Weather Together - 1. Chapter 1

The flashlight hit the floor with a crack that echoed louder than it should have.

“Damn it,” Mason said under his breath, his teeth clenched tight enough to make his jaw ache. He dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor, snatching it up before it could roll under the coffee table. His other hand was still loaded with clunky, sealed battery packs and a Ziplock bag of loose AA’s.

He stood up quickly and dumped everything onto the table, next to the growing pile of survival gear. Water bottles, protein bars, matches, and a blanket rolled tight. His pulse raced in sync with the drumming of rain against the windows. His T-shirt clung to his back with sweat.

On the horizon, Hurricane Melvin loomed, its relentless advance turning the sky into a seething cauldron of dark, menacing clouds, swirling with the promise of impending doom.

The house felt like a closed fist, quivering under another gust of wind. Its walls seemed to breathe in and out, the boards straining under the howling pressure outside as the storm tested its resolve.

And Wyatt was still on the couch.

Lounging like a man without a single goddamn worry.

Mason glared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thanks. I try.”

Wyatt lay sprawled out, his lean frame draped across the cushions like a smug cat. His head was tilted back, dark hair spilling across the pillow behind him, one arm lazily thrown over his eyes. The faintest smile curled the edge of his lips.

The house shuddered, followed by a low creak from the ceiling.

Mason’s stomach twisted. He imagined the roof tearing away.

The storm’s fury pouring in.

Shards of glass hurling across the room.

Walls collapsing.

The sky swallowing them whole.

All while Wyatt, meanwhile, didn’t even lift his damn head.

“Can you maybe pretend we’re about to be hit by a major natural disaster?” Mason snapped.

“Can you maybe pretend this couch is the best thing that’s ever happened to my spine?”

“I’m serious, Wyatt. The eye’s less than fifty miles offshore—"

“Great. Maybe we’ll get lucky and score beachfront property by morning.”

A low growl escaped Mason’s throat. He grabbed the nearest throw pillow and chucked it at him. It bounced off Wyatt’s stomach like a marshmallow hitting a brick wall.

Wyatt, of course, didn’t even flinch.

“Oof. Vicious assault,” Wyatt deadpanned.

“God, you’re infuriating,” Mason hissed.

Wyatt finally lifted his arm enough to glance at Mason fully. “You say that like it’s new information.”

A sudden howl of wind punched the bay windows. Mason caught the micro-freeze in Wyatt’s demeanor before his expression smoothed again. He knew that trick. Wyatt’s aloofness was just very expensive-looking camouflage.

But Mason didn’t have the energy or patience to peel that particular layer back tonight.

He turned on his heels instead, moving into the kitchen where the small portable radio sat on the countertop. It sputtered with static now, the faint, distant hum of a human voice buried somewhere beneath the interference.

“Come on,” Mason grumbled, twisting the knob to adjust the frequency.

“Mason,” Wyatt called from the other room, “you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The storm panic ballet,” Wyatt teased. He shifted positions on the couch, the springs creaking faintly in protest as he stood. “You know, the thing where you pace around the house collecting batteries like a doomsday squirrel.”

Mason gritted his teeth, both hands gripping the edge of the counter. It took all his willpower not to lash out.

Or fall apart.

“I’m making sure we don’t die.”

“We’re not going to die,” Wyatt said behind him.

“You can’t promise that,” Mason shot back.

“No. But I can promise we’ve done everything we can. We’ve got food, supplies, and a safe room. We’re good, Mase.”

Mason turned to face him. Wyatt stood there on the hardwood, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his frame relaxed but undeniably solid. The kind of solid that people gravitate toward in a crisis.

Which was why Mason hated that his heart still pounded like a war drum in his chest.

“It’s just,” Mason started. “I hate this. This helpless feeling. Like we’re just… waiting for everything to go to Hell.”

Wyatt moved closer. “We’ve done the work. We’re not helpless.”

“But you’re not scared,” Mason said, the accusation hanging in the air like humidity. “You never are.”

“I’ve been through storms before.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Wyatt ran a hand through his hair before leaning against the wall.

“What do you want me to do, Mase?” he asked. “Panic with you? Sit in the bathtub crying?”

Mason flinched. “Jesus, Wyatt.”

“I’m not making fun of you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m just trying to keep this from getting darker than it already is,” Wyatt said, pushing off the wall. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed back toward the couch, his footsteps heavy and unhurried.

Mason stayed in the kitchen for a few seconds after Wyatt walked off, the static from the radio filling the air. He picked it up without thinking and followed, setting it on the coffee table beside the rest of the supplies.

Wyatt popped the beer cap off, took a swig, and let out a long, deep breath without looking up. “When I was nine, I watched the roof fly off my home. Hurricane Charley.”

He paused for a moment, taking another sip. “We weren’t even supposed to get hit. Forecast said it’d land north of us. Then it turned. Hit us straight on.”

Wyatt leaned back slightly, his eyes fixed somewhere far away. “When the wind came, it didn’t sound like howling. It was worse. Like the whole world was ripping apart… like the house knew it was dying.”

A gust of wind hit the back wall with a low, drawn-out growl.

“My mom shoved me into the hallway bathroom. Dropped me in the tub, covered me with couch cushions. Held them down with both hands while the walls shook so hard I thought they’d burst.”

“Wyatt…” Mason’s voice was soft, but Wyatt didn’t look at him.

“When the roof lifted, I could see the sky,” Wyatt said quietly. “No blue. Just black. Like nothing was out there anymore.”

Mason stayed silent, rooted in place as the words filled the space between them like floodwater.

“I guess that’s why I don’t panic now,” Wyatt admitted. “I already know what it feels like when everything goes wrong. Freaking out about it ahead of time won’t change anything.”

Mason sat down beside him. “You never told me,” he said, resting a hand on Wyatt’s forearm.

Wyatt shrugged, finishing off his beer before setting the empty bottle on the coffee table. “Didn’t seem important. I didn’t want to make it a thing. Everybody’s got baggage. I just keep mine where it won’t get in the way.”

Mason’s grip tightened. “Wyatt, it’s okay to—”

“Don’t,” Wyatt cut in, his tone harsher than he intended.

He sighed. “I just… I don’t like talking about it, like I'm weak. I survived. That’s it. I don’t need it defining me.”

“It doesn’t make you weak,” Mason countered firmly.

Wyatt looked at him for a long moment, his green eyes searching Mason’s face like he was looking for a lifeline he didn’t know how to reach for. He dipped his head. “It’s not easy for me, Mase.”

“I know,” Mason replied. “And I know you’re trying to hold it together. But you don’t have to do it alone. Not with me. You know that, right?”

Wyatt smiled faintly. “That’s very Lifetime of you.”

Mason rolled his eyes. “I mean it, butthead.”

Mason let his fingers trail down until his hand found Wyatt’s, sliding between his fingers as the house groaned under the storm’s weight.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” Mason said. “You just have to be here.”

“Good. I was running out of ways to fake it.” Wyatt gave Mason’s hand a squeeze. “You’re kind of a pain in the ass, you know.”

Mason huffed a laugh. “Takes one to date one.”

Wyatt chuckled and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Mason’s forehead.

And for the first time in days, the tightness in Mason’s chest began to loosen.

He let his weight sink into the couch, let himself believe, if only for a moment, that maybe they’d be okay.

Then the lights cut out.

The air changed.

It was almost imperceptible at first.

A shift, like the room itself was holding its breath.

The low hum of wind and rain faded into the background, replaced by something quieter and far more unsettling.

The radio on the coffee table crackled to life. For a few seconds, there was only the hiss of static. Then the voice emerged, delivering the news they’d been bracing for:

“Hurricane Melvin has officially made landfall as a Category 5 storm.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the storm itself.

Mason’s smile faded.

The peace unraveled as quickly as it had come.

Category 5.

The worst-case scenario.

As if on cue, the gust now slammed into the house with more ferocity, rattling the windows in their frames. The house responded with aching groans, the old wooden beams creaking and protesting as pressure mounted against the walls, each impact making the house tremble under its weight.

The wind whipped through the trees, the eerie shrieks growing louder by the minute. Branches scraping the siding like claws raking down a coffin.

It sounded as if the storm had grown teeth, hungry and determined to tear through anything in its path.

Wyatt closed his eyes, his fingers tightening in Mason’s.

Mason turned to him, searching for reassurance in the one place he’d always found it.

“Wyatt?”

Wyatt opened his eyes.

He blinked once. Swallowed hard.

And then, slowly, turned to Mason.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Small.

Like the little boy still buried somewhere inside him.

“It sounds exactly the same.”