The rain doesn't just fall—it slams against the glass like a handful of gravel, shaking the windowpanes in their frames. Every few seconds, the sky splits open with a jagged flash of white light, followed almost instantly by a low, concussive boom that rattles the floorboards beneath your feet.

You wake up with a jolt, the heavy silence of the house broken by the storm.

Groaning softly, you push the blankets back and pad out into the hallway, intending to check the study window where the latch has been loose all summer. But as you pass the coat closet near the front entrance, you notice something strange.

The door isn't quite shut. A narrow sliver of yellow light spills out onto the hardwood—except you distinctly remember turning the hallway lamp off before bed.

You slow your pace, frowning, and pull the door the rest of the way open.

Noah is curled up on a pile of spare duffels and winter coats at the very bottom of the closet. He has his knees pulled tight against his chest, his arms locked defensively over his head, and his dog ears flattened flat against his messy brown hair to block out the noise. He's trembling so violently that you can hear the faint, rapid clicking of his teeth.

As the sky lights up again, a sharp, involuntary whimper escapes his throat before he bites down hard on his lower lip to silence himself.

Then, he senses you.

Noah’s amber eyes snap open, wide and bloodshot with panic. For a split second, he stares at you like a trapped animal, and then pure, unadulterated terror floods his face. He scrambles backward in a frantic, undignified rush, his shoulder slamming hard against the side of the wooden shelving unit as he tries to flatten himself against the wall.

"I'm sorry—" The words tumble out of him in a breathless, jagged rush, his voice cracking horribly. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, I just—the noise was too loud and I didn't want to bother you, I was just staying out of the way, I'll move right now, please—"

He tries to uncoil his legs to stand up, but his coordination is entirely shot from panic, and his knees buckle beneath him. He catches himself on his hands, his breath hitching into a sharp, pathetic gasp as another distant crack of thunder rolls over the house.

The rain from last night has cleared away, leaving behind a crisp, damp Tuesday afternoon that smells faintly of wet earth and cedar.

You’re sitting at the kitchen island, sorting through some mail, when you hear the soft, rhythmic scrape of Noah’s shoes against the linoleum as he returns from running the morning errands. He's wearing the exact same oversized, frayed grey hoodie he’s lived in for the past three days—the cuffs are worn thin, and the hem is starting to pill.

He sets a grocery bag down on the counter with agonizing precision, lining it up precisely with the edge of the tile.

"Groceries are put away," Noah announces, his voice a little too bright, a little too carefully modulated. He’s standing there with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his golden-brown hair slightly damp from a stray puddle outside, and his tail giving a hesitant, nervous little twitch against his thigh. "And I checked the mail. No bills, just a flyer for the local nursery. I left it by the tray."

You don't answer right away. Instead, you reach down beside your chair, pick up a neatly wrapped package tied with a piece of simple twine, and slide it across the smooth quartz countertop toward him.

Noah blinks, his amber eyes dropping to the package as if it might suddenly grow teeth and bite him. He doesn't touch it. He just stares at it, his brows drawing together in that familiar, deeply confused furrow that makes his ears tilt sideways.

"What... what is this?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave into a cautious whisper.

Slowly, as if handling a piece of fragile antique glass, Noah reaches out. His long fingers pluck at the twine, gingerly peeling back the brown paper until the soft, heavy fabric of a brand-new, rich sage green hoodie spills out.

He freezes completely. The silence stretches between you for a long, heavy moment, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator.

Noah picks up the hoodie, holding it out at arm's length as though trying to decipher a complex mathematical equation. His chest rises on a shallow, unsteady breath.

"This... this is for me?" he asks, looking up at you with wide, uncomprehending eyes. A faint flush of pink creeps up the back of his neck and tips his ears.

"I... I didn't..." Noah stammers, his fingers gripping the soft cotton fabric so tightly his knuckles turn white. He starts looking around the kitchen frantically, as if searching for a hidden camera or a rulebook he missed. "I didn't do anything special today. I just put the groceries away and checked the mail. Is this... is this a performance bonus? Or—..did I accidentally charge this to your account? Because I can pay for it, I can take it out of my allowance, I just—I don't think I earned this—"

The house is dead quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the steady ticking of the wall clock at 2:14 AM.

You’ve been trying to finish a late-night project in the study, but the heavy, unnatural silence finally prompts you to get up and stretch. As you wander out into the hallway, a soft light spills from the living room.

You walk in to find Noah. Or rather, what's left of him after a twenty-hour workday.

He is slumped completely sideways against the edge of the living room coffee table, his cheek pressed flat against a wooden clipboard holding your weekly grocery list and schedule. His legs are tangled awkwardly beneath him on the rug, and his breathing is shallow and uneven. His skin has a slightly feverish flush to it, and dark, exhausted shadows bruise the skin beneath his amber eyes. His golden-brown hair is completely mussed, stuck to his forehead by a thin sheen of sweat.

Beside him on the floor is a damp cloth and a half-wiped spot on the baseboard. Apparently, halfway through scrubbing the floors at midnight, his body simply shut down.

You step closer, the floorboards creaking under your weight.

Noah jolts awake instantly. His eyes fly open with a harsh, ragged gasp, and before his brain has even caught up to where he is, his survival instinct kicks in. He scrambles backward, his elbow slamming hard against the coffee table as he forces his exhausted, shaking body upright.

"I'm awake—I'm so sorry!" The words tumble out of him in a breathless, panic-stricken rush, his voice hoarse and trembling. He tries to stand, swaying violently on his feet. His knees wobble like jelly, but he flashes a tight, painfully bright, completely unconvincing smile. "Good morning—or, ah, middle of the night. I was just finishing up the baseboards and organizing the entryway cubbies, I'm totally fine, really, I can just—"

His left knee buckles completely beneath him.

He catches himself hard against the edge of the couch with both hands, his knuckles turning stark white. For a second, he just hangs there, his head bowed as a shiver wracks his entire frame.

Then, a frustrated, miserable sound catches in his throat. A single, hot tear spills over his lashes and hits the hardwood floor.

"Stupid..." Noah mutters under his breath, his voice cracking into a ragged whisper as he tightly grips his own shoulders. He squeezes his eyes shut, his ears flattening back in utter self-loathing. "Why am I shaking... I'm so useless at this, please don't—just tell me what I did wrong, I'll fix it, I swear I'll fix it—"

The house is dead quiet at midnight, wrapped in a heavy, suffocating stillness.

You pad downstairs to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, but as you pass the living room, you notice the dim, gray glow of the streetlamp outside cutting across the floorboards. Sitting with his back pressed flat against the sofa cushion is Noah.

Usually, the moment you step into a room, he springs upright like a coiled spring, eyes bright and hyper-vigilant, ready with a polite question or a helpful offer. Tonight, he doesn’t move at all.

He’s pulled his knees tight to his chest, his arms wrapped around his shins, and his golden-brown head is bowed so low his forehead rests against his knees. His dog ears are flattened completely flat against his hair, and his tail is wrapped motionless and dead-still around his leg.

You slow your footsteps, hesitating in the doorway.

Noah doesn't jump. He doesn't scramble to his feet or flash a nervous, practiced smile. Instead, after a long, agonizing pause, he lifts his head just an inch. His amber eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, and completely hollowed out by exhaustion.

When he speaks, his voice is barely a cracked, trembling whisper that gets lost in the quiet air of the room.

"I'm... I'm not doing very well right now."

His fingers dig white-knuckled into the denim of his jeans, trembling so hard you can see the shiver run up his shoulders. Every instinct he has—years of training, years of believing he is only valuable when he is useful—is screaming at him to shut up, to get up, to fix himself. But he stays frozen, staring miserably at the floor.

"You don't have to fix anything," he breathes, his voice breaking on a pathetic, hitching gasp as he forces the words past his tight throat. "Or talk... but... can you just stay here for a minute? Please?"