By the first week of August, the air felt heavier, charged with the kind of tension that made people look up at the sky before speaking. Thunderstorms had been skirting Willow Creek for days, never fully arriving, leaving the town restless under a lid of heat.
Lila Bennett had started a new sketch—something abstract, something that refused to stay still. Her pencil moved without thought, tracing lines that curved and collided until they became a tangle she couldn’t name. She sat by the window, the fan stirring her hair, the sound of distant thunder a low heartbeat.
From outside came the rumble of an engine. She didn’t have to look to know which one. The blue truck’s growl was etched into her bones by now. She tried to keep drawing, but her hand hesitated when she heard the door slam.
A knock followed. “It’s open,” she said, not turning.
“You always say that,” Noah replied.
“And you always come in anyway.”
He laughed softly. “Guess we’re both predictable.”
He leaned against the doorway, damp from the humidity, his shirt clinging to his shoulders. He carried something—a folded tarp, a coil of rope. “Jake’s planning a storm watch from the dock,” he said. “You in?”
She turned to look at him. “A storm watch?”
“Yeah. He says it’ll hit tonight. Figured you’d want to see it.”
Outside, the sky had already shifted to a deeper shade, the clouds piling in slow, deliberate waves. She hesitated, then nodded. “Give me five minutes.”
They walked down the hill toward the lake as the first wind swept through the trees. The air smelled of rain before it fell. Jake was already there, setting up a lantern near the dock’s edge, his hair whipping across his face.
“Best seats in town,” he shouted. “Just in time!”
They spread the tarp, anchored the corners with rocks. The wind picked up, warm and sharp. Lila’s hair tangled across her cheek; Noah reached out without thinking and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers brushed her skin—quick, unplanned, electric.
She looked at him, caught between breath and silence. He didn’t move away.
Then thunder cracked above them, so close it made the dock tremble.
“Guess it’s starting,” Jake yelled, his voice half lost to the wind.
“Guess so,” Noah said quietly.
Rain came in sheets, sudden and relentless. They ducked beneath the tarp, water splattering their legs. Lila laughed, breathless, her hair plastered to her forehead. Noah wiped rain from his lashes, smiling at her through the dim light of the lantern.
“This was your brother’s idea,” she said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “But I’m not complaining.”
Lightning flashed, turning the lake silver. For a second the world held still—their faces inches apart, the air between them humming. Then the sound caught up, rolling across the hills, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
The storm raged for nearly an hour. Lightning stitched the sky, and rain drummed on the tarp until it sagged under the weight. Jake whooped every time the thunder cracked, but eventually even he fell quiet, staring at the water where reflections of the flashes rippled like fire.
When the worst of it passed, the air turned cool and clean. Mist curled over the surface of the lake. The lantern burned low, throwing soft gold across the dock.
Lila pulled her knees to her chest. “I can’t feel my fingers.”
Noah laughed. “Here.” He held out his hands. She hesitated, then let him take hers. His palms were rough, warm despite the chill. He rubbed her fingers gently until the color returned.
“Better?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re shivering.”
“So are you.”
“Then I guess we’re even.”
They sat like that, their hands still loosely joined, while the storm moved farther away. The last rumbles echoed against the hills like someone closing a distant door.
Jake yawned, stretching. “I’m heading up before Mom freaks out.”
“Go,” Noah said. “We’ll pack up.”
When Jake disappeared up the path, silence settled again, softer this time. Crickets started their cautious song. Lila looked toward the far side of the lake where the trees still dripped silver.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
“For what?”
“For coming back.”
He smiled without looking at her. “I wasn’t sure I would.”
She wanted to ask why, but the words tangled somewhere between her chest and her throat. Instead, she said, “You should probably go before the road floods.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
But he didn’t move. The night had a pull neither of them could name.
When they finally stood, the boards creaked beneath their feet. The tarp flapped in the wind. He helped her fold it, their fingers brushing over the wet fabric.
“See you tomorrow?” she asked.
“If the world’s still here.”
She laughed. “You think that storm could end the world?”
“Maybe not the world,” he said, “just parts of it.”
At the bend in the path, he turned back once. The lantern light caught his face, half shadow, half reflection.
Then he was gone.
By the time Lila reached home, the rain had stopped completely. The porch light glowed faintly, haloed by steam rising from the wet ground. She slipped inside, her clothes damp, her heartbeat still uneven.
Upstairs, she opened her sketchbook again. This time the lines came easy—sharp strokes, quick curves, thunder caught in graphite. On the last page, without thinking, she drew two hands touching, fingers intertwined, rain dripping from their wrists.
When she looked at it, she didn’t know if it was memory or hope.
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