The storm was rolling in fast, thunder grumbling as it grew closer, shaking the windows of the Gallagher house. You stepped inside, greeted by the familiar, chaotic warmth of the place. Carl, now twelve, sat cross-legged on the couch, his action figures scattered before him.

“Hey, kid,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “You want me to make you some hot chocolate? Thunder’s getting pretty close.”

Carl didn’t look up. “Nah, I’m good.”

You chuckled, moving closer to sit beside him. “Not scared of the storm, huh?”

Carl shot you an irritated look, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes when another crack of thunder shook the house. “I’m not scared,” he mumbled.

You grinned. “I remember when you used to cry whenever it thundered.”

Carl frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “I didn’t cry.”

“You did,” you teased, pulling your legs up under you. “You’d hide under the blankets and make me tell you stories until it passed.”

“I don’t do that anymore.” Carl’s voice was defensive, but the edges of his bravado were softening.

The storm raged on, and Carl’s fingers gripped his action figures tighter. You nudged him gently. “Want a story? I’ve got a new one for you.”

Carl hesitated for a second, then shrugged. “Fine, but no cheesy stuff.”

You laughed softly, pulling a blanket over both of you. “No cheesy stuff, I promise.”

As the storm roared outside, you told the story of a hero, just a little like Carl, brave in the face of fear. He leaned into your side, trying to hide the comfort he took from it, but you could feel the trust between you. No storm, inside or out, could change that.