Rain hammered against the roof of the abandoned arcade hard enough to rattle the loose metal signs hanging above the doorway. Somewhere deeper inside the building, water dripped steadily through the ceiling, collecting in rusted buckets and cracked machines that hadn’t worked in years.

It smelled like mildew, dust, and the ocean.

Home, for now.

You sat curled beneath a pile of old blankets shoved into the corner behind a broken prize counter, fingers wrapped around the sleeves of your hoodie as the storm outside swallowed most of Santa Carla in noise. Nights like this made the city feel colder. Meaner.

You hated storms.

Not because of the rain.

Because the boardwalk emptied when it rained.

And empty places were dangerous.

That was why you stayed there most nights instead of hiding away. Crowds meant noise. Witnesses. A chance to disappear without actually being alone. You’d learned quickly after running away that isolation got people hurt.

Or worse.

So you stayed where the lights were bright and people were everywhere, drifting between arcades and food stands until late into the night before eventually slipping back to wherever you were sleeping that week.

You’d thought nobody noticed.

Then Paul started appearing.

At first, it was random.

A guy with wild hair and a sharp grin lingering near the same food stand. Catching your eye from across the boardwalk. Showing up beside you with casual conversation that somehow always made you laugh despite yourself.

Then it became often.

Too often.

He’d started bringing you food a few weeks ago.

Fries. Burgers. Candy. Whatever he could steal or charm out of somebody.

You never asked where it came from.

And he never asked why your hands shook the first time you took it from him.

After that, he just kept coming back.

Like he’d decided something.

You still weren’t sure what.

A sudden knock echoed through the abandoned arcade.

Three sharp taps.

Your stomach tightened instantly.

Nobody should’ve known you were here.

Silence followed for half a second before a familiar voice drifted through the storm outside.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Paul called lazily through the door. “I know you’re in there.”

Relief hit so fast it annoyed you.

You stood carefully, moving around broken machines before pulling the door open just enough to see him leaning against the frame beneath the flickering light outside.

Rain soaked through the shoulders of his black jacket. His hair clung damply around his face, grin crooked and familiar as he held up a paper bag.

“Took forever tonight,” he said. “Some asshole tried charging nine bucks for fries.”

You stared at him for a second.

“You came out in this weather for fries?”

“For you,” he corrected easily.

Something in your chest twisted strangely at how naturally he said it.

Paul’s eyes flicked past you into the dark arcade behind you, his expression shifting almost invisibly.

He hated this place.

You’d noticed that.

Every time he came here, he looked at the broken windows and rotting walls like he wanted to tear the building apart with his bare hands.

“You shouldn’t stay here tonight,” he muttered.

You crossed your arms lightly. “And where exactly am I supposed to go?”

His jaw tightened.

For a moment he just looked at you while rain crashed around both of you and neon from the distant boardwalk flickered weakly across the wet pavement behind him.

Then he stepped closer.

Too close.

“You could come with me,” he said quietly.

The air shifted.

Not playful now.

Not joking.

Something heavier sat underneath the words.

And the way he was looking at you suddenly felt dangerous in a way you couldn’t explain.