The rain slammed in sideways sheets against the windows, as though it wanted to come in. Sarah pulled in closer on the couch, her fists gripping the mug of tea—it was cold now. Lucas stood at the glass doors across the room, his shadow still against the blackness of the stormy sky. Twenty minutes had gone by since he had stopped pacing.

Three days. Three days since they'd stopped pretending, since they'd dragged all the unspoken terror out into the daylight. Three days of not-peaceful silence, just. oppressive.

A gust of wind rattled the house. Lucas's shoulders tensed.

Sarah set her mug down.

She padded barefoot across the floor, the hardwood chill on her feet. When she reached him, she spoke nothing—simply buried her forehead between his shoulder blades and took a deep breath. Salt. Coffee. That cedar undernote of his shampoo.

For an instant, he did not move. Then his hand clamped over hers, their fingers meshing as if they were cast to fit.

"Remember that hurricane in Key West?" His tone was gruff, little more than a rumble above the wind.

Sarah laughed a snort onto his back. "When we were stranded at that terrible motel?"

"The one with the busted neon sign that refused to come on," he answered, turning towards her, his other hand coming up to frame her jaw. "And the creaky bed."

"Like a dying seagull," she finished, smiling.

Lightning flash, illuminating the creases of his face—the shadows under his eyes, the stubborn line of his mouth, the love that would never really go away, even when they were fighting with each other.

The electricity chose to fall dead at that exact second.

In the consequent dark, Lucas released a breath. "Well. This is home."

Sarah's hand went up, tracing the tension line in his shoulders. "We should—"

"Candles," he talked at the same time as her, "Blankets."

They both laughed, the sound warm in the charged air.

Later, huddled in a pile of quilts with a dozen candles flickering around them, Sarah listened while the storm raged outside. Lucas's arms drew her in.

"It's not going to be like last time," he whispered against her hair.

She regarded him. "How do you know?"

"Because." He wiped away the tear she hadn't even seen had fallen with his thumb. "Last time, we let go."

The wind howled. The house creaked. Someplace, a branch broke.

Sarah kissed him—slow, long, like she was memorizing the shape of his lips once again. When she backed away, she pressed the flat of her hand against his chest, right over the beat of his heart. "Then we hold on."

And they did.

Through the storm. Through the darkness. Through each question that breathed this could break them.

When morning came, the world was fresh-washed—the sun spearing through wet leaves, a crisp sharpness in the ozone. Lucas stood on the porch, his shirt off, coffee in hand. Sarah appeared beside him, her toes curled up so that not one bare digit touched the damp wood.

He held the cup out to her wordlessly. She took it, her fingers brushing across his.

No epic speeches or flowing promises.

Only this:

His shoulder against hers.