Chapter 3: Blackout
The lines of code on Liam’s monitor glowed like a city at night, a landscape of logic he was navigating with his voice, a low, steady commentary on layers and nodes. Cass stood beside him, closer than she’d been at the desk, her arm almost brushing his. She watched the passionate contours of his profile more than the screen, the way his eyes tracked the data.
“…so it’s not just looking for a pattern, it’s building a model of what a pattern isn’t, which is somehow more…” He trailed off, his sentence severed by a sudden, profound silence.
The omnipresent hum of the computer fan died. The desk lamp winked out. The soft backlight from various power strips and chargers vanished, plunging the room into a darkness so complete it felt solid.
“Ah. Shit.” Liam breathed, the word a flat, frustrated exhalation in the sudden void.
Outside, the blizzard’s howl seemed to swell, triumphant, now the only sound in the universe. The faint ambient light that had been seeping around the curtains was gone, swallowed by the thick, swirling white. It was a blackness that pressed against their eyes.
Cass heard the soft thud of him setting his mug down. “Okay. Don’t move. I’ve got candles somewhere.” His voice was calm, practical, a thread of order in the chaos.
She heard him shuffle, then a muffled curse as he bumped into something. “Chair. Right. Stand still.”
She did, the darkness amplifying every other sense. The smell of his cedar soap was stronger. The cold, which had been held at bay by the electric heater, began a silent, immediate invasion, seeping through the floorboards. She hugged herself, her sweatshirt rapidly becoming useless.
A drawer opened and closed. The rattle of a box. Then the beautiful, abrasive scratch of a match. A sudden, sulfurous tang filled the air, and a tiny, defiant flower of light bloomed in Liam’s hands. He lit a thick, white emergency candle, then another, holding them aloft.
The room re-materialized in a trembling, orange sphere. Shadows leapt and cavorted on the walls, transforming the familiar posters into strange, looming shapes. His face, lit from below, was all stark planes and deep hollows, his eyes pools of darkness.
“Well,” he said, the candlelight catching the faint curve of a smile. “This is atmospheric.”
Cass let out a shaky laugh. “My hero. With emergency supplies.”
“Prep for the apocalypse is basically a hobby,” he said, setting one candle on the desk. The small pool of light made the rest of the room feel even larger, and colder. He looked at her, his expression shifting. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, but her teeth wanted to chatter.
He was already moving, crouching by his bed. He pulled out a faded blue duffel bag and unzipped it. “Here.” He tossed something soft and heavy at her. It was a grey hoodie, worn and pilled. “Put that on. Over yours.”
She didn’t argue. She pulled it on. It was enormous, swallowing her frame, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. It smelled like him—clean cotton and that faint cedar—and it was wonderfully, instantly warm from being tucked away. “Thanks.”
“The heater’s electric,” he said, stating the obvious as he stood. “So that’s done. We should…” He paused, a new thought occurring. “Your apartment. You’ve got a key, right? Not a fob?”
The question landed like a stone in her gut. Her electric keycard. The sleek, modern system the college's building manager had bragged about. “Shit,” she whispered, echoing his earlier frustration. “It’s a keycard. The reader is electronic. If the power’s out…”
“The magnetic lock defaults to locked,” Liam finished, his voice grim. “Safety feature. Or a really stupid one.” He grabbed the larger candle. “We should check. Maybe you left it unlocked.”
Hope, thin and desperate, propelled her forward. “Yeah. Maybe.”
He led the way, holding the candle high. The hallway was a black tunnel, the candlelight painting a small, shuddering island around them. The wind screamed at the end of the hall near the stairwell, a lonely, awful sound. They reached her door, identical to his. The small, red LED on the card reader was dark and dead.
She reached out, turned the handle. It didn’t budge. Locked solid.
She jiggled it, pushed her shoulder against the door. Nothing. The finality of it was a physical weight. “I’m locked out.” She laughed, a hollow sound. “I have a literal mountain of blankets in there. And my phone charger.”
Liam stared at the unyielding door for a long moment. The candle flame dipped and swayed in a draft. “Okay,” he said finally, his breath a visible plume in the chilled air. “New plan. You’re with me.”
They trudged back to his apartment, the cold seeming to intensify with each step. He closed the door behind them, a futile gesture against the creeping chill. The two candles on his desk fought a pathetic battle against the darkness.
The two candles on his desk fought a pathetic battle against the darkness. Their light didn’t reach the corners, where the cold seemed to gather first. Cass stood in the center of the room, wrapped in his huge hoodie, feeling absurd and strangely anchorless.
Cass stood in the center of the room, wrapped in his huge hoodie, feeling absurd and strangely anchorless. The silence was a tangible thing, thick and muffled by the storm’s relentless noise. She watched Liam putter calmly, his movements methodical in the candlelight.
He rummaged in a closet and emerged with two fat, glass-jarred candles. He lit them with a match from a box, the new flames joining the others in a gentle, wavering rebellion against the dark. The room gained a soft, honeyed glow.
“Hey, look at the bright side,” he said, his voice measured and easy. He placed one candle on the floor near the bed. “We’re in a newer dorm apartment. That means it’s pretty well insulated.” He glanced at the window, a black rectangle shuddering under the wind’s assault. “It’s cold outside, sure, but this place will hold heat for a while. We’re not going to freeze in the next hour.”
He was right. The initial shock of the darkness and the severed heater was fading. The air in the room was still, just cool, not yet biting. It was manageable. It was just a very dark, very loud night in.
“So, not a five-alarm emergency,” Cass said, her shoulders relaxing a fraction under the hoodie’s weight.
“Not unless you consider my unsaved code a five-alarm emergency,” he replied with a wry twist of his mouth. “Which I do, but I’m trying to be stoic about it.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly practical. “Well, while there’s still warm water I’m going to take a shower. The building has a gas water heater. Once the tank cools, that’s it.”
The domestic normality of the statement was oddly grounding. “Good thinking,” she said.
He gathered a towel and clothes from a drawer, the candlelight painting gold on the folds of the fabric. “Make yourself at home. There’s more tea. I won’t be long.” He paused at the bathroom door, a dark outline against the frame. “Don’t answer the door for any mysterious strangers.”
“Only the un-mysterious ones,” she quipped, and he smiled before closing the door.
A moment later, she heard the lock click softly. The sound was understandable, reflexive, but it made her feel entirely alone in the flickering space. She listened to the rush of water through the pipes in the wall, a comforting, living sound.
Cass pulled her phone from her bag, its screen a shocking rectangle of blue light in the candle-lit gloom. Her thumbs moved faster than her thoughts.
Cass: Power’s out for real. I’m locked out of my apartment. Stuck in Liam’s. This is a disaster.
She hit send, staring at the three dots that appeared immediately.
Maya: DISASTER? This is a ROMANTIC COMEDY MONTAGE WAITING TO HAPPEN. The universe literally blew the fuses to get you two alone. DO SOMETHING.
Cass groaned aloud, the sound lost in the wind.
Cass: He’s in the SHOWER, Maya. It’s not a montage, it’s a blackout. I’m wearing his hoodie and shaking.
Maya: YOU’RE IN HIS HOODIE? Cass. That’s step one. Now just… be there when he gets out. All cozy. Ask him about stars or his childhood trauma or something.
“Childhood trauma,” Cass muttered, typing furiously. Cass: You’re impossible. This is mortifying.
Maya: It’s an opportunity! A hot, smart, capable opportunity who owns candles! The bar is low, honey, but he’s already cleared it. Engage!
Cass stared at her phone’s glaring screen, then at the bathroom door. The water shut off with a decisive clank of pipes. Panic, sharp and silly, shot through her.
Her thumbs flew over the glass.
Cass: He’s getting out NOW. What do I DO?
MAYA’S REPLY WAS INSTANT: Just be a person, you dork. Stop planning. Talk about the weird candle smell. Anything.
The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam that swirled into the colder air of the room, catching the candlelight like a ghost. Liam emerged, dressed in a fresh, long-sleeved grey henley and dark sweatpants, his hair damp and darker, curling slightly at the ends. He carried the subtle, clean scent of soap and warmth with him.
He stopped, looking at her still staring at her phone. “Everything okay?” He asked, rubbing a towel over his head.
Cass locked her phone, the screen going dark. “Just reporting my status to Maya. She’s concerned.”
“I bet,” he said, a low chuckle in his voice. He ran the towel over his head one last time, the fabric absorbing the dampness from his dark hair. The steam had faded, leaving the air feeling fresh and cool against her skin.
He draped the towel over the back of his desk chair, the gesture simple and familiar. “The water’s still plenty hot,” he remarked, glancing toward the bathroom door. “If you wanted to thaw out properly, now’s the time. Tank’s probably still half-full.”
The suggestion was practical, kind. The idea of real warmth, of washing off the lingering chill that had seeped into her bones, was intensely appealing. “Yeah,” Cass said, the word coming out with a soft breath of relief. “That sounds… really good, actually.”
“Bathroom’s all yours,” he said, gesturing. “Use whatever’s in there. Soap’s on the ledge.”
She grabbed her gym bag from beside the chair and stepped past him into the small, dark bathroom. She closed the door, the click of the latch echoing in the tiled space. Fumbling, she found a candle and a book of matches on the sink. The match scraped, flared, and she touched it to the wick.
Golden light danced over blue tiles. The room was simple, clean. She turned the shower tap, and water roared through the pipes, clouding the mirror with steam almost immediately. The cedar-scented soap sat in a cracked dish. She stepped under the spray.
The heat was a profound, almost shocking luxury. It needled into her shoulders, her back, loosening muscles she hadn’t realized were clenched. She let the water drum against her skull, drowning out the muffled howl of the wind for a few blessed minutes. She used his soap, its earthy, clean fragrance blooming in the steam, enveloping her in a scent that was now unmistakably his.
When she finally turned the water off, the silence felt heavier. She toweled dry, the coarse fabric brisk and invigorating. From her bag, she pulled her clean cheer practice gear: soft, navy cotton sweats and a matching long-sleeved top. They were worn-in, cozy, and far warmer than her day clothes. She pulled them on, the familiar fabric a comfort.
She bundled her other clothes into her bag, blew out the candle, and opened the door. A wave of cooler air hit her, carrying the scent of the burning beeswax from the main room. Liam had moved. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the nearest candle flame as if reading a message in its flicker.
He looked up as she emerged. “Warmer?”
“Infinitely,” she said, running a hand through her damp hair. The cheer sweats, though not flashy, felt like an honest uniform here. “Your soap is very… woodsy.”
“It gets the job done,” he said, that small smile returning.
He watched her shuffle into the room, her damp hair dark against the navy cotton. The cheer sweats were baggy, functional, but they couldn't hide the athlete’s lean lines of her legs or the way she moved. Cass caught his glance and looked down at herself, giving a little, self-conscious shrug.
“Behold, the glamour of collegiate athletics,” she said, plucking at the fabric. “These probably don’t flatter me that well. I look like I’m ready to clean a garage.”
Liam’s eyes didn’t leave her. He leaned back, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed, and the candlelight carved the subtle shift of muscle in his arms.
His expression was deadpan, but his voice was warm. "Right. Absolutely tragic. Let me set the scene for your biopic." He cleared his throat, adopting a faux-serious, narrator's tone. "My name is Cass. I'm a D1 star cheerleader, and I think I look bad in sweats. My life is a relentless parade of athletic excellence and soft, comfortable fabrics. It's a struggle."
Cass stared, her mouth falling open for a second before a laugh burst out of her, loud and genuine in the quiet room. "Oh my god. You did not just do that."
"I did," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "It's the hoodie. It gave me a direct line to your tragic inner monologue. I heard the whole thing."
"You're terrible," she said, shaking her head, but she was still smiling. She grabbed the spare pillow from his bed and hugged it to her chest, sinking into the worn desk chair. "And for the record, I own the sweats look. I'm deeply committed to it."
"Clearly." He watched her, the candlelight softening the lines of his face. "So, the woodshop granddaughter who rules supply chains and wears championship sweats. Any other hidden layers I should know about? Secret juggling skills? A PhD in Byzantine pottery?"
"Byzantine pottery is next semester," she shot back, resting her chin on the pillow. The ease between them felt new and fragile, like the ice forming on the window. "You're one to talk. The coding monk with the sci-fi obsession and the tactical candle stash. What's your tragic inner monologue? 'My name is Liam. I understand the geometry of the universe, but small talk is a terrifying unknown frontier'?"
He winced, a real, unguarded reaction. "Ouch. Accurate, but ouch." He leaned back on his hands, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The bedsprings creaked softly. "Small talk is a terrifying frontier. It's all scripts and meaningless data. Give me a broken engine or a bug in my code any day. Something I can actually fix."
The wind slammed against the window with a fresh burst of fury, a reminder of the broken world outside their small, lit circle. A draft snaked across the floor, making the candle flames bend and tremble, elongating their shadows on the ceiling.
Cass pulled the hoodie sleeves over her hands. "This isn't small talk."
"No," he agreed quietly. His eyes held hers in the flickering light. "It's not."
Silence settled again, but this one was different. It was charged, aware of itself. The space between the chair and the bed felt measured, intentional. Cass could see the pulse in his throat, a steady beat against his skin.
Cass could see the pulse in his throat, a steady beat against his skin.
The candle guttered, pulling their attention downward as wax pooled on the desk. The simple movement broke the spell, or deepened it—Cass wasn’t sure. A violent shiver racked her frame, unexpected after the shower, and it wasn't from the cold.
A violent shiver racked her frame, unexpected after the shower, and it wasn't from the cold. It was the quiet intensity in his eyes, the way the candlelight seemed to pool in them, turning a simple glance into a physical touch. She hugged the pillow tighter, a feeble barricade.
Liam saw it, the tremor. He misinterpreted it entirely. “You’re still cold.” He stood up abruptly, the bed complaining. “We need to get actual food into you. Something hot.” He crossed to the small kitchen nook, his movement breaking the fragile moment. “The stove is gas. It should still work.”
Cass let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, her grip on the pillow loosening. “Right. Yeah. That’s a good idea.”
He was already rummaging in a cupboard, pulling out a pot. “It’s not glamorous. I have… pasta. And a jar of marinara from two lifetimes ago.” He held up the jar, squinting at the date in the dim light. “It’s probably a biological hazard. But it’s a heated biological hazard.”
“My favorite kind,” Cass said, pushing herself up from the chair. She joined him in the tiny kitchen space, their shoulders almost touching in the narrow aisle. “Here, let me.” She took the jar from his hands, her fingers brushing his. “I can at least be in charge of sauce reconnaissance.” She held the jar close to a candle. “Best by… wow, okay. We’re living dangerously.”
“It’s canned tomatoes,” he said, filling the pot with water from a jug. “They defeated botulism for this exact scenario.” He set the pot on the stove burner. A click-click-click echoed, then a satisfying whoosh of blue flame erupted, a sudden, glorious spear of modern civilization in the primitive dark. The light danced across his focused face.
They worked in a quiet, efficient tandem. He salted the water; she found a dented saucepan for the sauce. The simple normality of cooking, of having a shared task, dissolved the last of her lingering awkwardness. The rich, garlicky smell of the warming sauce began to mix with the beeswax scent, creating something uniquely domestic.
“Smells better than I expected,” Liam admitted, stirring the pasta.
“Told you I had skills,” Cass said, leaning against the counter. She watched the muscles in his forearm flex with each stir. “Supply chain overlord by day, sauce savant by candlelight.”
He grinned, not looking up from the pot. “A woman of hidden talents.”
The pasta boiled over. They ate sitting cross-legged on the floor near the heater’s silent bulk, using two mismatched bowls balanced on their laps. The steam rose, fragrant and warm, ghosting between their faces. They were ravenous. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the wind, the clink of forks on ceramic, and their chewing.
“This is,” Cass said around a mouthful, “objectively the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”
“Starvation is the best spice,” Liam agreed, but he was smiling. He’d already finished his bowl. The simple act of sharing food in the dark felt profoundly intimate, a silent pact.
When the bowls were empty, a new and practical silence descended. The cozy bubble of the meal had popped, leaving the reality of the long, dark, cold night stretching out before them. The candles were burning lower. The question, unasked, now vibrated in the air between them, thicker than the scent of garlic.
Cass cleared her throat, setting her bowl down. “So.” She kept her voice light, testing the waters. “Sleeping arrangements.”
Liam looked immediately pained, as if she’d announced a pop quiz on Byzantine pottery. “Right. That.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Obviously you take the bed. I’ll take the floor. Or the couch.” He gestured to the small, worn loveseat buried under a stack of computer science journals.
“Absolutely not,” Cass said, the words coming out firmer than she intended. “This is your place. I’m the interloper. I’ll take the couch. You shouldn’t have to sleep on your own floor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The couch is a torture device disguised as furniture. You take the bed.” His tone brooked no argument, but his eyes were soft. “It’s the only logical solution.”
“Your logic is flawed. The guest doesn’t kick the host out of his bed. That’s a rule.” She crossed her arms, the fabric of her hoodie rustling. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch. Just move the journals.”
“Those journals are structural. The couch collapses without them.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Cass, seriously. It’s a queen bed, but it’s still a bed. You’re sleeping in it.”
“And you’re going to curl up on a three-foot loveseat? You’re like, six-two of solid…” She gestured vaguely at him, stopping herself. “It’s not happening.”
“So what’s your brilliant solution?” he asked, a challenge in his voice.
The unthinkable alternative hung there, palpable and terrifying. Neither of them voiced it. They just stared at each other across the gulf of two feet of floorboards, locked in a stubborn, polite stalemate.
“We could… split shifts?” Cass ventured, hearing how absurd it sounded.
“Split shifts,” he repeated flatly. “Like we’re standing watch for marauders.”
“It could be rocks!”
He shook his head, a faint smile finally breaking through. “This is stupid. You win. We’ll both be miserable.” He stood up, gathering the bowls. “You get the couch, I get the bed. Happy?”
“No,” she said, standing too. “Because you’re lying. You’ll wait until I’m asleep and then take the floor. I know your type.”
“My type?” He turned from the sink, his eyebrows raised.
“The stubborn, self-sacrificing type. It’s very transparent.”
He put the bowls in the dry sink with a clatter. “Fine. Then we’re at an impasse.” He folded his arms, mirroring her stance. They stood facing each other in the flickering dimness, two generals over a territory of blankets and principle.
The wind screeched, a reminder of the world’s indifference to their chivalrous standoff. Cass looked at the sad loveseat, then at his narrow bed.