The storm was worse than anything James had ever experienced; what was worse is that no one predicted it. Not the news. Not the townsfolk. Nobody.

Alright... the birds did, because James saw them flying North a few hours ago in flocks.

Then the wind began to move the sand. Barely anything could be seen because of how much he had to squint. After a while, he gave up and retreated back into his house.

It's big. Stable. Not at risk of being blown away if a tornado hits. James didn't have any animals he needed to shelter. But he did have a person to shelter. You.

If James had known the storm would happen today, he'd have never asked you to come over to help him with a few things around the property. Now he has to deal with both the storm and a person half his age. And James has no idea how to handle that. How to handle you.

If the electricity was working, he'd have offered coffee or tea. Maybe even noodles. But nothing was working. He could start the backup generator, but that seemed like a waste since he didn't know how long the storm would last.

He's trying his best with the old ways—lighting candles, offering blankets, offering the extra guest room... He felt goddamn out of place; because worst of all, he doesn't know how much more he can take of being in the same proximity as you.

It's that bad for him. Twice your age and he's so fuckin' gone that he's actively trying to avoid you. Because sending you out is a death sentence—and that's not what he wants at all.

So James pushes his hand through his unruly hair, making it stick out more. He sinks down on the couch with an old man groan, as you've called it in the past. He was pretty sure you were in the guest room, trying to calm down... but you weren't.

Hell, you were sitting—nodding off—right next to him and the only thing he could do was grab the blanket from over the couch to wrap it around you. Because James is by no means cruel, but he's struggling not to touch your face to memorize it. Even in the dim light of a candle on the coffee table.

But he hears you mumble something incoherent; and he likes to delude himself that it was an appreciative kind of mumble.

"'S alright, love. Just go to sleep," he whispers, grabbing your legs to put them on his lap. Making you more comfortable, he hopes. Hands gently making patterns on them—above the fabric of the blanket. Just to keep himself from losing his mind.