It was raining. Hard.

Not the gentle kind — not the kind that made you want to open your window and listen. This was the kind that punished rooftops, turned gutters into rivers, and made your skin feel too thin for your bones. It was the kind of rain that reminded you how small you were.

I hadn’t meant to get caught in it. But I never brought an umbrella. I used to tell myself it was because I didn’t mind getting wet. The truth was: I didn’t think far ahead enough to plan for things like weather. Some days, it was hard enough just to show up.

I had Rafe’s umbrella at home. I hadn’t meant to keep it, but I couldn’t bring myself to give it back. Maybe part of me wanted to hold on to something that was his. Or maybe I just forgot. Lately, my head felt too full and too empty at the same time. Especially because of rafe

So when the final bell rang and the sky split open, all I could do was pull my hood over my head and hope.

By the time I made it to the parking lot, I was already soaked.

And then I saw him.

Leaning against the bike rack like he’d been waiting. Hood up. Drenched. A cigarette tucked between his fingers, unlit. He didn’t look surprised to see me.

He didn’t ask why I didn’t bring his umbrella. He didn’t even mention it. Just looked at me for a beat, then turned and started walking. I followed without a word. We didn't bother ducking under our school bags. We both were already drenched.

We ran the two blocks to the overpass like kids escaping something. Like we weren’t just avoiding rain but racing against the weight of the world.

By the time we reached cover, my lungs were burning. My clothes clung to my skin, heavy and cold. I was shivering so hard it felt like my teeth were trying to rattle out of my skull.

I didn’t say anything. Just pressed myself against the concrete wall, trying to become less. Arms crossed. Eyes low. Water dripping from my bangs. My hoodie was soaked through — useless.

Rafe didn’t say anything either.

But a second later, I felt fabric tug over my head. Warm. Heavy. His hoodie.

Still holding the heat of him. Still smelling like cigarettes and something older, softer — detergent, maybe. Or the leather of his backpack. Or just Rafe.

I froze.

“You’ll freeze,” I said, voice barely above the roar of rain. I hated how it shook. Hated how small I sounded.

He leaned against the opposite wall, bare-armed and dripping, like he didn’t feel the cold. “Worth it,” he said, and smiled.

Something in my chest twisted. I turned away, hoping he didn’t see the way my cheeks went pink.

But I think he did.
—-----------------------------------------------------

“You’re different.”

I hadn’t meant to say it. The words just slipped out, soft and true and terrifying.

Rafe glanced at me sideways, one brow raised. “That a good thing?”

I looked down at my hands — pale, knuckles scraped from where I’d caught them on my desk the other day trying not to flinch when someone slammed a locker too close.

I curled them tighter.

“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

There was a beat of quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Like something had settled between us.

He didn’t look away. His gaze held mine, steady and searching, and I felt like he could see through me — like he was peeling back every layer I kept hidden.

And I wanted to ask him: Why do you stay? Why do you care? What do you see in someone like me?

But I didn’t.

Because if the answer was pity — if the answer was anything less than what I was starting to hope — I didn’t think I could handle it.

The rain kept falling. A wall of silver just feet away.

“I used to wish someone like you would show up,” I said, almost to myself. My voice felt like it belonged to someone else.

Rafe didn’t laugh. Didn’t brush it off.

“Someone like me?” he asked.

I nodded slowly. “Loud. Brave. Messy. Not afraid of anything.”

His laugh came, but it wasn’t light. It was bitter. Like something cracked open.

“I’m scared all the time,” he said.

I blinked. “You act like—”

“I act like I don’t give a shit,” he cut in, voice sharper now. “Because if I stop pretending, I have to actually feel things. And when I feel things, I fuck them up.”

I wanted to say you haven’t fucked this up. I wanted to say you make things feel safer, not worse.

But I didn’t.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” I said instead. My voice was barely above a whisper.

His eyes flicked to mine, and for a second, I saw it — that flicker, like I’d said something he didn’t know how to hold. Like it meant more than either of us wanted to admit.

He looked at me for a long moment.

“I don’t think you’re broken either,” he said.

The words hit harder than they should have. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear them until they were already hanging in the air.

We stood there a while. Not speaking. Just breathing the same air, hearts beating in the space between us, the sky pouring its weight on everything else.

When the rain finally started to slow, Rafe glanced at me.

“Want me to walk you home?”

My stomach dropped.

I knew what my house looked like from the outside. Peeling paint. Empty flowerpots. A door that creaked like it was tired of being opened. I knew what it sounded like inside — his voice, her silence, the static of a TV no one watched.

I shook my head fast. “No. It’s fine. I’m close.”

“You sure?” he asked, not pushing but still there.

“Yeah.” I forced a smile. “I kind of like walking after the rain.”

That was a lie. I liked not being seen.

Rafe didn’t argue. He just nodded, his hair dripping onto his collar.

But he watched me as I left.

And even with his hoodie weighing warm on my shoulders, I felt the chill of what I wasn’t saying.

Because if he followed me home, he’d see.

And if he saw — if he knew — he might stop looking at me the way he did.

And I didn’t think I could survive losing that.

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First of all . Ik I am late. And it's a short chapter. Forgive me. Ideas weren't popping up in my head. So i ended up writing this. Yes , I know it's more of a filler chapter. But bear with me 💕.