Page 11 of Diesel’s Second Chance

"Looks like the whole grid went down," I report. "Might be a while before it's back."

"Okay." June's voice comes from the darkness behind me, steady despite the situation. "You mentioned candles?"

"Yeah. Hang on."

I navigate the apartment by memory and the dim light from outside, find the emergency kit I keep under the kitchen sink. Flashlight, candles, matches, battery-powered radio. I light three candles and set them around the living room, creating small pools of warm light that push back the darkness without quite defeating it.

June's face in candlelight looks softer, younger. Like the girl I fell in love with twenty years ago, before life got complicated, before people died and everything got so goddamn heavy.

"Better?" I ask.

"Better." She pulls her legs up onto the couch, wraps her arms around her knees. "This feels like something from high school. Remember when the power went out during that ice storm senior year?"

I do. The whole town was dark for three days. Tommy, June, and I spent most of it at Tommy's house, playing cards by candlelight and eating whatever didn't need refrigeration.

"You cheated at poker," I say.

"I did not."

"You absolutely did. Tommy and I both caught you looking at the discards."

June laughs, and the sound fills something in my chest that's been empty for too long. "Okay, fine. I cheated. But you two were terrible at bluffing, so it wasn't really fair anyway."

"Terrible at bluffing or just honest?"

"Same thing when it comes to poker."

We fall into easier conversation after that. Stories from high school, stupid things we did, people we knew who've since moved away or stayed and settled into the same patterns we have. It's comfortable, familiar, the kind of talk that doesn't require pretense.

But underneath it, I'm aware of everything. The way candlelight catches in June's hair. The sound of her voice in the darkness. The fact that she's here, in my space, and I've got no good excuse to maintain the distance I usually keep.

"I should probably check the guest room," I say eventually, when the conversation lulls. "Make sure everything's set up."

"Jackson." June catches my wrist as I start to stand, her fingers warm against my skin. "Wait."

I freeze, heart kicking hard in my chest. "Yeah?"

She doesn't let go. Just holds my wrist, thumb against my pulse point, and I wonder if she can feel how fast my heart's beating.

"Thank you," she says. "For this. For letting me stay. For always being there when I need you."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know. But I want to." She releases my wrist, and the loss of contact feels disproportionately significant. "You're a good man, Jackson Reed. I hope you know that."

Being good means keeping boundaries. Means protecting her from feelings she didn't ask for. Means dying with this truth buried if that's what it takes to preserve Tommy's memory and June's peace of mind.

"I'll check that room," I say, standing before I do something stupid like tell her everything.

The guest room is fine. Bed made with clean sheets, extra blankets in the closet, towels folded on the dresser. I do a quick sweep anyway, give myself time to get my head straight.

When I return to the living room, June's standing at the window, watching the rain. The candlelight throws her shadow long across the floor, makes her look like something from a dream.

"Room's good," I report. "You need anything else?"

"No." She doesn't turn around. "How long do you think the rain will last?"

"Couple hours at least. Maybe more." I check my phone. Still has battery, but no service. The storm must've taken out the cell towers too. "You okay with staying the night? Roads won't be safe until morning at this rate."