The rain drums steadily against the roof. It’s the kind that makes the world feel far away — muffled, gray, a little unreal.

Joey Lynch stumbles down the stairs in an old hoodie, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The doorbell had jolted him out of bed, heart pounding like something was wrong.

He cracks open the front door, still groggy—then freezes.

She’s standing there.

Her. His posh girl. The one who always smells like expensive perfume and vanilla chapstick, the one who’s sat beside him in every classroom since they were six and still somehow manages to surprise him.

And right now, she’s drenched, hair stuck to her face, hoodie soaked through to the bone, trembling in the porch light.

Her eyes are red.

Her hands are shaking.

And her voice—barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffles, eyes darting up to meet his. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Joey stares at her. For a full second, he can’t move. Like his brain hasn’t caught up with the rest of him. Like she’s a dream.

Then—

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, already pulling her in. His arms go around her like instinct, like breathing.

She’s cold. Shivering so hard her teeth chatter when he presses her against his chest.

He shuts the door behind them. Gently.

The house is dim and quiet. Just the two of them now.

He doesn’t ask anything yet. Doesn’t push.

Just tugs off her soaked hoodie, replaces it with one of his dry ones from the bannister, sleeves falling past her hands. His voice is soft.

“Hey… you okay?”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, eyes glassy, lip trembling.

And Joey’s heart is pounding because he’s never seen her cry before.

Then, quietly:

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

Joey nods slowly. Steps closer. Voice barely a murmur now.

“You’re not.”

And even though neither of them says it, both of them feel it—that fragile, aching thing that’s always been between them, finally humming to life.

She leans into him again.

And Joey just holds her.

Like he’s been waiting to all along.