The storm had been raging for hours, a relentless battering of wind and rain that rattled the windows and shook the house. You were just talking to Tate in your room when the lights flickered, and then died entirely, leaving the room in darkness.

Tate’s voice broke through the quiet, low and smooth, carrying that unsettling calm he always had. “I’ll check the fuse box,” he said. “Want to come with me?” Your dad was out of town, and normally he’d never let Tate wander around the house like this. Tate had become… familiar in your home, a presence you’d grown uncomfortably used to ever since he’d been your dad’s patient.

The stairs groaned under your careful steps as you descended into the basement. Each flash of lightning through the small windows cast long. The air grew colder, damper, heavier the farther down you went, pressing against your chest. Tate followed, just a step behind you.

The storm’s fury shook the house above as you and Tate moved cautiously through the basement, flashlight beams cutting through the shadows. You were talking about the smallest things, how long it had been since the last storm, a joke about the dripping pipes… but the air felt heavier the deeper you went.

You rounded a corner, navigating past old shelves and boxes, when he stopped abruptly. You turned around, assuming he found the fuse box. The beam of his flashlight wavered on your face, eyes intense in the dim light.

“Y’know, no one would ever find you down here…” he murmured, voice low and deliberate.