By mid-August, Willow Creek smelled like wet asphalt and pine. Storms had rolled through almost every evening, leaving puddles that reflected the sky like broken mirrors. The blue truck had started to appear outside the Bennetts’ house more often, its headlights cutting through the mist before fading into the familiar gravel crunch of the driveway.
Lila Bennett stood at her window one night, watching the rain streak down the glass. The porch light glowed against the dark, casting gold across the puddles on the steps. Inside, the house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick of the clock over the sink. She could hear her brother’s laugh from the next room and the muffled sound of Noah’s voice joining in.
She told herself she wouldn’t go down. She told herself it didn’t matter that he was there again. But when she caught the echo of his laughter—low, warm, easy—something in her chest shifted.
She slipped on a sweatshirt and went to the kitchen. Jake and Noah were hunched over the table, a deck of cards between them, an empty pizza box pushed to the side. The air smelled like tomato sauce and rain.
“You’re losing,” Jake said, pointing.
“I’m letting you win,” Noah replied.
“Sure you are.”
Lila leaned against the counter. “You two going professional or something?”
“Card sharks of Willow Creek,” Jake said with mock pride.
“Don’t drag me into that,” Noah laughed. “She’d probably beat us both.”
Lila raised an eyebrow. “Probably?”
Noah met her eyes for half a second too long, then smiled. “Definitely.”
Jake groaned. “God, you two are unbearable.” He tossed his cards down. “I’m done. I’m going to bed before I lose all dignity.”
When he left, the kitchen grew quieter. Rain tapped against the roof, steady and soft. Lila gathered the pizza box, trying not to notice that Noah hadn’t moved. He was watching her, his elbows resting on the table, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth.
“You always clean up when you’re nervous,” he said.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re stacking boxes like they insulted you.”
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse stuttered. “Old habits.”
He stood, the chair scraping the floor. “Want to hear something?”
“What?”
He pointed upward. “That sound—the rain on the roof. I used to fall asleep to it when I was a kid. Couldn’t hear it where I live now.”
“You mean the city?”
“Yeah. There’s noise, but not sound. There’s a difference.”
He crossed to the window, leaning on the frame. The porch light caught the edge of his profile. “It sounds like home,” he said.
Lila folded her arms. “You think everything sounds like home.”
“Not everything,” he said quietly.
The space between them filled with the soft drumming above, the faint hiss of water in the gutters.
Outside, the rain thickened.
The rain kept falling, steady as breath. Noah moved closer to the window, his reflection blurring with the storm. “Funny thing,” he said, “the sound of rain never really changes. You can leave, grow up, forget a thousand things—but it’s the same rhythm waiting when you come back.”
She joined him by the glass. The window fogged where she exhaled. “You make it sound like it means something.”
“Maybe it does.”
For a while they stood there, watching the gutters overflow. The roof glistened under the porch light, every drop sliding down like a note in a song she almost remembered.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I think I only came back for this.”
“The rain?”
“The quiet that comes with it.”
She looked at him, then back at the sky. “Quiet doesn’t fix things.”
“No,” he said. “But it makes you hear what’s still broken.”
Something in his tone made her turn. His eyes were on the street, unfocused, like he was listening for something else entirely. She wanted to ask what, but before she could, a flash of lightning cut across the yard. The sound followed—sharp, instant, close.
“Guess that one hit nearby,” he murmured.
“You should probably wait it out before driving home.”
He smiled faintly. “You offering shelter?”
“Just common sense.”
They ended up in the living room, the lamplight painting soft shadows across the walls. Rain poured harder, drumming against the windows. Noah sat on the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Lila hovered near the doorway, arms wrapped around herself.
“You ever miss it?” he asked suddenly.
“What?”
“The way things were. Before everything got complicated.”
She laughed under her breath. “You mean before we started pretending not to notice each other?”
He looked up. “Something like that.”
Thunder rolled again, gentler this time. The air smelled of wet wood and coffee. Lila sat across from him, legs tucked beneath her. “You left,” she said.
“I know.”
“And you came back.”
“I know that too.”
He leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling. “Leaving was easier than staying. Staying meant facing what I’d screwed up.”
She frowned. “You didn’t screw up anything.”
“Didn’t I?”
For a long moment neither spoke. The only sound was the steady rhythm above them—the rain keeping time. Lila realized she could count her heartbeats to it.
“Noah,” she began, but he shook his head gently. “Don’t. Not tonight.”
The power flickered once, then steadied. They both exhaled at the same time, and somehow it made her smile.
He noticed. “What?”
“Nothing. Just… this feels familiar.”
“Good or bad?”
“Both.”
He grinned. “Sounds about right.”
When midnight came, the storm began to ease. The gutters stopped overflowing, and the streetlights reappeared through the mist. Noah stood, stretching. “Guess I should go before your mom wakes up.”
“She probably won’t.”
He hesitated near the door. “Still. Old habits.”
She followed him onto the porch. The world smelled washed clean, the air cool against her skin. He looked at her, rain dripping from his hair. “You ever think storms are just the sky starting over?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe we could too.”
She didn’t answer. He smiled—small, uncertain—and walked toward the truck. The headlights swept across her porch before disappearing down the wet street.
When she finally went inside, the house felt too quiet. She stood under the lamp, listening to the fading rain until all that was left was the echo of his voice and the soft, familiar sound of water sliding down the roof.
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