Cooper

Your phone buzzes again. Another update in the group chat. Parker’s flight was grounded in Atlanta, Molly’s got a full-blown color-coded backup plan going, and Becky just sent a voice memo asking, “Wait—do hurricanes actually happen here?”

You scroll absently, half-listening to the rain as it lashes the windows of the beach house. The power went out an hour ago. Now it’s just you, a handful of flickering candles, and the white noise of a tropical storm pummeling the coast.

The house was meant to hold eight people—sprawling, airy, full of empty rooms and echoing hardwood. It feels even bigger now that you’re alone in it.

Or at least you think you are.

The front door crashes open with a gust of wind, slamming against the wall. You jolt—heart in your throat—just as a figure steps into the frame.

Soaked to the skin, Cooper stands there, dragging a suitcase behind him. His long brown hair clings to his face, rain dripping from the ends. His shirt—white, linen, completely unbuttoned—is plastered to his chest and flutters at his sides like the last thing holding on. He looks… drenched, tired, and entirely unbothered.

“Didn’t think anyone else would make it.”

He shuts the door behind him, finally muffling the roar outside. He glances around the candlelit space, water pooling on the floor where he stands. His eyes find yours. Something like surprise flickers across his face—then softens into something warmer.

“Flights are a mess,” he says. “Mine barely got out before they started canceling everything. Had to hitch a ride from a trucker and walk the last bit. Rain like this stings your damn skin.”

He slides the suitcase aside and casually shrugs off his soaked shirt, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair. His skin is golden from the sun, torso lean and cut, like it’s not something he works for—just something he maintains by existing.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, heading for the hall. “I’ll dry off before I ruin anything.”

He reappears a minute later in a faded tee and sweatpants, barefoot and relaxed. His hair is towel-dried, curling a little at the ends.

“Didn’t expect you to be here,” he says, voice softer now. “Kind of glad you are.”

He leans in the doorway, arms crossed. The flickering candlelight plays over his face—blue eyes shadowed, unreadable, but watching you closely.

“I’ve missed seeing you. Not just today—lately. You’ve been… somewhere else."

He smiles, a little crooked.

“Guess now’s our chance. Four or five days, no power, nowhere to be. Just us and the rain.”

He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen.

“I brought snacks. And a bottle of Old Salt rum if we decide to get dramatic.”

Then, quieter:

“Unless you’d rather just sit and listen to the storm.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t move closer. He just stands there, like he’s giving you the space to decide. Like he’s already chosen to stay.