“Don’t move.”

I closed my eyes, and I was there again.

The gravel driveway stretched out in front of me, weeds poking up all around. The old farmhouse waited at the end of it.

Same as always. 

Leaning slightly to one side. The white paint had peeled worse than I remembered, long strips curling away from the wood like old scars. The windows were dark now, broken… flat, empty squares like the eyes of a corpse that didn’t give anything back when you looked at them.

Out back, the fields went on forever. Nothing planted or harvested. Just empty rows that used to mean something and didn’t anymore.

I stood at the end of the driveway, exactly where I always ended up in my dreams. Staring at the old farmhouse, waiting. There was always that feeling. Waiting. That something was supposed to be here, in the farmhouse where I’d been born. An answer. A way out. A version of my life that ended up with me standing here. 

If I looked long enough.

Stayed still enough.

If I figured out what I’d missed. 

The screen door creaked open, like it was inviting me in.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

—

A hand grabbed onto the back of my jacket, and Noah’s voice filtered in again. “Lights are back on,” he said, still sounding a little freaked out. “Storm must be getting bad. This side of town always loses power when it rains too hard.”

My eyes snapped open, and the weird yellow lighting filtered in once more, snapping everything back into place. The shelves crowded in on either side of us again, warped paperbacks stacked too tightly, a few still scattered across the scuffed wooden floor from earlier. Dust hung in the air, caught in the light like nothing had ever moved at all. 

“Hey,” Noah said, standing way too close, his hand still fisted in my jacket. “You okay?”

“What did you say?” I asked, my voice rough, like I’d just smoked one or something.

“The lights are back on?” He tried, his brows knitting together. 

“Before that,” I said, dragging a hand down my face, fingers pressing hard over my eyes as if I could physically wipe the memory away. “Before the lights went out. You said something.”

Noah hesitated, searching my expression. “Um…pretty sure I didn’t say anything.” His grip finally loosened from my jacket, fingers slipping free. “You sure you’re alright?” He gathered his books off the shelf where he’d apparently set them while I was having my stroke.

For a second, I just stood there, the words that I’d clearly heard echoing in my head.

Don’t move.

I sighed and rolled my shoulders after a moment. “I’m good,” I said, shrugging a little before I leaned a shoulder against the nearest shelf. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart in the middle of the aisle. Then my eyes dropped to the book in his hand. “What’s that?” I asked, nodding at it. “You’ve been reading it since I saw you in the window.”

Noah glanced down at the book. “Oh,” he said. “This?” And he held it up so I could see the cover better. It had a bunch of tough guys on the front, arms crossed in leather and denim jackets. They looked like a bad crowd but young, like they’d seen some real shit go down.

“The Outsiders." Noah smiled at me for the first time. “You’ve never read it?” 

I scoffed and crossed my arms, then looked away, trying to ignore the way that smile loosened me up a little on the inside. “I don’t read,” I replied. “Especially not that kinda stuff.”

Noah brightened a little despite what I said. “It’s about,” he started and then stopped, like he was debating whether or not I deserved a rundown about his precious book. “People who don’t fit in and—”

“Violence and sadness and mullets,” I finished. “And let me guess. Everybody dies at the end except the pretty boy with the perfect life and the hot girlfriend.”

Noah squinted at me. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I got the gist,” I drawled, rolling my head back towards him.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like an insult, then turned toward the front of the store again like he was totally done with me. 

I peeled off the shelf and followed him. “You know,” I said as we walked, "you never did tell me what the hell is going on around here in this shit town.”

Noah glanced over his shoulder. “It’s complicated,” he replied. “Even I’m not so sure myself.”

“Oh yeah?” I followed him, glancing at the books on the shelves as we passed. “Then enlighten me, page muncher.”

He shot me a look, clearly annoyed with me, which was great. “It’s just…” he started again, slower this time, “This town didn’t always used to be like this. It had tourists in the summer. The pool was open; there were flyers on the community board talking about parties, school events, all that normal crap.”

We neared the front of the store together. 

“Now it’s just missing persons flyers,” he added. “Same corners. Same tape. Same faces getting older in black-and-white photocopies that nobody takes down.” Noah shrugged a little. “The pool’s been closed for years. Half the lights on Main Street don’t work. People don’t stay out late anymore.”

“Sounds like a dying town,” I said.

“It is,” he replied immediately, like there was no question about it.

We reached the front counter. A freckle-faced cashier barely out of high school was sitting behind it, looking bored to death, like she was begging for someone to put her out of her misery.

Noah stepped up, set his book down carefully, and pulled out two dollars. I didn’t think a worn-out copy of some obscure book was worth that much money. Especially not when it was going to end up sitting on a shelf somewhere, collecting dust. But he seemed happy enough forking over his cash for a weird little depressing story. 

“Keep the change,” he said, offering her a small smile.

The cashier barely reacted, like she’d seen every version of weirdness this town could offer and was no longer surprised by anything short of arson. She took the book, dropped it into a white paper bag, and handed it back with practiced indifference.

We headed out of the store together, but Noah paused before he pushed open the front door. Outside, the rain was pouring down in heavy sheets now. He glanced down at the bag in his hands, then slid the book out. ”For the record,” he said, “You’re wrong about this book.”

I glanced down at it when he held it out to me. “I told you I don’t read,” I said.

“Like, seriously?” he replied, eyes going wide, like that hadn’t even crossed his mind. “I thought you just meant—”

“I meant what I meant,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to be. “You got a problem with that?”

“No! I mean—God, no.” Noah blurted, tripping over the words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

I didn’t like that. The way his voice softened. The way his face did that thing, like I’d just handed him something delicate and breakable, and now he didn’t know where to put it. Like I was something that needed fixing.

It crawled under my skin.

Rain streaked down the glass beside us in long, uneven lines, turning the world outside into something smeared and half-erased. Streetlights bled into each other, headlights dragged across the surface like ghosts passing through. Thunder rolled low and slow, like it had all the time in the world.

I shoved the door open.

The storm didn’t wait. It rushed in hard and cold, rain slapping against the black-and-white tile, wind pushing damp air into the store like it was trying to claim the place.

“Yeah,” I muttered, stepping straight into it. “Well. Now you do.”

Cold hit instantly, soaking through my shirt, biting at my skin, sliding down the back of my neck in icy trails. My shoes splashed against the pavement, water already pooling at the curb, running fast along the street like it had somewhere better to be.

Behind me, the door banged shut harder than it needed to.

Noah came after me, breath catching a little as he yanked his cardigan up over his head, half-hearted protection against the downpour. It clung to him anyway, darkening, sticking to his arms. “Hey—” he called, hurrying to catch up, shoes slapping wet against the sidewalk. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Go home,” I threw over my shoulder, not slowing. “I don’t need you feeling sorry for me.”

“I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Michael!”

I stopped walking, my shoulders rising and falling once as I dragged in a breath that tasted like rain and asphalt and something electric in the air.

I jammed my hands into my pockets, fingers curling tight, head tipping forward so the water ran off my hair and down my face. “What?” I scoffed.

He caught up a second later, a little out of breath, stopping a few feet behind me. Close enough, I pretended I could hear the sound of his heart beating as he approached. He was all wet now, bits of that beautiful chocolate brown mop stuck to his forehead and cheeks. The human embodiment of a sugar cookie. He even had a little heart-shaped mole on his cheek that I hadn’t noticed in that crappy bookstore. 

“You got somewhere to go?” he asked.

For a second, I didn’t answer. Just watched the way the rain hammered the pavement, bouncing back up in little splashes, the gutters already overflowing. A neon sign across the street flickered weakly, buzzing, throwing red light that warped across the wet ground.

“I’m in a motel,” I said flatly. “Eight bucks a night. Luxury suite, really. You don’t even notice the roaches and mold unless you look real hard.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He replied. 

I turned just enough to look at him over my shoulder, rain dripping off my lashes. “It’s the answer you’re getting.” 

Noah held my gaze, even as the rain ran down his face and rolled down his jaw. His cardigan was just one big, brown, soggy potato-looking mess, clinging to him. “I don’t feel sorry for you,” he said, voice steady. “I just don’t want you wandering around out here like an idiot.”

I barked out a laugh. “You inviting me home, Riles?” I asked, smirking a little.

His eyes narrowed. “I’m offering you a place to crash. Don’t make it weird. I’ve got a couch.”

I squinted at him suspiciously.

“It’s not great,” he went on quickly. “It’s small, and my place is kind of a mess, and you’re probably going to hate it, and I already regret offering, but it’s dry. And warm. And you won’t—” he gestured vaguely at the storm around us “---die out here.”

I straightened a little, rolling my shoulders like I was shaking off something I didn’t want to name. “Fine,” I said. “One night.”

His eyes flickered, just a second of surprise before he hid it. “One night,” he repeated, like he was making sure I couldn’t back out of it later. “And then you leave in the morning.”

I smirked and watched him pass by me, all wet and soggy. 

“Guess that depends,” I said lazily, "on how good your couch is.”