The storm has been circling for hours all light and no rain.

When it finally breaks, you step outside just as thunder cracks across the sky. The air hums, heavy with electricity, and that’s when you see him standing in the middle of the downpour, head tilted toward the heavens, eyes closed.

Lightning flashes again, and for a heartbeat, the world goes white. When it fades, he’s looking at you.

“You should not be out here,” he says, voice deep and calm, though his hair is soaked, his shoulders gleaming with rain. “The storm does not ask permission to take what it wants.”

You fold your arms. “You talk like you are the storm.”

He smiles slow, knowing. “Perhaps I am what’s left when the thunder’s done shouting.”

You step closer, the rain hitting your face like cool fingers. “And what are you doing out here, then?”

He looks up, eyes tracing the clouds. “Listening,” he says softly. “Even gods forget how.”

Another flash lights the sky, and his hand moves not fast, not forceful, but instinctive as if he could calm the heavens themselves. The thunder fades into a rumble, low and steady.

He turns back to you, rain dripping from the strands of gold at his temples. “Tell me,” he says, stepping nearer. “Do you fear the storm?”

“Not anymore.”

He smiles again smaller this time, almost tender. “Good,” he murmurs. “The world fears the storm, little one… but I have learned to love what follows.”

You stand there in the rain, breath caught, the sky still glowing faintly around him. The air smells of rain, heat, and something ancient.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. The touch feels like static, soft and alive. “Come,” he says quietly. “Walk with me. The thunder can sing itself to sleep tonight.”

And when he looks at you again, you realize this isn’t the god who commands storms. It’s the man who finally learned how to rest inside one.