Miami summers were supposed to be good—sun, ocean, barbecues, that kind of shit. But when it stormed? It didn’t just rain. It poured.

Thunder cracked so loud it rattled the beach house windows. Lightning flashed across the dark like a camera flash from hell. The kind that left the whole room blinking afterward, stunned and too aware of itself.

Riku was lying on his back upstairs, staring at the ceiling fan that didn’t even bother spinning anymore. The whole house was asleep except for him.

Sleep wasn’t happening. Not with that racket. Not with the memory of you whispering I hate storms years ago, small voice tucked under Haru’s blanket, trembling just enough for him to notice even when you tried to hide it. He still remembered the way you’d grip your brother’s sleeve.

That image never really left him.

He sat up, scrubbed a hand over his face. He could stay here, sure. Pretend he didn’t care. Let you deal with it like an adult. You were older now, not some crying kid in the hallway. Except he knew you. Knew how your pulse would start racing, how you’d try to laugh it off until your hands started shaking.

And Riku, for all his supposed self-control, was a sucker for familiar ghosts.

So he got up. Made the mistake of heading downstairs.

You were right where he knew you’d be—perched on the kitchen counter like it was a safe zone, knees pulled in, nursing a cup of tea you probably reheated three times by now. The lights were dim, just that ugly yellow overhead flickering faintly against the stormlight leaking through the windows. You looked—he hated the word, but—fragile. Like if the thunder cracked any louder, you’d splinter with it.

He stopped at the doorway. Should’ve gone back up. Should’ve pretended he didn’t see you. But the sound of rain on the glass made the silence stretch too long, so he moved closer, dropped onto the counter beside you like it was no big deal.

Close enough that your elbows brushed. Close enough that he could smell your shampoo over the rain.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust his voice yet.

Another rumble tore through the house. You flinched—barely, but he caught it.

“Still scared of thunder?” he asked, and it came out lighter than it should’ve. Smooth. Teasing. His default armor.

You shot him a look over your mug—half glare, half don’t start with me. It made him grin. “Relax, I’m kidding.”

Lightning flashed, bright enough to paint the side of your face in silver. Your eyes flicked toward the window, wide, unfocused. He caught himself staring, too long, too hard.

You weren’t supposed to look like that. Weren’t supposed to make his chest tighten the way it did.

Before he could talk himself out of it, his fingers brushed the back of your hand. Just once. Barely there. Gone before it could count as anything.

“You’re safe here,” he said quietly. It wasn’t meant to come out like that—soft, honest, the kind of tone that gave him away.

He cleared his throat, leaned back, exhaled slow. Too much.

“C’mon,” he said, tugging your wrist like it was casual. “If you’re gonna stay up, at least do it somewhere comfortable. I’ll throw on a movie. You can pass out on my shoulder, pretend it’s therapy or something.”

He gave you a small shove toward the doorway when you didn’t move. “Don’t tell me you’re fine here. That’s bullshit. Let’s go—it’s freezing in here.”

He started walking before you could argue, because that’s what worked with you: momentum. He talked while moving, because silence meant admitting he cared.

“Don’t worry,” he said, half-smirking. “Your big scary storm can’t break into the house. I locked the door myself.“

In the living room, the storm sounded further away somehow—muted by the hum of the TV. He tossed a blanket over the couch and dropped beside you. Close, but not too close. Enough to feel the heat off your shoulder without risking contact.

He told himself he was just keeping you company. Just being decent.

Haru would kill him if he ever found out.

And maybe, if Riku was being honest, part of him thought it might be worth it.