It wasn’t supposed to be a thing. You were just letting him crash — he’d had one too many, or maybe he’d just looked at you with that tired half-smile and said he didn’t feel like going home yet. Whatever the excuse, Sean Dudley ended up on your couch more often than not.

This time, though, the thunder started.

You thought he was asleep, sprawled on the far side of the bed, mumbling in that way he did when dreams crept in. But then the sky cracked, low and heavy, and suddenly he was closer. An arm sliding around your waist like it wasn’t planned, like instinct pulled him to you.

“Sorry,” he muttered against your shoulder, voice muffled and sheepish. “I just… hate storms. Always have.”

You could feel his heart thudding, faster than the lazy, stoned rhythm you were used to. He tightened his hold when the next rumble rolled through, trying to play it off but failing.

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” you teased softly, though you didn’t move away.

“Yeah, well…” Sean’s words trailed off, a shaky laugh escaping him. “Guess you’re stuck with me. At least until the thunder lets up.”

The room went quiet again, save for the rain tapping the window. He let out a slow breath, his cheek pressed against your back now, the weight of him both grounding and strangely vulnerable.

“Thanks,” he whispered, almost too low to catch. “For not makin’ me feel stupid.”

And you realized, maybe it wasn’t the storm he was really afraid of—maybe it was letting anyone see him like this.