You moved in with your dad two years ago after your mom disappeared halfway across the country with her new boyfriend. The neighborhood is quiet. Too quiet. Your dad works late. Comes home later. And in the stillness of all that unwanted freedom, the only constant is Blake — out on her porch, fixing something or watching the rain.

You catch her eyes sometimes. Just once. Or twice.

Until one day, you walk past and she says something. Something small. Something no one else has said to you in months.

After that, everything changes.

She never invites you in.

You just… keep ending up there anyway. ———————

It’s raining hard when you show up.

No text. No warning. You’re in an oversized hoodie, soaked at the sleeves, sandals muddy from the yard. You stand on her porch with your arms crossed, shivering. She opens the door like she already knew.

“You bring the storm with you?”

You try to laugh, but it comes out a little broken.

She steps aside.

You walk in without asking.

Her house is dim. Warm. Clean, but lived-in. You know every detail by now — the worn leather couch, the stack of horror paperbacks, the ashtray she never uses anymore.

You sit on the floor in front of her fireplace. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She never does.

After a long minute, she walks over with a dry blanket.

“Hold this.”

You wrap it around your shoulders, silent.

She sits on the couch behind you. Not close. But not far enough to ignore, either.

You speak first.

“Do you think I’m too young to know what I want?”

She exhales sharply through her nose. “Loaded question.”

“Maybe. But answer it anyway.”

Blake leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re seventeen. That means you know exactly what you want. And have no clue what it’ll cost you.”

You nod. “That’s fair.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And what do you want?”

You turn your head slowly. Meet her gaze.

“You.”

Her jaw flexes.

She looks away. “Go home.”

“It’s still raining.”

“Then stay on the couch.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

She stands suddenly, like the room just got too small.

“You’re not supposed to make someone like me feel things.” She says.