Chapter 175: Madeline
By mid-afternoon, the worst of it seems to be over.
The rain’s still falling in steady sheets, but the wind has finally calmed, and the sky’s gone from black to a dull, wet grey. Still no electricity, but the twins call us all to the living room, flashlights and battery lamps flickering across tired faces and tangled blankets.
Reid stands with his arms crossed, his voice low but clear. “It’s safe enough now. We need to get out there, check on things.”
Jake nods beside him. “Here’s the plan—Reid and Sloane will go down to the boats, make sure nothing broke loose or sank. Liam, Charlie, and I will head back to the house, see how bad the broken window is, and grab clothes for everyone.”
Then Jake looks at me. “You and Finn are on groceries. Essentials only. No wandering.”
“Copy that,” Finn says with a lazy salute.
I nod. “Got it.”
Most of our clothes from yesterday are dry now. I find my jeans folded near the heater and slide them on, but I don’t bother giving back Reid’s long sleeve. Or his hoodie. They smell like him—clean and sharp, and just a little like cedar and wind—and I don’t want to take them off yet. Maybe ever.
I tie my hair back again into a low bun and pull the sleeves over my hands. I catch Jake watching me from the kitchen, a quiet look on his face. He says nothing, just tosses me a scarf like he already knows I’ll be cold.
Outside, the air hits hard.
We all pause the second we step out. The storm left the streets unrecognizable. Fallen branches, uprooted bushes, a snapped power line down the street that makes Jake mutter something under his breath. Garbage bins have rolled into intersections, pieces of fences lie half-submerged in muddy puddles. Everything smells damp, raw, and electric.
We break off in our pairs. Reid and Sloane turn toward the docks. Jake, Liam, and Charlie veer left, toward the other house. Finn and I head in the opposite direction, toward the tiny general store near the corner.
The streets are slick beneath our boots. A sign has ripped off a storefront and lies bent in the road. Water sloshes around our ankles as we walk, and I’m already dreading how cold my socks will be when we get back.
Finn glances at me once. “Still good?”
“Cold,” I say. “But yeah. Good.”
The store has its doors propped open with buckets of gravel. There’s no electricity, but people are trickling in and out with baskets full of whatever they can carry. A handwritten sign near the entrance says: “CASH ONLY. ESSENTIALS ONLY.”
Inside, it’s dim and quiet, lit by emergency lights and the weird glow of battery lanterns on a few of the shelves. There’s a strange hush—like everyone’s in church, or just grateful to be somewhere intact.
I grab a basket. Finn grabs two.
“Split up?” he asks.
I nod. “I’ll do dry stuff. Snacks, tea, that kind of thing.”
He disappears down the canned aisle, and I start walking, slower than I need to. Every step feels thick. The cold seeps into my bones the longer I’m out here. I think about the way the streets looked—ripped apart, like someone came through swinging.
I think about the texts. The nausea in my stomach from earlier still hasn’t fully faded.
I reach for a box of tea and just hold it in my hand, staring blankly. My phone’s buried deep in my pocket, turned off this time. I haven’t turned it back on since Charlie cleared everything. I don’t want to know if there’s more. I don’t want to see his words again. I don’t want that part of my life clawing its way back here.
I’m not ready.
A box of crackers slides into my basket, and I blink, turning my head. Finn’s standing beside me again, juggling two bags of rice and a dozen cans of soup. “Found the apocalypse aisle.”
I manage a weak smile. “Perfect.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, then hesitate. “Just a lot on my mind.”
He studies me for a beat, then doesn’t press it. “Well, I got enough beans to feed a football team. So we’re covered.”
We finish gathering everything in quiet, the kind that isn’t awkward but feels like an unspoken agreement to just move forward. To be useful. To breathe.
At the front, he pays in cash and shrugs off my attempt to split the bill. “I’ll invoice Jake.”
Outside again, it feels colder. The sky looks heavier, but the rain is soft now, not dangerous—just inconvenient. Still, I wrap the scarf tighter around my throat and let Finn carry most of the bags.
As we head back, he shifts them in one hand and lightly bumps my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go see something.”
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t explain. Just turns off the main path, toward the rocks that edge the shoreline.
“Finn—” I start, but he’s already walking, bags in hand like it’s nothing, like we didn’t just haul a week’s worth of groceries through storm debris and cold wind.
I follow, more curious than anything else.
We cut across the wet grass, still slippery from the rain, and hop the low wire fence that runs between the road and the drop to the sea. The closer we get to the rocks, the louder the ocean gets—churning, crashing, never still.
When we reach the edge, he stops.
“Thought maybe the wind and the waves dragged something in,” he says, his voice easy.
I step beside him, holding my hoodie tighter around me, and follow his gaze down the rocks.
And there they are.
Sea urchins. Dozens of them. Little black orbs clinging to the stone like secrets. A few sea stars, too, splayed out like lazy hands, pink and orange against the slick black rock. And gulls. Everywhere. Screeching and diving and trying to pluck whatever they can before the tide drags it back.
I gasp, kneeling a bit to get a better look. “There’s so many.”
“Yeah,” he says, crouching next to me. “Didn’t expect it. But it makes sense, right? Big storm, strong current.”
I nod. My fingers twitch with the instinct to reach down, to touch, to study.
Finn leans on his knee and asks casually, “So what do the sea stars feed on again?”
I glance at him.
His eyes are focused on the water, but I see it—the way he asks like he doesn’t know. Like he’s trying to keep my mind on something I love. Trying to give me a moment of peace in the middle of the noise.
“Mostly mollusks,” I answer softly. “Clams, mussels. Sometimes even coral, but not around here. They pry them open with the strength of their arms.”
“And the urchins?”
“Algae. Seaweed mostly. Sometimes the dead stuff the tide brings in.”
He nods like he’s taking notes. “And gulls are just assholes, right?”
That makes me laugh, even if it’s small. “Total scavengers.”
We watch in silence for a while, the wind tugging at our clothes, our hair. The sea smells sharper here, brinier. Like it hasn’t quite settled from the storm.
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
Because I know what he’s doing. This isn’t about sea stars or ocean currents or scavenger birds.
He’s trying to distract me. Ground me. Pull me back from whatever spiral I was heading toward.
And he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.
He just knows.
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. I blink fast, try to swallow them down, but they keep coming. Soft. Silent. Not big enough to sob, just big enough to ache.
I look at him and whisper, “You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
Finn turns his head slowly toward me, eyebrows raising in surprise. His expression softens in an instant.
“Madeline,” he says, standing fully, setting the bags down.
And then he just—wraps me up.
Arms strong around my shoulders, pulling me close into a hug that’s warm and solid and real.
I cling to him like a lifeline.
“I’m so glad you came to Northhaven,” he murmurs against my hair.
I nod into his chest, because I am too.