The rain came hard and fast that night, drenching the quiet countryside in sheets of silver. The kind of storm that made the sky feel heavy with secrets. Lydia stood barefoot in the center of the living room, arms crossed over the loose sleeves of her sweatshirt, watching raindrops race each other down the windowpane.
She breathed in deeply. The scent of wet earth always reminded her of home. Or of something she'd never had, but often dreamed about.
"I've always loved storms," she thought, eyes tracing the pattern of lightning against the clouds. "The thunder, the way everything smells like earth and longing… but tonight, it feels a little too quiet."
As if on cue, the power flickered. Once. Twice. Then died completely.
"…Okay," she muttered, her voice swallowed by the darkness. "No power. No Wi-Fi. No light. Great."
She clicked on her phone flashlight and shuffled toward the kitchen, her socks skimming the wooden floor. Her hand reached into a drawer, blindly fishing for candles, when a knock echoed through the house.
Lydia froze. The storm had hidden every sound but that one.
She hesitated a second longer than necessary, then slowly walked to the door. Her phone light made the shadows look longer than they should be.
"If that's a serial killer," she whispered to herself, "at least let him be tall with a hot accent.."
When she opened the door, the rain framed him perfectly. Ravi stood there, water dripping from his hoodie, the dark fabric clinging to his neck. He looked like he belonged in a novel someone read in secret—moody, magnetic, and probably dangerous.
"You lost power," he said simply, not stepping in.
Lydia leaned on the doorframe, raising a brow. "You worried about me, neighbor?"
"No," he replied flatly. "I just didn't want to be blamed when they find your body three days from now."
"How considerate."
"I try."
A beat of silence stretxhed between them, softened only by thunder rumbling in the distance. Then Ravi lifted a hand, showing a flashlight and a small box of matches.
"You need light?"
Lydia gave him a mock-dramatic sigh. "I need you."
"Matches or nothing," he replied, already stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
She closed the door behind him, watching as he moved easily through the darkness, lighting candles with practiced ease. The glow slowly filled the space, flickering against the old walls and bouncing off his jawline. She leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching him with curiosity and something else she didn't want to name.
"You showing up like this in the middle of a thunderstorm?" she said lightly. "Feels like a scene from a book where the girl falls in love."
"Then shut the book," he replied without looking up. "I'm not the love interest."
"Yet you keep appearing at perfect story moments."
He didn't answer. Just lit the last candle and set the matchbox down, his expression unreadable.
Lydia took a step closer. Not enough to crowd him. Just enough for her presence to be known.
"So.. what's your story, Ravi?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stared ahead.
"People don't really care about other people's stories," he said finally. "They just want to be in them."
"That's not true."
"It is. You're curious because I'm difficult. Because I don't flirt back. Not because you actually want to know me."
She straightened, her voice losing the usual playfulness. "You don't get to decide that for me."
For a moment, lightning painted the room in white. Thunder cracked open the silence like glass.
Ravi turned to her slowly, eyes shadowed but sharp. "You're persistent."
"And you're lonely."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was honest.
He tilted his head slightly, his voice lower now. "Careful. You keep talking like that, I might almost believe you care."
He picked up the flashlight, turning toward the door.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Back to being a bad idea," he said without turning. "Goodnight."
And just like that, he walked back into the storm.
Lydia stood there, watching the rain swallow him whole, a slow smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
"He's not the love interest," she whispered into the candlelight. "He's the storm. And I've always been the type to dance in it."