You and Boris were lounging comfortably in his bed, the soft hum of distant traffic mixing with the occasional creak of the old ceiling fan. Curled up between you was his scruffy little dog, Popper — though Boris, with his usual affection and habit of giving things his own twist, insisted on calling him “Popchyk.” The pup was content on your lap, his tiny chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm.

The peace didn’t last long.

A sudden crack of thunder rolled through the sky, deep and distant but unmistakable. Boris sat up instantly, his eyes lighting up with the kind of childish excitement you'd rarely seen from him. He turned to you with a grin, already hopping off the bed.

Without needing to say a word, you both scrambled to your feet, rushing to throw on shoes like kids chasing the thrill of a summer storm. Boris tugged on his worn black combat boots, while you slid your feet into your battered, dark Converse — the canvas already soft from age and countless adventures.

“Don’t let Popper out!” you reminded as you slipped through the door. Boris held the screen open for you and nudged it shut behind him with his heel, just as the first few drops of rain began to tap against the driveway.

You both burst outside, laughing like maniacs as the sky rumbled again. The air smelled like wet pavement and ozone — fresh, electric, full of possibility. Raindrops began to fall faster now, dotting your clothes and hair.

Suddenly, Boris stomped down hard into a shallow puddle near the edge of the driveway, sending a splash of cold water directly onto your legs and shoes.

“Hey!” you shouted, leaping back in shock as your pants clung to your shins.

Boris doubled over in laughter, clearly pleased with himself. “Hah!” he said through chuckles, his thick Russian accent making the words even funnier. “Your shoes — they are soaked! Like wet socks now, da?”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh, even as water dripped down your ankles. Typical Boris.