reached for her, thunder rolled through her ribcage. His hands anchored her, steady and undeniable, and she rose instinctively, arms around his neck, legs around his waist, pulled into the heat of him like she’d been waiting years for that exact gravity.

His nearness was overwhelming with his warm breath against her throat, voice low in her ear, the kind of closeness that blurred the edges of sleep and memory until she couldn’t tell one from the other.

Then—silence.

She woke with her heart hammering, the echo of his name still pressed against the inside of her mouth.

For a moment, she didn’t move, heart still racing, the ghost of his breath at her ear vivid enough to make her shiver. Morning light pushed weakly through the blinds, catching the edge of the towel she’d left on the counter last night, proof that the storm had been real, even if everything else hadn’t.

Coffee. Emails. The steady clacking of keys tapping while the sounds of work moved dimly through the walls.

Emmie yawned and reached for a banana from the counter, thumb already scrolling through her phone. “Think it’ll rain again today?”

“Forecast says scattered,” Jenna said, though her voice still felt unsteady.