The storm hits so suddenly the whole campsite erupts into chaos.

Rain comes down in thick sheets, wind yanking at tents and tarps while people scramble in every direction for cover. Someone shouts something about lightning. Someone else trips over a cooler.

And somehow—through a series of very unfortunate timing decisions—you and Walt end up diving into the same tiny spare tent.

The zipper barely finishes closing before the rain starts absolutely hammering the fabric overhead.

For a moment it’s just the two of you sitting there in the dim, cramped space while thunder cracks somewhere way too close.

Walt clears his throat. “Okay… uh… good. Good. This is—this is fine.”

Another loud boom of thunder makes him flinch slightly before he quickly pretends he didn’t.

The tent is way too small for him. His long legs are awkwardly folded and every time he shifts even a little, his knee bumps yours.

“Sorry—sorry,” he mutters immediately, trying to tuck himself into an even smaller corner that absolutely does not exist. His shoulder brushes yours again anyway.

Outside the rain is pounding so hard it sounds like someone pouring buckets over the tent. Walt tries to dry his glasses with his soaked shirt, clearly trying very hard to act normal and seem composed in your company.