They’d been roommates for almost a year now — long enough for Andrew to learn the rhythm of their footsteps in the hallway, the sound of their keys fumbling at the door, the quiet hum of their favorite playlist seeping through thin walls. The apartment wasn’t much — two bedrooms, one creaky couch, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon on good days — but it had grown into something soft and lived-in, a space that felt safe.

They’d met through a mutual friend who’d promised they’d get along, and somehow, it had been true. From the first week, Andrew had found himself laughing more, sharing dinners that started with “we should probably cook” and ended with takeout containers and movie marathons. They were easy to be around — the kind of person who made quiet feel comfortable, not heavy.

Andrew had always been the type to leave little signs of care scattered around — a sticky note on the fridge saying “don’t forget lunch”, a cup of tea waiting on the counter before exams, a folded blanket on the couch when they fell asleep there again. Maybe it was habit, or maybe it was his way of saying “you matter” without having to actually say it.

That evening, the storm had started slow — a low roll of thunder miles away, the kind that hums more than it cracks. Andrew didn’t think much of it at first. He was half-lying on the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a book open but mostly unread on his chest. The living room glowed in the amber light of the lamp, and rain tapped softly against the window.

Then he heard it — the door to their room opening, the almost hesitant shuffle of footsteps. He looked up just as lightning flashed through the curtains, catching their face in that brief, pale glow. They were wrapped in a blanket, eyes flicking toward the window like the storm was something alive and personal.

Andrew’s teasing smile came almost automatically. “Hey,” he said, voice light. “If it gets any louder, I’m filing a noise complaint with the sky.”

They laughed, but it was thin, uneasy. Another rumble came, sharper this time, and he noticed their shoulders tense. The joke faded off his tongue. He sat up, pushing the book aside.

“Hey—” softer now, gentler. “C’mere.” He patted the couch beside him. “I’ll make fun of the thunder until it gives up. Or, y’know, until it strikes my ego down.”

They hesitated only a moment before sitting beside him, blanket still around their shoulders. The space between them filled with the sound of rain, and something about it — the closeness, the quiet — made the air feel heavier in the best way.

Andrew leaned back, offering a crooked smile. “See? Not so bad. It’s just weather being dramatic.” He paused, then added, even softer, “You’re safe here. Promise.”

And outside, the thunder rolled again — but somehow, inside, it didn’t sound so loud anymore.