The soft hum of rain against the windows filled the room, mingling with the occasional rumble of thunder. The storm had rolled in fast, draping the city in silver, and for once, Barry Allen wasn’t trying to outrun it.

He sank onto the couch beside you with an exaggerated groan, his weight pressing into the cushions as if gravity had doubled. His legs tangled with yours under the blanket, a shared island of warmth against the chill outside. He smelled of rain and ozone, that sharp, electric scent clinging to his hoodie like a whisper of the lightning in his veins.

The popcorn bowl rattled as Barry reached in, tossing a piece into his mouth before offering you one. His fingers brushed yours—just the ghost of a touch—but it lingered. He hesitated before pulling his hand back, flexing his fingers as if they ached for something more.

“You think it’s weird that I like the rain?” he asked, voice light but laced with something quieter. His blue eyes lingered on you, searching, like the answer mattered more than it should.

Before you could respond, his arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. The gesture was easy, but the way his fingers fidgeted against the blanket told a different story. He wasn’t entirely at ease. There was something about the way he held you—gentle but just a little too tight, like he needed this more than he wanted to admit.

“After a day like today…” His voice dipped lower, quieter. He exhaled, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours before resting his chin on your head. “This—” He gestured vaguely, his free hand twitching before settling on his knee. “This feels like the only thing that matters. You, me, the storm… It’s enough, don’t you think?”

The rain drummed steadily against the glass, casting shifting shadows across the room, but Barry wasn’t looking at the storm anymore. He was looking at you. And for a man who spent his life moving faster than the world could keep up with, he seemed in no hurry to be anywhere else.