Through The Open Window

The Porch Pact

The storm rolled in without warning.

One minute the night was still and sticky, cicadas humming lazily in the trees. The next, a sharp c***k split the sky and the power flickered out, plunging the house into a hushed, unfamiliar dark.

“Of course,” I muttered, fumbling for my phone flashlight.

Mom was fast asleep downstairs she could sleep through an earthquake. But I couldn’t stay cooped up in the stale heat. The house felt too quiet, too heavy. I slipped into my hoodie, padded barefoot down the stairs, and stepped out onto the porch.

The air smelled like rain waiting to fall on wet pavement, ozone, and a hint of something metallic. The streetlamps were out, leaving the neighbourhood dim and dreamlike.

And then, a voice.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

I startled so hard I nearly dropped my phone. Ethan Carter leaned against the porch railing next door, his silhouette illuminated by a flash of lightning. A mug steamed in his hand. His hoodie hung loose, sleeves shoved to his elbows, hair even messier than before.

He lifted the second mug he carried and held it up like a peace offering. “Hot chocolate?”

Suspicion flickered through me, but the smell of cocoa wafted over, rich and sweet. I hesitated before nodding. He crossed the short stretch of grass that separated our porches and set the mug on my railing before retreating to his own.

“Thanks,” I said, wrapping my hands around the warmth. “But how’d you know I like hot chocolate?”

He shrugged. “It’s a storm. Everyone likes hot chocolate during a storm. It’s practically science.”

I smirked despite myself. “And if I hated it?”

“Then I’d drink both, and you’d be stuck jealous and cold. Win-win for me.”

I sipped, the sweetness coating my tongue. Okay, he had a point.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating his face for just a second. His eyes were darker than I expected, intent but not unkind. He seemed older in that brief moment not in years, but in weight, like someone who had carried too much for too long.

“So,” I said, shifting on the porch step. “Do you always offer late-night cocoa to your new neighbours, or am I just lucky?”

“Only the ones who stare at me through windows,” he said smoothly.

Heat crept into my cheeks. “I wasn’t”

“You were.” He smirked. “Don’t worry. I didn’t mind.”

The rain finally began to fall, fat drops splattering the porch steps. We sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the patter, sipping cocoa. The quiet felt easy, natural, like we’d done this before.

“Why are you awake?” I asked finally.

He tilted his head. “Why are you awake?”

“Touche,” I admitted. “I guess I’m not used to the silence here yet. Feels like the house is listening.”

His gaze lingered on me for a beat too long. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know that feeling.”

The way he said it sent a ripple through me not fear, but curiosity. What did he mean?

Before I could ask, thunder cracked overhead, and the porch light flickered back to life for a second before dying again. Ethan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Alright,” he said. “We should make a deal.”

I blinked. “A deal?”

“Yeah. A pact.” His tone was serious, though his eyes glinted with something playful. “Whenever either of us can’t sleep, we meet here. Porches only. No texting, no knocking on doors. Just this.”

I hesitated, studying him. He was still a stranger the boy next door with the easy smirk and too many secrets. But something about the offer tugged at me. A secret place, just ours.

Finally, I extended my hand. “A porch pact, then.”

He grinned, shaking it. His hand was warm, calloused, grounding. “Porch pact.”

We talked until the storm thinned into drizzle.

He told me about working at a record store downtown, how people still came in asking for vinyl even though everyone had Spotify. He played guitar because, according to him, “someone has to keep the cliché alive.”

I told him about my camera, how I wanted to be a photographer, how I chased the perfect shot like other people chased adrenaline. He asked what my favourite photo was, and when I admitted it hadn’t happened yet, he didn’t laugh. He just nodded, like he understood.

At one point, I caught him watching me, and my chest squeezed tight. His gaze wasn’t mocking or playful. It was something heavier. Like I was the subject of a picture he wanted to memorise.

But then I asked about his family, and the shutters came down.

“My mom’s… gone. It’s just me, my sister, and my dad,” he said quickly, steering the conversation back toward me.

The words hung in the humid air, and I didn’t push.

By the time I finally stood, empty mug in hand, the storm had ended and the air was fresh and cool.

“Thanks for the cocoa,” I said.

“Thanks for the company,” he replied, leaning against his railing.

I lingered, not ready to go inside. He noticed. His mouth curved. “Go on, Sinclair. Sleep before I start charging you porch rent.”

I rolled my eyes but stepped toward the door. “Goodnight, Carter.”

“Goodnight.”

Inside, I set my mug in the sink, heart still beating too fast. Something about the way he said goodnight low, certain felt like it belonged to more than neighbours.

Upstairs, I peeked through my window. His porch was empty, but his room glowed faintly. He sat at his desk, head bent over a notebook. His hand moved quickly across the page.

Curious, I leaned closer.

For just a second, as lightning split the sky again, I saw it.

At the top of the page. Scrawled in dark ink.

My name.

Maya.

I stumbled back from the window, breath catching in my throat.

Why was he writing my name?