A/N: Thank you for reading. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Libby is slicing tomatoes, while Jacob is throwing together a salad. My uncle is outside grilling burgers, and everyone is on their second or third beer. I can hear Rock, through the cracked windows. He's whistling the same song he's been whistling for the past thirtysome years. It's like his theme song that follows him around.

"The sky looks terrible." Jacob scoffs as he sets the salad bowl on the table. We are at Rock's place, for our weekly dinner. I've already set the table, setting out placemats, plates, silverware and paper napkins. It's as fancy as we get. Though we're just having burgers and salads, it's a tradition of sorts.

"It's all the warm weather we've been having. Cold air is coming through and so we've got some storms happening. Probably tonight." Libby gives me a look as if waiting for me to faint or run screaming from the room at the mention of storms. I roll my eyes at her.

"Thank you, meteorologist Libby." I smirk at her. Libby grins at me and puts the tomato slices near the salad.

Rock comes in a moment later, a big platter of grilled meat in his hand. It smells heavenly, and I feel my stomach rumble happily. I love our Sunday night tradition. We've been doing this weekly dinner for a few years. I eat with Rock nearly every night, and sometimes we have visitors, but every Sunday night, we are sure to have at least Jacob and Libby. Sometimes Henry stops by, or one of the guys from the shop. Some weeks I'll roast a chicken and vegetables, other nights we just order out. It's a simple routine, but it means the world.

Jacob spots the burgers and whistles as if he's seen a beautiful woman.

"Calm down, old man." Rock grins at his friend, who claps him on the back.

We all grab plates and our beers and make our way to the table. There's friendly chatter, and gentle poking fun as we pass food around. Just as we go to dig in, there's a knock at the door. I frown and exchange a look with everyone at the table. Rock and Libby shrug. Jacob grins and looks thrilled.

"Oh, that'll be ol' Sammy boy. I invited him when he was at the Spoon this morning." Jacob says with an easy chuckle. I gape at my uncle, who shrugs uselessly at me. Libby gives me a wide eyed look, and then breaks into a big smile, all teeth. I don't say anything.

"Jacob!" I groan.

I had seen Sam and Jake talking, but I'd just figured they'd been talking about boring stuff. Old man things like... dentures and wood chopping and meat eating. I hadn't known Jake was inviting Sam to the Holy Day of Dinner.

"Gonna get the door or just let him wait out there?" Libby watches me. I shrug and sigh.

"I didn't invite him. He can wait." I murmur. Rock scoffs at me and Jacob laughs. I'm not mad at Sam. Not in the least bit put off that he never came over to do laundry. I mean, the normal, civil, polite thing to do when someone offers use of their washer/dryer is that you go use it. But whatever. I've already come to the conclusion that Sam is neither normal, civil, nor all that polite. At least not to me.

"Jesus Mary. I'll get it." Rock shoots me a look and gets up from the table. I smile at him, pleased that I don't have to do it. Not my house. I won't be on the welcoming committee.

"Sammy boy! Come on in. You made it just in time." Rock says, his voice fond and happy. My uncle really does like Sam. I'm not sure when it happened. And despite my own misgivings, I can see why. Sam's a man's man. Doesn't talk much. Gets right to the point. Knows how to shoot the shit about nothing in particular.

"Thanks for the invite." Sam says as they walk into the kitchen. I try to pretend not to care, but I feel rude ignoring him. I look up in time to see Sam greet Jacob and Libby. Jacob slaps him on the back, and thrusts a beer in his hand. Libby gives him a half smile and a nod, which is like a full smile and a hug to regular people.

"What'd you bring?" Libby nods to a bag in Sam's hand. Sam shifts, looking uncertain for a second and then pulls a pie out of the bag.

"Apple pie. From the bakery." He says, looking surprisingly shy. As if he's being judged for what he's brought. Well, he is being judged. Harshly. Even if only by me.

"Oh! Keep it away from Max. That's her favorite." Rock throws me unabashedly under the bus, and I scrunch my nose at him.

"Oh?" Sam looks at me, an eyebrow raised. He's wearing a red and gray plaid flannel over a gray tshirt. He looks like a lumberjack. As per usual. He doesn't have many looks.

"It's okay." I shrug.

"You ate half of one of those for lunch the other day." Libby scrapes my carcass off the asphalt and then throws me under another bus. I sigh.

"Thanks for bringing something. Have a seat." I ignore them all. Who cares if I have a weakness for the apple crumb pie from Sweet Nothings Bakery? Doesn't everyone? Can't a girl love a pie in peace?!

Rock gets up, grabbing condiments from the fridge and ushers Sam into the spot he was sitting in. The space on the bench right next to me. Sam looks at me, almost apologetically, and sits down. Our thighs touch, side by side and I shift slightly.

"Hope you're hungry." Rock settles down next to Jacob and everyone starts passing food to Sam.

"It's nice to have a home cooked meal. It's been awhile." Sam says, in that strangely soft-spoken way of his. For a man his size, you'd think he'd be loud. And sometimes he can be. When he's showing off, or joking around. And occasionally I'll hear him when he's outside working on the house, cursing when something goes wrong. But for the most part, he speaks quietly. His accent making some of his words a bit muddy.

"Are you getting enough to eat? I guess the kitchen in the old house isn't quite up to standards." Rock nods. Sam passes me the salad bowl.

"I am, thanks. Gram's is pretty good."

"Meatloaf." Jacob says simply through a mouthful of burger. Sam tips his beer at Jacob.

"And the kitchen is next on my list. Right after the siding is finished." Sam grins then, and I feel a tight kick deep in my stomach. The change from serious and overwhelmingly masculine to sweet, but goofy and somehow approachable.

"Well you're welcome to eat here, anytime you want." Libby offers with a bright grin. I squint at her.

"You don't even live here." I say under my breath. I feel Sam move and when I glance at him, I can see he's laughing, quietly.

"Libby's right though. You're always welcome." Rock tips his beer at Sam, and Sam smiles warmly and clinks his bottle. Well, aren't they chummy?

We spend the rest of the dinner in pleasant enough conversation. Sam doesn't talk much, but every once in awhile he'll interject with a story or an opinion. Jacob and Rock seem thrilled to have him there. Another man for the Men Only Club. Libby doesn't seem to mind either, which is saying a lot for her.

****

The storm starts just as I make my way home. I run across the distance between Rock's house and my little apartment over the garage behind the old house. My thoughts are on warm blankets and my couch and a movie to take my mind off the weather outside.

I change quickly out of my jeans into yoga pants and a tshirt. Fuzzy socks come next, to complete this rather alluring outfit. Popcorn popping in the microwave, and DVD in the player. I can hear the wind picking up, and the rain starting to patter. I don't know where my phobia comes from. It's like most phobias-- totally unwarranted, and ridiculous. But just the thought of lightning crackling across the sky, and thunder rumbling so loudly it shakes the house...it turns my stomach sour and makes it hard to breathe.

I focus on putting the popcorn in a bowl, and turning the volume up a little louder on the televison. It's hard at times like these, alone and stupidly scared, not to remember what it was like when I was with Evan. In the beginning, my anxiety over storms wasn't bad. It was just normal jumpiness over a particularly violent storms. Only the kind that threatened power outages or trees falling down. Evan would think it was cute. He'd read me books, or lay in bed with me, gently stroking my back until the storm was over. As the years went on, he wasn't as comforting. He'd sometimes laugh at my anxiety, and if he wasn't laughing, he'd act as if it was a huge hassle.

And then, it just got worse. The more I tried to fight it, the more anxious I got. And truthfully, it is a huge hassle. No one wants to be shaking and unable to focus simply because it's raining out. Evan understood for awhile, but then like the rest of our relationship, it just became another thing on a long list of negatives.

I stare at the popcorn, my vision fuzzy as I feel my heart beating fast, erratic. Rock had offered to come over, but it's usually better if I'm alone. Less embarrassing. And somewhere, in the back of my head, the tiny voice of reason tells me I'm okay. Tells me that it'll be over soon. Tells me that there's nothing to be afraid of. Sometimes the voice wins, but usually, it's smothered by my stronger, more urgent thoughts.

I don't even notice someone is banging on my door. It takes me a minute, before I realize it's not the television, and it's not the weather outside. I frown, unwrapping myself from my blanket cocoon, as I make my way to the door. Maybe it's Libby, come to both chastise and make me laugh. Maybe it's my uncle, checking up.

I open the door, praying that a bolt of lightning doesn't strike me dead as I do.

Sam is standing in my doorway, dripping wet and carrying a plastic laundry basket. The wind outside is terrible, sending rain sideways. I can feel the spray against my arms and face.

"Can I come in? It's a little wet out here." His shoulders are soaked, and his short hair matted to his head. The rain is coming down in sheets, more like buckets than drops.

"No. The offer was for Friday." I deadpan, though I open the door wider and step to the side. Sam narrows his eyes at me and then steps inside, just barely brushing by me.

"You could have waited til it wasn't monsooning outside." I close the door just as a crack of lightning and a loud rumble of thunder shake the room. I jump, and then ball my hands into fists, breathing out slowly. Sam is standing still, dripping rainwater onto my entryway floor.

"You ok?" He asks softly. I nod quickly and go to the hall closet. I yank out a clean towel and thrust it toward him. We make eye contact for a brief moment, and he sets his basket down slowly on the floor. Sam takes the towel from me and throws it over his head.

He rubs it roughly across his hair and then down over his face, before settling it on his broad shoulders. He toes his shoes off, leaving them by the door. Big, leather work boots.

The hallway seems smaller with him in it. I can practically smell the rain on him. Damp earth and clean, crisp water. And something else. Something a bit sweet and musky.

Sam hasn't said anything, but he's watching me. His hair stands on end, still damp. His stubble has grown out a bit, and I wonder if he's going for a beard. I get this strange urge to touch his face, but then I mentally slap myself. It's the storm that's got me on edge. I don't want to touch Sam. Sam is icky. Cooties and all that. Apparently, I'm in seventh grade again.

"It's this way." I say quickly, and turn then to take him to my small utility room. It's not much bigger than a walk in closet, but it holds my washer, dryer and hot water heater, along with a utility sink. Sam grabs his basket and follows me. I can feel him behind me.

"Do you know how to work it?" I turn and nearly run into the basket he's holding in front of him. Sam stops moving and then nods his head slowly.

"I've done laundry before, Max. I know I'm usually covered in dirt and sawdust but--"

"Okay, okay." I hold up my hands, admitting to my dumb comment. "I was just making sure because, you know..." I point to my ten year old machine that Rock salvaged from one of his buddy's basements. "This is a pretty high tech machine. And I just didn't know if you could handle the...insane technology." I put my hands on my hips and smile at him, despite myself. Sam cocks his head to the side, and I can tell he's not sure how to take me.

He smiles though, after a moment and sets his basket down on the floor.

"I'll let you know if I need a hand." He walks over and opens the washing machine lid, and starts putting clothes inside. I watch him for a moment, just observing.

A crash of thunder shakes the apartment and it feels as if it's right above us. I gasp without even meaning to, and press myself against the wall. My heart is pounding, and the tiny voice is begging, trying to calm me down.

"You alright? Need your thunder shirt?" Sam looks over his shoulder at me and flashes a smile. His eyes are kind, but I still scowl at him and cross my arms over my chest.

"I don't have a thunder shirt." I say obstinately. He leans over, dumping some detergent into the machine, and then turns toward me. Sam leans back against the washing machine as it hums to life, the noise drowning out some of the sounds of the storm.

"I could wrap you in a blanket." He offers, his eyes do that long sweep of me, and I wonder why I suddenly feel naked. I blink.

"I'll be fine. I'm just...going to go sit in the the other room." I point out to the family room, where there's the movie, and the popcorn, and the couch. Routine is good. It helps calm the anxiety. Even if only a little.

"You want me to come back in a bit? Or stick around?" Sam still has the towel wrapped around his shoulders, and has a bit of a wet dog look to him. I don't really want to sit around with him until his laundry is finished, but I also feel bad about sending him back out into the rain tornado.

"It's up to you. I'm just watching a mooo--" I start to say 'movie', before I remember the movie that I'd just pushed "play" on before he'd shown up. I stumble over my words and blink, wide eyes.

"A movie?" Sam frowns at me, and raises an eyebrow.

"Um, yeah, maybe you should go home. I'll call you when your laundry is ready." I say quickly with a shrug. I'm trying to come off as nonchalant and care free, but I think he thinks I'm having a stroke.

"What are you watching?" He looks confused now, and amused. Sam takes a few steps toward the doorway into the other room, craning his neck to see the television. I step forward and press my hands out to stop him. His chest is harder than I expected. Like a hard, hot, human wall. His shirt is damp, but I can practically feel his skin beneath the soft cotton. Up this close, he towers over me, and I have a feeling if I closed the gap between us, I'd fit perfectly under his chin. Like two puzzle pieces.

Yikes. Ew. I would never do that though. I don't need to puzzle piece with anyone. Especially Sam.

"Nothing. None of your business." I can't help but laugh, because it's embarrassing and also ridiculous. Sam raises both eyebrows at me, his eyes sparkling.

"Oh, come on." He grabs both of my wrists, gently, and pulls them away from his chest. In a quick movement, he has my arms behind my back, and he's pushing me to the side. The way he's got my arms, pushes my chest forward, and as he goes to move past me, his chest brushes against mine.

Sure, it's meant only as a diversion tactic. A way to get me out of his way. But something inside me does this terrible, wonderful little quiver and my horrible, betraying body does a slight shiver that I pray he doesn't notice.

But he notices. He notices so much that he stops moving. His chest pressed against mine, One of his big hands wrapped around both of my wrists, though he's hardly using any pressure at all. I'm letting him hold me like that. I've lost it. My brain has gone to mush.

I swallow hard and force myself to look up at him. Sam's expression was playful a moment ago, but now it's something else. His eyes are lowered, his focus somewhere around my mouth. He has eyes like dark, velvety chocolate. Warm and intense.

I don't even like Sam. Why do I suddenly want him, so very badly, to be my very own thunder shirt?

"Let me go." I whisper, breathlessly. I raise my chin and look at him, square in the face. Something flickers in his dark eyes, but he doesn't give anything away. He never does. Sam licks his lips, those full lips that are almost infuriating. Women would kill for those lips. Either to have them, or to feel them...

Sam lets go of my wrists, though he was barely holding them to start. His fingertips graze my wrists, and I am thankful that another crash of thunder happens, which makes it easier to disguise the tremble I feel. He runs one hand up my arm, and then takes a step back, away from me.

"Show me what you're watching? Porn?" He grins then, a full on, naughty grin. I laugh, loudly, unable to hold it in. The tension of the past moment breaks and we both giggle.

"No, you idiot." I walk away, out of the room, and finally feel like I can breathe again. Sam follows me a second later, into my small family room. I've got the lights turned down low, my discarded blanket tossed on the couch.

"Titanic." Sam blinks as Leonardo DiCaprio's adorable little baby face fills the screen. I shift awkwardly and make a face. There goes all my street cred.

"Girl porn." I whisper, looking into Leo's baby blues. Sam laughs and shakes his head.

"I can't believe you're watching this. You, of all people." He sits down on my couch, uninvited, and immediately it seems as if he's sprawling. I glare at him.

"Hey, you can't stay." I sit down next to him though, in the small spot he's left for me. Sam reaches forward and takes a handful of my popcorn.

"Hey!"

"You're surprising, Max. Never pegged you for a sap." He grins and noisily eats my popcorn. I continue glaring.

"I'm not a sap. I just find it...soothing during a thunderstorm..." I roll my eyes.

"Soothing?! Soothing? Thousands of people dying and you find it soothing." Sam huffs. "Okay, okay. Nevermind, it makes sense. I get it. That's the Max I know." He winks at me. HE WINKS AT ME.

I suddenly want to pounce on him, bite him, punch him hard in all his soft spots. If he even has any.

"I only watch til they hit the iceberg. Then I turn it off." I grab the bowl of popcorn and hold it as far as I can away from him. Sam sighs and then I thrust the bowl back at him. He takes a handful.

"Alright, well let's see what Leo's got to say." He settles back, getting comfortable. I frown at him, tucking my legs under as I turn toward him on the couch.

"Surely you have better things to do than watch chick flicks with me." I say quietly. I can't help but study the side of his face. He's intently watching the movie, one hand at his mouth.

"No, not really." He says without looking at me.

"I didn't technically invite you to watch." I lean back against the sofa, getting comfortable as well. Sam turns his head then, and leans it back against the pillows. He looks sleepy, comfortable. Almost like he belongs there, though he most definitely does not.

"Are you kicking me out, then?" He asks, his voice low.

"Yes." I whisper. Sam's eyes search my face. He doesn't move.

"Can I change your mind?" He lifts his head slightly. I chew on my lip, and feel my heart pound against my chest.

"I don't think so." I don't smile. He raises an eyebrow-- the one with the tiny scar on it, and moves to get up.

"How did you get that scar?" I ask, and my hand shoots out, stopping him from getting up. Brain Max wants Evil Sam to leave. Body Max wants Evil Sam to stay, stay, stay.

Sam leans forward on his knees for a second, scrubs a hand over his face and then grins.

"I'm leaving, remember? No time for chit chat." He tilts his head and rests his chin on his hand. I narrow my eyes at him and then curiousity kills the cat.

"Answer my question and you can stay." I offer.

"Fine. I answer your question, you answer one of mine." He counters.

I shake my head, but I don't say 'No.'

"You first." I grab the blanket off the floor and wrap it around my legs and feet. Sam settles back.

"Car accident. I was fourteen." He crosses his arms over his chest, and jostles his leg around. I try to read his expression, but it's hard. He doesn't give things away easily. I don't know why I find him fascinating. Why I want to know more.

"Was it bad?" I ask. I turn and grab the remote, turning the volume down a bit. Right now, Kate is sobbing while holding onto the railing of the boat, threatening to jump. Leo is talking her down from the ledge.

"It was." Sam takes a deep breath and then that's it. Case closed. He turns and runs a hand over his jaw. "So, tell me. Who is Evan?" His question catches me off guard, and I'm still thinking about his car accident. I sit back and clear my throat.

"How do you know who Evan is?"

"This town is pretty small. Sit in the Shaky Spoon for a morning or two, and you'll learn everyone's deepest, darkest secrets." He waits. I wait. It's a stand off, but we made an agreement, so I answer.

"He's my ex. Ex fiance. Whatever." I say finally. Sam nods.

"I figured. But why won't everyone shut up about him?"

"That's two questions."

"Answer." Sam orders, leaning slightly toward me. I groan softly and shrug.

"He's the golden boy. He's a doctor. He was a star student. We were together for a long time. We were going to get married about six months ago. Instead, he decided he'd rather sleep with my best friend. So...now he's got a practice in Marshy Point and a new fiance." I lick my lips, my mouth dry. Sam is quiet.

Kate is defending Leo, keeping him from getting arrested for saving her from jumping off the boat.

The rain outside pounds, but I barely notice it.

"Are you still hung up on him?" Sam asks after a beat. I blink and look away.

"Maybe, but not in the way you'd think." I answer honestly.

"It's like a ghost right? Something you can't quite shake? It's done and over, but it's never quite far from your peripheral." Sam's response surprises me, and I feel tears burn at the corners of my eyes. I nod and then take a quick breath.

"I didn't know you were so...insightful." I tease, glancing at him. Sam shrugs and gives me a small smile.

"We've all got ghosts. It's nothing to be ashamed of." He turns back to the television.

We sit in silence for awhile, neither of us speaking, or really feeling the need to. We share the rest of the popcorn. Kate and Leo run around on the boat. They dance, Leo draws Kate, and they make love in the back of the steamy old car.

Sam doesn't make annoying comments. He doesn't make fun of the movie. We just watch it, together. And when the boat finally hits the iceberg, and I go to turn it off, I realize that I've completely forgotten about the storm raging outside. And Sam had forgotten to put his clothes in the dryer.

So I put on another movie, one that's less sad, and Sam throws his stuff in the dryer. We get ourselves some beers, and Sam and I sit on my tiny couch, watching television in near silence for the rest of the night.