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The storm starts as a low grumble somewhere over the Thames—distant enough that you pretend you don't hear it at first. You're curled on the far end of the couch with a blanket around your legs and a book open in your hands, trying to look relaxed. The flat is warm, lamplit, and quiet in a way it never is when Theo's home.
Blaise is opposite of you, stretched out like the couch was built to accommodate him specifically. One arm is behind his head, a paperback balanced on his stomach. He flips a page without looking at it.
He's not reading.
Clearly.
You pull your gaze back to your own page just as the next rumble rolls in, louder this time. A warning. You don't flinch, but your heart skips a few beats, and your fingers still as you turn the page.
"You all right over there?" he asks, his tone lazy, like he's making conversation and not a pointed observation.
"I'm fine," you reply a little too quickly. You tuck your feet beneath you and turn a page that you absolutely did not finish reading.
He hums and goes back to pretending he's deeply invested in his book.
Another burst of thunder, closer now. The lights flicker.
You roll your shoulders. Blaise doesn't lift his head, but he angles his eyes over the edge of the page to watch you.
"You know," he says, "for someone who survived a war, you're remarkably jump about a bit of weather."
You frown. "I'm not jumpy."
"You are," he replies, turning another page. "It's adorable, really. Very... humanizing."
You grab the nearest throw pillow and chuck it directly at his smug face.
He doesn't even bother to shield himself; it hits his shoulder and falls to the floor. He smirks anyway. "Touched a nerve, did I?"
"You're insufferable."
"And yet," he says, lowering the book slightly, "you're the one who insists on sharing a flat with me and the other insufferable. It's almost as if you—" he gasps dramatically "—like us?"
Before you can tell him exactly what you think of that, the storm lights the entire living room white. The thunder follows immediately, shaking the windows.
You flinch this time.
Blaise's brows lift the tiniest bit, and he sits up, sliding his legs down from the couch cushions. "All right. Come here."
The words aren't mocking, and they aren't pitying, either, which you're not sure you could've handled.
