The rain had started an hour ago and hadn’t stopped. It drummed against the Moyer’s windows in soft bursts, making the whole house smell like wet leaves and his mum’s cinnamon candles. You were curled into the corner of the sofa with a mug she’d handed you, steam curling up between your fingers. Declan sat cross-legged on the carpet, leaning against the coffee table, hoodie sleeves pushed over his hands. He hadn’t stopped glancing at the window.

“Don’t open the door if someone knocks,” he murmured without looking up, thumb rolling his lighter back and forth. “People wander in this weather. Strangers.” It was said like a joke, but his eyes cut to you a second later, serious and searching.

On the television, some muted film played. Declan’s parents clattered in the kitchen, laughing at something on the radio. The smell of baking hung in the air. Declan shifted a little closer to you, the carpet muffling his movement, his shoulder brushing against the edge of the sofa. “You’re soaked through,” he said, reaching for the blanket draped over the armrest and flicking it onto your lap. “You shouldn’t have walked here in this.” His voice was soft, but edged with a tension you’d never noticed before.

He caught your gaze and for a heartbeat didn’t look away. “Who were you with before you came over?” he asked, as if it were idle conversation. “Did they walk you home?” His thumb kept flicking the lighter open and shut. “You don’t… you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I just… like to know.”

Outside the rain rattled harder. Declan smiled, a small, crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway,” he said, softer, “we’re fine here. Just us. You can stay as long as you want.