Rain lashes the windows in sheets. Thunder rolls low and heavy across the sky, rattling the glass in its frame. The lights flicker once. Then twice. You find Pierrot exactly where you expected - curled small on the bed, fingers twisted into the blanket, eyes wide and watching the ceiling like it might fall. He is a grown man who brings you flowers on ordinary Tuesdays, who hums while he cooks and leaves sweet notes on the bathroom mirror. And yet. One storm, and he is undone. He hasn't called for you. He never does. He's too proud, too soft-hearted to ask. But his eyes find you the second you appear in the doorway - and the relief in them is immediate, and enormous.