Dane's POV:
Six years.
That's how long it's been since I've seen her.
Six years, and the sight of her still hits me like a punch I should've been prepared for.
She walks in, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
Her face… it's gentler. Softer around the edges.
Still pretty— she was always pretty.
Her hair's longer now, darker, the ends brushing her waist—framing that face I used to know too damn well.
And her mouth…
Yeah, that brings back a lot of memories I have no business remembering right now.
Jesus those curves.
Since when did she start dressing like that ?
The fabric clung to her in all the wrong ways for my self-control, tracing her waist and the soft curve of her chest like it knew exactly what it was doing. And that little bit of visible skin—God—it was barely anything.
The dip of her waist, the soft curve of her hips, the fullness of her chest.
It made her boobs look so soft I had to blink twice and remind myself I was a grown man with basic self-control.
It's Rain.
She's my Rain.
Nothing in this world should've been strong enough to pull her away from me.
I take out my wallet, glance at the small photo tucked inside, and something settles in my chest—heavy, stubborn, immovable.
I'm not losing her.
Not again.
Not after surviving six years without her voice, without her laugh, without the fire she used to carry around like a second heartbeat.
"So… how have you been? It's been six years," I say, keeping my tone level, pretending I'm not bracing for impact.
Hoping—pathetically—that she'll give me anything.
"What do you care?"
Flat. Cold.
Like I'm a stranger who sat at her table by mistake.
"Rain, please. I know what I did was wrong. Trust me, I know."
I lean forward a little, trying to find her eyes, trying to get through the wall she's hiding behind.
Nothing.
Not even a flicker.
Her silence hits harder than anger ever could.
I almost prefer the shouting, the fire, the way she used to spark over the smallest things.
But this?
This clean, emotionless edge?
It's like she carved me out of her life and forgot to leave a mark.
Still—I push more sincerity into my voice than I've ever used with anyone.
"Just… talk to me."
Because God help me, if she walks away again, I won't survive another six years.
"Rain, please, just say something I know I can't take it back , trust me "
I try to push every ounce of sincerity I have into my voice.
She doesn't even look at me.
"Trust you? Is this a joke?"
Another flat reply. Quick. Sharp. Precise.
Like she's throwing scalpels, not words.
"I'm begging you… please talk to me. I've missed you, baby."
That does it.
Her head snaps up.
Her eyes lock onto mine—blazing, furious, lethal.
If looks could kill, I wouldn't just be dead.
I'd be ash.
"Don't you fucking call me that."
Good.
Finally.
Something other than the cold emptiness she's been cutting me with.
"We are nothing," she says, voice steady, controlled—too controlled. "
"At best, you're an acquaintance. Someone I used to see when we were twelve."
That one hits hard.
Really hard.
Sharp enough to slice straight through the six years I spent choking on her absence.
I feel it in my teeth, in my jaw, in the way my hands clench under the table.
Does she mean that ?
I can hear the lie in her voice, even if she hopes I won't.
But because she said it anyway.
Because she wanted it to land.
Because she wanted to hurt me back.
And god, she did.
I look straight into her eyes—and I know she doesn't mean it.
But the words still hit.
Hard.
Like she reached into my chest and squeezed.
"You know we were more than that," I say, low. "So much more."
She thinks she's the only one who bled.
As if six years without her didn't feel like someone carving pieces out of me, slow and deliberate.
As if every time I lived through hell, she wasn't the one name I wanted to whisper just to stay sane.
As if she has any idea what it took not to reach for her.
But pleading won't work.
Not when she's armored, locked up, unreachable.
I'm about to try again—somehow—when I see him.
A man in a cap, pretending to read, eyes flicking up in intervals so practiced it almost insults me.
Too still.
Too controlled.
Too focused on us.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
I disappear for two days and the vultures already circle.
My blood goes cold, then hot, like a fuse catching fire.
Before I can process my next move, Rain cuts through my thoughts.
"Yeah, okay, so we fucked. You were one of the many. Hard to remember specifics."
A lie.
So bold it's almost impressive.
So reckless it makes something in me snap.
My jaw tightens.
My vision narrows.
I feel the old instinct coil—territorial, sharp, unforgiving.
One of the many?
Me?
The thought doesn't just burn.
It detonates.
I lean forward slightly, not enough for anyone to notice—just enough for her to feel it.
A low, dangerous calm settles in my chest, the kind I only get right before I pull the trigger on something irreversible.
"Rain," I say softly, almost too softly, "don't test me"