The display for Lyre’s solar power says 1,384W in, 98% battery, and then a number to actually make my stomach flip:
Estimated Runtime: 3h 12m.
Three hours? That’s it?
I glance at the humming AC vents, the dehumidifier pulling swamp air from every corner, and the fridge. We’re pulling too much. Even with solar pouring in, it’s not enough.
How is that possible with 98%?
My fingers hover over the thermostat. I can’t shut everything off, but maybe I can cut the second AC. That’s one less thing bleeding our battery dry.
But first I have to figure out how.
"What’s wrong?" Caine’s voice comes from directly behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body without him actually touching me.
I step quickly to the side, putting six more inches between us. "I have no idea what any of this means." I gesture at the panel. "How much power do we have? How long before we’re out? I don’t know anything about solar."
All I know is it’s expensive, which makes me wonder even more about how Lyre gets by.
He leans in to examine the display, his dark brows furrowed. The muscles in his arm tense as he braces himself against the wall, making sure not to brush against me. We’ve become experts at this careful dance of almost-contact.
"I know jack-shit about solar," he admits, straightening. "But I’ve worked with generators before. Does she have one?"
"I..." I realize I don’t know. "I’ve never seen her use one."
Caine nods once. "I’ll check the outside storage."
He moves toward the door, navigating around Jer’s dinosaur rampage—literally, he’s bouncing between the kitchenette and living room, going on about lasers and dinosaurs—and Bun’s sudden fixation with light fixtures.
The toddler climbs onto the dinette table and reaches for the light with gleeful determination.
"Bun, no!" I lunge across the room, catching her just before she can grab the swinging pendant light. She squeals in protest as I set her down on the bench seat, my heart hopscotching its way to a normal rate. "Stay low, okay? No climbing."
She immediately starts to crawl under the table instead.
I sigh, exhaustion washing over me. Lyre had texted, telling me to take the bedroom, since we’ll need the extra sleeping space. It’s a small load off my mind.
The sleeping arrangements make sense in theory: me, Sara, and Bun in Lyre’s queen bed; Ron and Jer on the daybed I’d used, though it’ll be a tight squeeze; Caine on the couch. In practice, I’m not sure any of us will actually sleep.
The door swings open, and Caine pops his head in. "Found it up front, but it’s dry. No fuel."
My stomach drops. "Fuel?"
"Gas or propane. I’m not sure how much propane we have, so we’re going to need to get some gas. We emptied all her water jugs, too, so we need to refill those..."
A flicker of panic ignites in my chest. We need the AC running. Bun’s too small to handle this kind of heat—but even without her, all the kids need proper hydration and temperature control.
This heat was a mild annoyance before, but now it’s my biggest concern, outside from the strange itchy feeling between my shoulder blades.
"So we need gas for the generator, water refills, and probably more food." I mentally catalog our dwindling supplies. "Especially stuff the kids will eat."
Caine moves to the window, sliding up the blinds to survey our surroundings. I join him, staying far enough away that our shoulders don’t touch, but I sneakily breathe deep to experience his scent a little more thoroughly. Seriously, he smells so good.
I get the whole wearing your boyfriend’s clothes because they smell like him thing I’ve heard about. I would wear his shirts every day just for that alone.
Our boondocking spot—turns out boondocking just means no hookups at a campground, aka "being off-grid"—is basically a wide dirt clearing nestled in shallow hills. No trees for shade, just scrubby plants and packed earth. The fifth-wheel sits in a slightly lower area where recent rain has created muddy tire ruts and small puddles. A few other RVs dot the landscape, but they’re parked far enough away, they’re just metal rectangles on the horizon.
"See that one?" I point to the most distant RV. "I think it’s just an older human couple with a golden retriever. They were outside with their dog a few minutes ago."
He nods, then pulls the blinds back down. They’re black and help a little with blocking out the heat. "We’ll be okay. It’s hot now, but the temperature should drop significantly tonight. We can open the windows for cross-ventilation."
"You sound like a weather report." I smile despite myself.
"This heat is unseasonable. There’s a cold front moving in tonight—rain, too." He speaks with such certainty that I blink in surprise.
"Did you check the forecast?"
"I can smell it." His expression remains serious, but there’s something almost domestic about this exchange—like we’re an old married couple discussing the day’s weather instead of people hiding from strange supernatural dangers.
The absurdity of it all hits me suddenly. Two weeks ago I was freezing and naked in a forest after being rejected by my then-boyfriend. Now I’m worrying about air conditioning and toddler safety while standing three careful inches away from the Lycan King.
My life has turned into a fever dream.
It’s weird. I used to think he was a murderer. Now I keep picturing him chasing a toddler around with snacks and nap schedules. He’s... daddy material. Not a kink I ever asked for, but here we are.
I shake my head and head for the kitchen to check our food supplies. As I pass the rear window, something flickers across the glass—too fast, too smooth to be a random shadow. My heart lurches into my throat, and I freeze, staring at the not-quite-blackout blinds as my pulse thuds hard.
Then I lift them.