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The storm had been gathering all day, quietly stacking along the horizon while Mike and Will rode their bikes back from the lake road. The air had that strange, electric heaviness that warned of bad weather long before the first thunder rolled. Will glanced back every few minutes, as if checking whether the sky was getting darker, while Mike pedaled ahead like nothing at all was happening. Neither wanted to say, “Maybe we should head back sooner,” because neither wanted the day to end.
When the first fat raindrop splattered on Will’s arm, they both froze for half a second before shooting each other the same look—run. They took off, tires skidding on the slick pavement as the wind picked up and the trees shook like something alive. They just made it up the driveway before the sky split open with a downpour so heavy it blurred everything into gray. They stumbled into Mike’s house, soaked, breathing hard, pushing the door shut against the wind. The slam echoed through the empty hallway.
Mike wiped water off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Well… that escalated.”
Will laughed, breathless. “Just a little.”
The lights flickered. Then again. Then everything dipped into a dim, bluish dark lit only by the storm outside. Mike blinked as if surprised. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“Power’s out,” Will said quietly, pushing his wet hair back. “Guess we’re stuck here for a bit.”
“A bit,” Mike repeated, staring at him for a moment longer than he meant to.
They kicked their shoes off and padded into the living room, leaving a trail of water on the hardwood. The room felt bigger in the stormlight, the shadows stretched, the corners darker. Mike grabbed a blanket from the couch—old, worn, but warm—and dropped it next to Will without comment. Will sat on the rug, wrapping it around himself, knees drawn up slightly. Mike sat down beside him, close enough to share warmth but not touching, though his body seemed aware of every inch of distance anyway.
Rain hammered the windows in waves, a constant, unsteady rhythm. The house creaked as the wind shoved at it. For a while they didn’t talk, the kind of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable but felt full, like the air was holding something between them.
Will finally tilted his head slightly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mike said too quickly.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I don’t?” Mike shot a glance at him.
“No,” Will said simply. “You look like you’re thinking something really loud.”
Mike gave a short, breathy laugh and stared at his own hands. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Read me like a book.”
“Maybe you’re just easy to read,” Will said softly.
Mike hesitated. “No. You just… look harder.”
The storm lit the room for a blink, casting Will’s face in pale blue. He looked younger and older at the same time, quiet, focused, waiting.
“You’ve been weird lately,” Will said, not accusingly, just… observing. “With me, I mean.”
“I have not,” Mike muttered, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.
“You have,” Will insisted, but gently. “And I just want to know if I did something. Or if something’s wrong.”
Mike shook his head but kept his eyes fixed on the rug between them. “It’s not you.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
Will didn’t move, didn’t press, just waited with that impossible patience he always had with Mike. The kind of patience that made everything harder, somehow.
Mike exhaled, long and shaky. “It’s like… I get these moments when you’re talking and suddenly everything else just disappears. And it freaks me out because it never used to happen. And then you’ll look at me, or laugh, or do that thing where you wrinkle your nose when you’re thinking, and I… lose my train of thought. Every time.”
Will’s breath caught, softly, barely audible over the storm.
“And when you’re not around,” Mike continued, heat rising in his cheeks, “I keep thinking about telling you things. Like things that don’t matter at all. A dumb joke, or some random thought. And I’ll start thinking about how you’d react. What you’d say. And suddenly it feels like my whole day is… I don’t know. Missing something.”
Will swallowed hard. “Mike…”
“I don’t want to sound dramatic,” Mike said with an awkward half-smile, “but it’s annoying. Really annoying.”
Will let out a tiny, nervous laugh.
“And when you’re actually here,” Mike went on, voice quieter, “I feel like I should say something important, but I don’t know what it is, so instead I say nothing and just… act weird.”
“Yeah,” Will whispered. “I noticed.”
“I figured you did.” Mike looked up at him finally. The stormlight made Will’s eyes darker, deeper. “But it’s not because I’m mad at you. Or pulling away. It’s the opposite. I just… don’t know what to do with all of this.”
“‘All of this’?” Will echoed gently.
Mike’s voice dropped further. “Just… how you make me feel. Lately.”
Will’s fingers tightened around the blanket, knuckles pale for a second before relaxing again. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes had softened in a way that made Mike’s heartbeat stutter.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Mike said. “You’re not the problem. I’m just… slow sometimes.”
“Mike.” Will’s voice was soft, careful. “You’re not slow.”
Mike stared at him, stormlight flickering between them. “Then what am I?”
Will opened his mouth, closed it again, looked down at the blanket, then back at Mike with a steadiness that wasn’t there before.
“You’re someone who feels things deeply,” he said. “Even when you don’t realize it. And that’s not a bad thing.”
Mike’s breath caught. “You… knew?”
“Not exactly,” Will murmured. “But I hoped.”
“Hoped?” Mike echoed, almost whispering.
Will didn’t answer right away. Instead he scooted just a little closer so their shoulders brushed—light, brief, but enough to send a pulse of warmth through Mike’s entire chest.
“I wasn’t sure if you felt anything,” Will said, “but I could feel something from you. Like there was… something in the air. Something you weren’t saying.” He hesitated. “And I didn’t want to assume.”
“I didn’t want to assume either,” Mike said honestly. “I didn’t even want to assume what I was feeling.”
“And now?”
Mike’s voice was barely there. “Now it feels a lot less confusing.”
Will let out a breath he’d been holding for days—maybe weeks. His hand moved slowly, hesitantly, until it brushed Mike’s. Not holding. Not grabbing. Just touching. Testing. Mike didn’t pull away.
The storm softened outside, shifting from furious to steady, like even the sky had relaxed.
Mike turned his hand just slightly so their fingers lined up. “I don’t know where this goes.”
“I don’t need you to know,” Will whispered. “I just need you here.”
“I am,” Mike said. “I always am.”
Their hands didn’t fully intertwine—not yet. But they rested together, warm, sure, quietly claiming something neither of them needed to say out loud.
The house stayed dim, the storm kept whispering against the windows and for the first time in a long time, neither boy felt like anything was missing.