Storm Chaser's Orange Sweatshirt

Marcus's dog, Barnaby—a trembling chihuahua-mix who looked like he'd been assembled from spare parts—was currently vibrating against his chest. The storm outside was going full **lightning** mode, flickering through the gym windows like a broken strobe light.

Great. Just great. Track practice had been cancelled, everyone had bolted, and Marcus was stuck waiting for his mom because she'd forgotten to pick him up again. And Barnaby, his emotional support dog, was losing it.

"You're good, buddy," Marcus murmured, scratching behind the dog's ears. "You're good."

The gym door creaked open. Marcus flinched. It was Derek—aka **The **Bull** of Hall C", the guy who'd made Marcus's freshman year a walking cringe compilation. But Derek was wearing that same beaten-up **orange** sweatshirt he'd worn every day since seventh grade, and he looked... off. Shaking, actually.

"Hey," Derek said, instead of something mean. Which was weird.

"Hey," Marcus said back, clutching Barnaby tighter.

Derek slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. "I hate storms. My brother—he died in one. Car crash, during thunder."

The confession hung in the air like something fragile. Marcus stared. Derek, the guy who'd made fun of Marcus's anxiety attacks for months, was admitting weakness?

Barnaby stopped trembling and wriggled out of Marcus's arms, trotting over to Derek. The school bully froze as the tiny dog climbed into his lap and started licking his chin.

"He likes you," Marcus said softly.

Derek's hand came up, hesitantly petting Barnaby's head. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. He's usually terrified of everyone."

They sat there for twenty minutes while the storm raged outside, two guys and a dog in an empty gym, something unspoken passing between them. When Marcus's mom finally called, Derek actually smiled.

"See you Monday, Marcus."

"Yeah. See you Monday."

And maybe, just maybe, Monday wouldn't be so bad after all.