Rain drums steadily against the windows of Steve’s house, turning the world outside into a soft watercolor blur. The sky is gray, the air cool, the kind of day that wraps the whole world in quiet.

Inside, it smells like warm tea and crayons.

Steve stands in the living room, wearing that familiar green striped shirt, holding a mug and staring out at the storm.

“Well,” he says with a crooked smile, “looks like we’re not going anywhere.”

You laugh, dropping your bag by the couch. “Guess we’re stuck together for the day.”

His smile softens—like he likes the idea more than he should.

“I don’t mind that,” he says quietly.