Septiplier One-Shots

rainy days and mondays

No warnings; 3349 words

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It wasn't supposed to rain until later today. That's definitely what the forecast had said. Cloudy, mid-70s, with rain rolling in around 2 pm and lasting for the rest of the evening. It's only 9:30 in the morning. This shouldn't be happening.

Jack looks up at the sky despairingly, wincing as a fat droplet of rain hits his glasses, turning the world around him blurry and soft. Even his best glare seems to be no match for the clouds, which pelt his upturned face with several more heavy drops, as if to say listen buddy, you're not in charge here.

He's halfway between home and Starbucks, and there's a bus stop only a few feet away. Making a split-second decision, Jack decides not to turn around and head home, and begins digging in his pocket for his phone to check the time of the next bus. His phone, he quickly realizes, isn't in his pocket.

Rain drips steadily onto his head, taunting him. Burying his face in his hands, Jack lets out a yell of frustration that turns into a high shriek of surprise when he hears a chuckle from behind him.

"Hey, where you headed?" The voice is warm and low and reminds Jack a little of home. When he turns, he's faced with a view of a guy's jacket. This guy is muscular. Jack realizes belatedly that the rain is no longer attacking him, due to the reach of the stranger's large umbrella, which he's kindly holding over Jack's head.

Leaning his head back to see his savior's face, Jack finds himself looking into yellow-brown eyes, ringed with long eyelashes and bracketed by soft crow's feet; large eyes, expressive and kind. The man had unkempt, dirty-red hair that dangled in his eyes, and stubble covering his jawline that curved around the edges. The flannel shirt that Jack could see in the vee where his jacket was unzipped only adds to
the effect.

He's stunning. Jack's mouth goes dry.

The man looks at Jack expectantly, one dark eyebrow raised, and Jack realizes that he'd been asked a question, and that instead of answering he's been staring for—who knows how long. Cursing himself internally, Jack casts back to the question the man had asked.

"Star-Starbucks," he answers, coughing when his voice comes out as a humiliating squeak at first.

"Couple blocks away."

The stranger brightens, a smile rounding the apples of his cheeks, making the corners of his eyes crinkle even more. "Me too! You wanna walk together?"

Jack blinks, bemused. Since he'd moved to LA six months ago he's found the people kind, certainly; polite, always ready to help; but it's nothing like the warmth and familiarity he remembered from back home. Part of it was the move from a small rural town to a sprawling metropolis, from knowing everyone to not knowing a single soul, but Jack couldn't help feeling like part of it was a fundamental difference between Ireland to the west coast, community versus individuality, or—something.

This stranger, though—this stranger who's feeling less and less like a stranger with every passing minute, even though Jack still doesn't know his name—this stranger feels very much like the warm coziness of watching water droplets fall from your window on a rainy day. This man feels like home.

Jack shakes himself mentally, embarrassed at his thoughts. Here's someone who's just being kind, doing what any decent human being would do, and just because he's handsome and has a welcoming, deep voice Jack's falling head over heels for him like the gesture means anything at all. Get it together, McLoughlin, he scolds himself.

"If you don't mind, that would be great," Jack answers, gesturing to his laptop bag. "This is supposed to be water-resistant but I really don't wanna test it and find out Amazon lied to me."