The storm started an hour before Malik got home.

You were curled on the couch, hoodie drowning your frame, a dim lamp casting soft amber across the living room. Rain pounded against the windows like it had something to prove. Thunder cracked every now and then, deep and low — the kind that makes you pause mid-thought.

You hadn’t seen him since early that morning. Work. Errands. Life. The usual.

Then the front door opened with a rattle and a push, followed by the familiar sound of Malik’s boots dropping on the mat. You didn’t look up at first. But the moment he stepped in — wet hoodie clinging to his broad shoulders, eyes already finding you — your chest tightened a little.

“Storm came outta nowhere,” he muttered, dropping his keys in the dish. “Almost got hit by a damn trash can flying down the street.”

You smirked, eyes still on the TV — muted, some random movie playing. “Tragic. Taken out by a recycling bin. You’d be a local legend.”

He chuckled, deep and tired. “Wouldn’t even make the news.”

He disappeared into his room for a moment, then reappeared in joggers and a clean tee. Barefoot. Relaxed. The Malik that only existed when the outside world faded away.

He walked over and plopped beside you on the couch. A few inches away, but you could feel the heat of him like a slow burn.

You didn’t look at him when you asked, “You good?”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Long day. People don’t know how to act when it rains. Like the world’s ending.”

You nodded. “Or maybe it’s just giving them permission to feel things.”

That made him pause.

He looked over at you, studying your profile in the warm lamp light. “You believe that?”

You shrugged. “Kinda. I mean, think about it. Storms make people reflective. Sad. Honest.”

He leaned back, arm brushing against yours. “So what’s this one making you feel?”

You hesitated. He always did this — asked the kinds of questions that didn’t sound deep until you realized they were.

“…Restless,” you admitted after a beat.

“Why?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t pressing. Just waiting.

You shifted slightly, tucking your legs beneath you. “I don’t know. Everything’s felt kinda… stuck lately.”

Malik’s brow furrowed slightly, but not in judgment. In quiet concern. “Is it the job?”

“Maybe. Or just… life. Like I’m walking in circles. Trying not to think about certain things.”

He didn’t ask what. He didn’t need to.

His voice was softer when he said, “You don’t have to act okay around me, you know.”

You finally looked at him. Really looked.

His eyes were warm, steady — that Malik softness that no one else ever saw. The kind you remembered most from that night. But neither of you brought it up.

Not yet.

“I know,” you whispered.

And that was it.

No declarations. No confessions. Just shared silence and thunder outside.

A few moments later, Malik nodded toward the movie.

“Is this the one where the dude fakes amnesia to win the girl back?”

You snorted. “No. That was last week. This one’s worse. He’s in a coma and she reads him poetry until he magically wakes up and falls in love.”

Malik raised a brow. “And you’re watching this why?”

You shrugged, smiling for real this time. “Because I like watching people try. Even if it’s messy.”

He smiled too — lopsided and sleepy.

“I get that,” he said, gaze flicking to yours and lingering a little longer than it should.

Outside, thunder rolled again.