“When I was sixteen, the power went out when I was in my room and I totally lost my mind. The next day, Callum brought home one of those big Maglites and put it under my bed. He gave me one when I went to college, but maybe the other is still there?”

Brady scooped her hand back up, and together they went to her bedroom. A quick search with his phone’s light beneath the bed showed nothing. Sloane sighed, resigned to the fact that she’d have to relearn how to not freak out at the dark again. Brady said he wasn’t ready to give up, though. With permission, he went into the closet and started moving boxes around. After a minute or two, he emerged with a weird-looking rectangular box.

“Looks like Callum upgraded your room while you were gone.” He clicked something, and soft yellow light bathed the room. “It’s a battery-powered lantern. We have two at the bar. They last forever.”

He moved over to the nightstand next to where she was sitting on the bed and placed it on its top. Sloane’s chest unclenched a little. Brady searched her face. She smiled.

“Thanks and sorry,” she said, voice no longer filled with nerves or giddiness. “I’m usually okay with storms and even some darkness, but I haven’t quite gotten used to when it happens together. And here, in this house? It’s just a bit harder is all.”

The bed sank a little as Brady sat next to her.

Seconds later, he surprised her, again, by falling backward, arms spread out like he was about to make a duvet angel.

“No need to apologize to me, sweet cakes. And if you want to talk to me about it or anything, you can. I don’t know if you know this or not, but us bartenders are excellent listeners.”

Sloane snorted at that and followed his move. She lay back on the bed with a sigh. It trapped Brady’s arm behind her shoulders, but he didn’t complain.

“This kind of feels like we’re camping,” Sloane said after a minute. “You know, just pretend you’re looking at the stars in the night sky instead of aged popcorn ceiling.”

“Ahh, yes. The beautiful aurora popcorn ceiling.” Brady snorted. “I bet that House Hunters wife would hate it.”

“‘We can’t buy this house, Rodney. One of the rooms is painted brown.’”

Brady let out a hoot of laughter.

“You sounded just like her.” He cleared his throat and changed its tenor a little. “‘Yes, dear. We’ll just get the house that was over our budget with the two-hour commute for me. Anything to keep you from yelling at me on national TV again.’”

They devolved into a fit of laughter. When it was done and they had lapsed back into silence, that warm and cozy feeling started to come back in.