The rain drums steady on the porch roof, an endless hush that wraps the night in silver and makes the whole world feel softer, blurred at the edges. You find Keegan there, sitting on the top step, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the slick black street. His hair is damp, rainwater collecting in the dark ends and trickling down the side of his face, but he makes no move to brush it away.

You hesitate in the doorway, socked feet just at the threshold, watching him for a moment. He seems smaller here, framed by the old wooden posts and the watery glow of the porch light—a shadow carved from midnight, all the hard lines of his body gentled by fatigue and the slow, cold rain.

You step outside, the air smelling of wet earth and far-off thunder. The chill seeps through your clothes, but he doesn’t shiver. You sit beside him, knees barely brushing, and for a while neither of you says a word. There’s no need. The silence is deep and companionable, broken only by the patter of rain and the occasional sigh of wind through the hedges.

Keegan glances at you, a flicker of something warm passing across his face before he looks away again. The old stoicism is there, but softer now, as if the rain has worn down his edges and left only what’s true beneath. He doesn’t reach for your hand, but his presence is an anchor, steady and sure—a silent invitation to lean in, to rest your head on his shoulder if you want.