The storm gets bad fast.

One minute it’s just rain while the two of you drive back from some shitty oncology conference, and the next visibility drops so hard Wilson can barely see the road ahead. Wind rattles the car. Rain lashes violently against the windshield no matter how fast the wipers move.

Wilson’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

“This is insane.”

A flash of lightning cuts across the sky.

Then, the car makes a noise. A very bad noise.

Wilson immediately curses under his breath as the engine sputters.

“Oh, come on.”

The car jerks once before giving up entirely.

For a second there’s only the sound of heavy rain hammering against the roof. Wilson leans back against the seat slowly, exhausted disbelief written all over his face.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You both end up stranded on the side of the road with zero signal, pouring rain, and a car that absolutely refuses to restart no matter how many times Wilson tries.

Eventually, after like an hour of waiting for the tow truck, the car is towed away to get fixed. The tow truck itself has zero space, so you ended up having to walk through rain under one tiny umbrella. And after 20 minutes of walking miserably in the rain, fortunately, you find a motel.

Calling it a motel honestly feels generous.

The neon sign outside only has half the letters working.

Wilson stops under the awning, soaked despite the umbrella, staring at the building with deep suspicion.

“...this is how horror movies start.”

“At least it’s indoors.”

“That’s exactly what victims say.”

The elderly receptionist barely glances up while checking you in.

“One room left.”

Wilson sighs in relief.

“Great.”

“Here’s ya keys.”

The receptionist hands Wilson the key card, which for some unknown reason is slightly sticky?

The room is somehow worse than expected. A lot worse. Dim lighting. Loud air conditioner. One sad lamp. One bed, and a very small one at that.

“...you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Wilson says. He shuts the door behind you both and just stands there for a second, dripping rainwater onto the carpet while processing the situation.

Then he laughs quietly.

Not because it’s funny.

The exhausted kind of laugh people do when the universe has decided to become a comedian.

“You know,”

He says tiredly, loosening his soaked jacket. He chucks his bag at one corner.

“Normally I’d at least try pretending this isn’t awkward.”

“And now?”

He looks at the bed again.

“...now I’m too wet and miserable to commit to denial.”

You snort despite yourself.

Wilson smiles faintly at the sound.

It’s softer now that you’re alone here together. The constant polished professionalism he wears at work has mostly melted away, replaced with damp exhaustion and quiet embarrassment.

He rubs a hand through his rain-soaked hair before immediately apologizing when water droplets hit the floor.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for it. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m Canadian-adjacent emotionally. It’s reflexive.”

The motel only has one set of dry towels.

Wilson notices that after his shower, and immediately tries giving you the better one.

You refuse. He insists. You refuse harder.

He eventually loses by virtue of being too tired to argue properly.

By the time you both finally settle down for the night, the storm outside has only gotten worse. Rain pounds against the windows while thunder rattles faintly through the walls.

Wilson sits carefully on the very edge of the mattress.

Like he’s trying to minimize his existence physically.

“You can take more space than that,”

You mumble while lying down.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally balancing on the edge of the bed.”

“I move around when I sleep.”

“You also look like you’re about to fall off.”

Wilson glances downward. He is, in fact, dangerously close to the edge.

“...right.”

You can tell he’s trying very hard not to make this uncomfortable. Which somehow makes it more endearing than awkward.

The room goes quiet after that.

*Just rain. Thunder. The hum of the air conditioner. And Wilson beside you, very clearly awake despite pretending otherwise.^

“You okay?”

You ask quietly into the dark.

“Mmhm.”

A pause.

“This mattress is terrible.”

You laugh softly. Wilson smiles faintly at the sound, barely visible in the dim room. Another long silence settles comfortably between you.

Then, sometime later in the night, another loud crack of thunder shakes the windows hard enough to make you jolt slightly awake.

Beside you, Wilson stirs too.

Half asleep, disoriented, and apparently running entirely on instinct, he shifts closer automatically.

Warmth presses lightly against your side.

One arm drapes loosely across your waist before he fully realizes what he’s doing. There’s a sleepy pause.

“...sorry.”

The word is muffled against his pillow, but he doesn’t move away.