Rain's POV:
I can't breathe.
Heat crawls up my neck, my chest tightening like someone dropped a boulder on it.
He walks in here all smiles and jokes, like he didn't tear my entire world apart six years ago.
Like nothing happened.
He doesn't get to do that.
I bolt to the nearest restroom, vision blurring, the corridor tilting around me.
My stomach rolls.
I grip the sink, but my knees give out anyway.
I look at myself in the mirror—and I want to scream.
He's been here for one hour, one stupid hour, and I'm already falling apart like I never spent years stitching myself back together.
Did I forget the months I spent dragging myself out of bed, pretending I wasn't hollow?
The nights I cried until my chest physically hurt because I didn't know how to live without him?
The promises I made in the dark—
Never again. Never again will I let him break me.
And yet…
And yet some infuriating, stupid, traitorous part of me is thrilled he's back.
My pulse won't slow down.
My hands won't stop shaking.
It's like my body remembers him even when my mind screams that I shouldn't.
I hate it.
I hate that the sight of him still does this to
me.
I hate that I care—after everything.
I hate that the pieces of me I worked so hard to glue together are already trembling at the edges, aching for him like they never learned their lesson.
I hate that my heart is the one thing I can't train, can't discipline, can't shut up.
I hate that my body remembers things my brain has tried to bury.
I hate that six years weren't enough to switch off whatever the hell this is inside me.
I stare at my reflection, at the anger and longing twisted together, and I feel sick.
Because after everything he put me through—the silence, the sudden distance, the way he walked out of my life—
One hour is all it took for something inside me to wake up again.
Something I don't want.
Something I don't trust.
Something I can't stand.
And I hate myself for feeling it.
Shame burns hot in my chest.
I slide down to the floor and the tears come hard.
Memories slam into me.
Six Years Ago
I woke up reaching for him, my fingers brushing warm sheets that still smelled like him.
My body felt heavy in that lazy, satisfied way, every muscle loose, my skin still humming with the night.
I stretched, and a soft ache pulled through my inner thighs—deep, vivid, unmistakable.
Heat rushed to my face.
I reached out for him , but the bed was empty, I didn't think much of it.
Not at first.
I just rolled onto my back and laughed quietly to myself, feeling stupidly happy, like the universe had finally given me something right.
"Danny?" I called out, still half-asleep, half-dreaming, expecting to hear his muffled voice from the kitchen or the hallway.
No answer.
Whatever.I was too wrapped in the afterglow to care.
I pushed the blanket off and swung my legs off the bed, padding toward the mirror without thinking.
The early morning sun was pouring in, gold and soft, and it lit up every inch of me.
I froze.
My breath caught in my throat.
Hickeys everywhere.
Across my chest—some bright red, some already fading into blue and yellow.
A constellation of bite marks scattered over my waist, my hips, the curve just above my thighs.
His fingerprints still faintly pressed into my skin, like he'd tried to memorize the shape of me with his hands.
I touched one of the marks on my shoulder and felt my cheeks burn.
It was ridiculous how warm I felt, how flustered I got just looking at what he'd done to me.
Wasn't so blushy-blushy last night, were you?
I shook my head, mortified and warm all at once, because last night… last night I hadn't been shy about anything.
Still flustered, I bent down and grabbed his T-shirt from the floor. It was soft and oversized, brushing over every mark as I pulled it on, swallowing me all the way to my thighs.
He always said I looked better in his clothes than he ever did.
I caught my reflection again—hair messy, lips bitten, a map of him drawn all over my skin—and the stupid smile tugged at my mouth again.
So of course I was smiling.
Of course I felt light.
Of course everything felt soft and perfect and right.
Because in that moment—before the silence sank in, before the dread crept under my skin—I still believed he was mine.
He always woke up with me.
Always.
Every morning, without fail, he'd pull me into his chest before I was fully awake, bury his face into my neck, and mumble, "I don't want to start my day without seeing your face."
Then I'd laugh, push at him half-heartedly, and somehow we'd end up tangled in the sheets for another hour—warm, lazy, untouched by the world outside.
But today?
Nothing.
The silence felt wrong in a way I couldn't immediately explain.
I checked the kitchen first, expecting to see him leaning against the counter, hair messy, waiting to tease me about how slow I walked in the morning.
Empty.
The balcony—maybe he'd stepped out for air.
Nothing.
The hallway, the little reading nook by the window, even the stupid spot near the shoe rack where he sometimes sat to tie his laces and ended up distracted talking to me for ten whole minutes.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
A tiny tremor ran through me, but I swallowed it down.
I grabbed my phone and called him.
Number unreachable.
That's fine. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he stepped out for something quick. Maybe he'd be back before I—
But the unease was no longer tiny.
It was cold.
And spreading.
I kept calling on my way home, checking my phone every five minutes like a reflex I couldn't control.
Nothing.
The entire day dragged itself across my nerves. Every hour that passed without a message felt heavier, stranger, like sand filling up my lungs grain by grain.
This wasn't him.
He wasn't careless.
He wasn't silent.
He wasn't the type to vanish without a word—not after the way he held me last night, not after everything he whispered against my skin.
At 9 p.m., my hands wouldn't stop trembling.
I kept pacing the living room, checking my phone every thirty seconds like it might magically ring if I stared hard enough. Mom watched me with that worried, knowing look mothers have—the one that means she already senses everything is falling apart before you even say a word.
"Rain… what happened?" she finally asked softly.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
I just kept shaking my head, clutching my phone like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
And then—
her voice shifted.
Gentle. Careful. Too careful.
"Rain… he left."
My heart stuttered.
"What? Left where?"
She hesitated—just a second—but it was enough to break something inside me.
"Something about his dad. An early morning flight. I assumed he told you."
No.
No, no, no.
"He wouldn't—he never—"
My throat closed around the words.
"Mom, he never leaves without telling me. Even if it's something stupid. Even if he's just going to the store—he tells me."
But she just watched me with that helpless expression that made everything worse.
I stumbled back to my room.
Shut the door.
Collapsed on the bed.
And then I called him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I called until my call log was nothing but his name stacked in a miserable column, until my ears hurt from listening to the same automated message, until my fingers ached from gripping the phone too hard.
By 3 a.m., I was exhausted—physically, mentally—my eyes burning, my chest hollow.
I was just about to give up and let sleep pull me under when my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
My stomach flipped violently.
I opened the message.
"Danny?" I called out, still smiling as I stepped out into the soft morning light.
No answer.
I tried again, a little louder this time.
"Dane?"
Silence.
And something in my chest shifted—so small I almost missed it—but enough to notice the wrongness of the quiet.