The mud was the worst part. It wasn't just dirt; it was this living, sucking thing that wanted to pull my sneakers right off my feet. I stumbled, my knee hitting a slick patch of limestone with a crack that sounded way too loud against the roar of the rain.
"Micah!"
Lucas’s voice. Sharp. It cut through the wind like he was standing right next to me, even though he was ten feet ahead, hauling himself up the ridge. He turned back, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looked like a statue that had decided to walk off its pedestal—solid, unbothered, terrifyingly calm.
"I'm good," I yelled back, though my voice cracked in the middle. I wasn't good. My lungs felt like someone had stuffed them with steel wool, and my left ankle was throbbing in time with my heartbeat. "Just... slipped."
Lucas didn't say anything. He never did when action was faster. He just slid back down the slope, mud smearing his jeans, and grabbed the front of my jacket. He didn't pull me; he just anchored me. His hand was a heavy, warm weight against my chest, right over where my heart was trying to hammer its way out of my ribs.
"Breath," he said. Not a question. An order.
I took a breath. It tasted like wet pine needles and electricity. "I can make it to the overhang."
"We're not going to the overhang," Lucas said, his eyes scanning the treeline above us. "Look."
I wiped the rain from my eyes. Up past the jagged line of spruce, there was a shape. Geometric. Unnatural. A gray concrete box jutting out of the rock face. An old service shed, maybe, or a storm shelter for the park rangers. It looked miserable, dark, and damp. It looked like the best thing I had ever seen.
"Go," Lucas said, giving me a shove. Not gentle, but steadying. "I'm right behind you."
We scrambled. That’s the only word for it. It wasn't hiking. It was a desperate, clawing ascent, grabbing onto roots that snapped and rocks that rolled away. Every time I slipped, Lucas was there—a hand on my backpack, a shoulder against my back—pushing me upward. He was like a machine. I hated him for it, just a little. I hated that he wasn't gasping, that he wasn't scared.
We hit the concrete lip of the shelter and practically fell inside. The door was gone, just a gaping rectangular maw, but the roof held. The sound of the rain changed instantly from a deafening roar to a heavy, rhythmic drumming on the concrete slab above.
I collapsed against the back wall, sliding down until I hit the dusty floor. My legs were shaking. Not the little tremble you get after gym class, but violent, uncontrollable spasms. I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to make myself small.
Lucas stood in the doorway for a second, silhouetted against the gray curtain of the storm. He wiped his face with one hand, shaking the water off like a dog, then turned and looked at me. The light was dim in here, filtering in gray and green, but I could see his eyes. Dark. focused. On me.
"Check yourself," he said, his voice echoing in the small space. "Cuts? scrapes?"
"I'm fine, Lucas. Seriously."
He didn't listen. He crossed the small space in two strides and dropped to a crouch in front of me. The air in the shelter suddenly felt very small. He reached out and took my chin, turning my face to the side.
"You're bleeding," he stated.
"I am?"
"Cheek. Probably a branch." He let go of my face—his fingers lingered for a split second too long, or maybe I just imagined that—and started digging through his pack. He pulled out the first aid kit. Of course he had the first aid kit. Lucas packed for the apocalypse while I barely remembered to pack a toothbrush.
"It’s just a scratch," I mumbled, watching his hands. They were large, square-fingered hands. Capable. They weren't shaking at all.
"Hold still."
He uncapped a tube of antiseptic. The smell was sharp, medicinal, cutting through the damp earth scent of the shelter. He dabbed it on my cheek. It stung, sharp and hot, and I hissed, jerking my head back.
"Easy," he murmured. His voice dropped an octave. It wasn't the 'command' voice anymore. It was that other voice. The one he only used when it was just us, late at night, or when things went wrong. "Sting means it's cleaning."
"Sting means it hurts," I shot back, but I leaned into his hand anyway. I couldn't help it. He was warm. He was radiating heat like a furnace, and I was so cold my teeth were about to start chattering.
He finished with the cheek and sat back on his heels, assessing me. He looked at my hands, my knees, my boots. Then he looked me in the eye. That direct, unblinking stare that always made me feel like he could see right through my skull and read the messy, scribbled thoughts underneath.
"Your lips are blue," he said.
"It's cold, Lucas. It's a spring storm. People get cold."
"Take off the jacket."
"What? No."
"It's soaked, Micah. It's just holding the cold against your skin. Take it off." He was already unzipping his own windbreaker. Underneath, he had a thermal henley that was miraculously dry. He shucked the wet outer layer and tossed it into the corner.
I fumbled with my zipper. My fingers were numb, stupid blocks of wood that wouldn't cooperate. I tugged at the metal tab, but it slipped.
"God, you're hopeless," Lucas sighed, but there was no bite in it. He leaned in again. Close. Too close.
I stopped breathing. I literally just stopped. He was right there. I could see the water droplets caught in his eyelashes. I could smell the rain on his skin, mixed with that specific scent that was just *Lucas*—something like cedar soap and worn denim. He reached for my zipper.
His knuckles brushed my neck. A jolt of electricity, pure and sharp, zipped down my spine. My heart did a weird double-thump.
He zipped the jacket down slowly. The sound was loud in the quiet shelter. He peeled the wet fabric off my shoulders, his movements efficient but... careful. Like I was something breakable.
"Better?" he asked, tossing my sodden jacket onto his.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Yeah, better."
We sat there for a minute, the silence stretching out between us. Just the rain and the sound of me trying to regulate my breathing so I didn't sound like a hyperventilating pug. Lucas pulled a thermos from his bag—the green metal one he took everywhere.
"Drink," he said, unscrewing the cup and pouring something steaming.
I took the cup. My hands brushed his. His skin was rough, warm. Mine felt like ice. He didn't pull away immediately. He let his fingers rest against mine for a second, transferring the heat.
"Thanks," I muttered, taking a sip. Coffee. Black, terrible, and hot. It was the best thing I'd ever tasted.
Lucas leaned back against the concrete wall, stretching his long legs out. He looked tired. The mask was slipping, just a little. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there when we left the city this morning.
"We're lost, aren't we?" I asked. I didn't mean to say it. It just fell out.
Lucas looked at the ceiling. "We're not lost. I have the map."
"The map is pulp, Lucas. I saw it. You dropped it in the creek two miles back."
He clenched his jaw. A muscle feathered there. "I have a compass."
"Great. A compass. Pointing to what? North? We don't need North, we need..." I trailed off. What did we need? We didn't need a destination. We needed to be away. That was the whole point.
I set the cup down. The caffeine was making my hands shake worse. "My dad is going to kill me."
Lucas snorted. It was a dark sound. "He has to find you first."
"He'll call the cops. He'll say I was kidnapped."
"You're seventeen. You left a note. It's not kidnapping."
"He'll make it kidnapping. You know how he is. He'll say you... coerced me."
Lucas turned his head, looking at me with an intensity that made me want to shrink into the floor. "Did I?"
"Did you what?"
"Coerce you."
I looked down at my hands. Mud was dried under my fingernails. "No. I asked you to drive. I begged you."
"Exactly."
"But he won't care. He'll just see... this." I gestured vaguely between us. "He hates this. He hates that I rely on you. He thinks I'm weak."
"You're not weak, Micah."
"I am!" The words exploded out of me, bouncing off the concrete walls. I hadn't realized how close to the surface it was. The anger. The fear. "Look at me, Lucas! I'm shivering in a concrete box because I couldn't handle... anything. I couldn't handle the house. I couldn't handle seeing his room empty. I couldn't handle Mom pretending everything is normal. I just ran. And I dragged you with me because I was too scared to do it alone."
My breath hitched. I felt the burn of tears behind my eyes and furiously blinked them away. I was not going to cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
"It's been six months," I whispered. "Everyone says it gets better. It doesn't get better. It just gets... quiet. And the quiet is worse."
Lucas didn't move. He didn't offer a platitude. He didn't say 'It's okay.' Thank God. If he had said 'It's okay,' I would have punched him.
Instead, he shifted. He slid across the dusty floor until he was sitting right next to me. Shoulder to shoulder. His leg pressed against mine, a solid line of heat.
"I didn't come because you dragged me," Lucas said quietly. His voice was rough, like gravel tumbling.
"Then why? You have exams next week. You have the scouts. You have a life."
"I have a life," he repeated. He looked at his hands, turning them over. "But... it's loud there too. Different loud. Everyone expecting me to be... I don't know. The rock. The one who has the map. The one who knows the way."
He looked at me then, and the vulnerability in his face was startling. It was like seeing a crack in a mountain. "I don't always know the way, Micah."
I stared at him. Lucas, admitting he didn't know something? Lucas, admitting he was tired?
"You always look like you do," I said.
"That's the trick, isn't it?" He let out a breath, a long, weary exhale. "If I look like I know, nobody asks questions. But today... when you called me at 4 AM? You sounded like you were drowning."
"I felt like I was drowning."
"I know. And I..." He paused, struggling with the words. Lucas didn't do feelings. He did actions. He fixed cars. He built shelves. He didn't talk about the inside of his head. "I couldn't stay there knowing you were out here drowning. I'd rather be lost in the woods with you than... anywhere else without you."
The air in the shelter changed. The pressure dropped. The sound of the rain faded into white noise.
My heart was doing that hammering thing again, but it wasn't fear this time. It was something else. Something that felt like the drop at the top of a roller coaster.
"You'd rather be lost with me?" I repeated, my voice barely a whisper.
"Yeah." He looked at the cup of coffee between us. "stupid, right?"
"No," I said. "Not stupid."
I looked at his profile. The strong jaw, the dark lashes, the slight bump in his nose from when he broke it playing soccer in eighth grade. I knew his face better than I knew my own.
"I miss him too," Lucas said softly. "Your brother. He was... he was good."
The tears I'd been fighting spilled over. Just one, hot and fast down my cheek. "He was the only one who got it. Who got us."
"He knew," Lucas said.
"Knew what?"
Lucas turned his head. We were inches apart. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face. "That I look at you. That I've always looked at you."
Everything stopped. The cold, the damp, the smell of mud. All of it vanished. There was just the gray light of the storm and Lucas's eyes, wide and terrified and honest.
"You look at me?" I squeaked. God, my voice. Why did I have to sound like a cartoon mouse?
Lucas didn't laugh. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. A slow, deliberate movement. "Micah. I drove us three hours into a national park in a storm because you asked me to. I didn't even bring a jacket that fits me properly. I'm wearing your spare hoodie under this. Do you think I do that for just anyone?"
I blinked. "You're wearing my hoodie?"
He tugged at the collar of his thermal. Sure enough, underneath was the gray hem of my old debate team hoodie. "It smells like you," he muttered, his cheeks flushing a faint, dusky red. The Great Stone Face was blushing.
Something inside me unspooled. The knot of tension I'd been carrying since the funeral, since before that, finally loosened.
"You're an idiot," I said, but I was smiling. A real smile. It felt weird on my face.
"I'm the idiot with the coffee," he countered, a ghost of a grin touching his lips.
"Lucas?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm still cold."
He didn't hesitate. He shifted, opening his arm. It was an invitation. A sanctuary.
I scrambled closer, pressing my side against his chest, tucking my head under his chin. It was awkward at first—elbows and knees knocking together—but then we settled. He wrapped his arm around me, his hand settling on my shoulder, heavy and grounding. He pulled me in tight, until there was no space left between us.
It was... electric. That’s the only word. Every point of contact burned. His thigh against mine, his ribs expanding against my back as he breathed. I could feel the thud-thud-thud of his heart. It was racing. Just as fast as mine.
He rested his cheek on the top of my head. "Better?"
"Warm," I mumbled into his shirt. "You're like a radiator."
"It's the fear," he joked, his chest rumbling against my back. "Keeps the blood pumping."
"You're not scared."
He tightened his grip on me, just a fraction. "I am. I'm scared all the time, Micah. I'm scared you're going to break. I'm scared I can't fix it. I'm scared I'm going to say the wrong thing and you'll realize I'm just... some guy."
I pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face was so open, so raw. I reached up—my hand shaking, but not from the cold this time—and brushed a thumb over his cheekbone. His skin was rough with stubble, damp from the rain.
"You're not just some guy," I whispered. "You're Lucas. You're... my map."
He stared at me. His eyes went wide, the pupils blown. He looked like I’d just handed him the world.
"Your map," he repeated, testing the word.
"Yeah. Even when we're lost. Especially when we're lost."
He leaned in. It wasn't a movie kiss. It wasn't perfect. He bumped my nose, and I flinched, and he hesitated. But then his lips found mine, and it was... quiet. It was the only quiet thing in the world.
It tasted like coffee and rain. It felt like coming home. It was tentative, soft, terrified, and desperate all at once. His hand came up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my damp hair, holding me there like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
I grabbed the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric in my fists, pulling him closer. I wanted to crawl inside his skin. I wanted to stay in this dirty, concrete box forever.
When he pulled back, we were both breathless. His forehead rested against mine. He closed his eyes.
"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."
"Okay," I echoed.
We stayed like that for a long time. The rain kept drumming on the roof, but it didn't sound angry anymore. It sounded like applause. Or maybe just a lullaby.
"Micah?" he said after a while, his voice drowsy.
"Yeah?"
"We have to go back eventually. Your dad... school..."
"I know," I said. And I did. I knew the world was still waiting out there with all its sharp edges and empty rooms. But it felt different now. Less impossible.
"But not yet," I added. "Wait for the rain to stop."
Lucas squeezed my shoulder. "Yeah. We'll wait for the rain to stop."
I closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the warmth of him seep into my bones. The map was wet, the compass was probably broken, and we were miles from where we were supposed to be. But for the first time in six months, I wasn't running. I was exactly where I needed to be.