Rain's POV:
I can't wait to get away from him.
It's exhausting to just be around him—
No.
It's exhausting to feel what I feel around him.
Every step I take beside him feels wrong. Heavy. Familiar in a way that scares me.
My pulse shouldn't know his rhythm. My body shouldn't react like it remembers him better than my mind does.
I keep walking, trying to put space between us, but he stays right there—silent, tense, controlled in that way that makes the air feel tight around him.
And around me.
I don't want to look at him.
I don't want to feel anything.
But my chest is tight, my hands won't stop shaking, and every inch of me is buzzing with questions I don't want answers to.
Because the man walking beside me…
is not the boy I loved.
Where has he brought me?
Who is this man?
Because the Danny I knew… the Danny I loved…
He doesn't look like this.
He doesn't move like this.
He doesn't breathe like this—sharp, calculating, like he's listening to danger I can't even hear.
We pull into what looks like an abandoned mill.
Concrete everywhere. Rusted beams. Broken windows staring down at us like hollow eyes.
It smells like dust and silence and old secrets.
This is not a place normal people go.
This is not a place Danny should know.
I step away from him immediately—my instinct screaming for space.
Away from the van.
Away from the other man—Jake, I think—who watches us with that steady, trained look that definitely doesn't say "I'm a friend."
"Rain—Jesus Christ, now's not the time."
His hand clamps around my arm, firm, urgent, dragging me toward him like the world is closing in and I'm the only thing he refuses to lose.
And I just… go.
Not because I'm okay.
Not because I understand.
But because my brain is still trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the boy I kept frozen in my memory for six years.
My body moves because his does, and something inside me is too stunned to resist.
He sweeps the surroundings with a sharpness that has nothing to do with the Danny I knew.
His shoulders are tighter.
His gaze colder.
His whole body wired like someone who expects to be attacked at any second.
And it hits me—
not like a thought,
Like a wound.
This is not the boy who used to burn cookies with me in his kitchen.
This is not the boy who kissed me like he had nowhere else in the world to be.
This is not the boy who held my hand under the table just because it made him feel braver.
I feel a prickle behind my eyes—a pressure, not tears—and force myself to breathe.
Danny gives Jake a single command.
"Backside. Now."
Jake obeys instantly, vanishing into the shadows like this is all routine—like Danny giving orders is normal.
And that hurts more than anything.
Not because Danny left me.
Not because he came back.
But because I'm standing in front of a man wearing the face of someone I once loved, and I can't recognise any part of him.
I wasn't there to witness that boy.
Danny's grip on me tightens as he pulls me deeper into the mill complex until we reach a small attached outhouse.
The moment we step inside, everything changes.
It's… clean.
Warm.
Set up.
A safe house.
Not dusty, not abandoned—lived in.
Prepared.
He takes me down the narrow stairway, our footsteps echoing. My heartbeat is a drum in my ears.
My mind is bursting.
Why did he bring me here?
Who was following us?
Why would anyone follow him?
Who the hell is Danny now?
What trouble is he in?
How deep?
"Dane, listen," I whisper, half afraid to speak too loudly in this underground box.
"I get it—there's some problem. Did you get in with the wrong people? Some gang? Is it about money? Is someone after you? Just tell me how much. I'll help you, okay? I'll give you—"
He turns and looks at me like I've sprouted two extra heads.
He doesn't answer me.
He just keeps scanning the room—checking windows, checking locks, checking every point of entry. Over and over. Like he's done this a hundred times.
That's when I see it.
"Dane… is that a gun?"
The word feels too small for what it is.
It sits holstered against his torso, matte black, cold, real.
Something that belongs to a stranger. Something that doesn't belong to the boy I knew.
My stomach drops so hard it feels like it scrapes the floor.
Danny—the boy who wanted to be a chef, the boy who used to sneak me into his kitchen to try half-cooked stupid recipes—the boy who made cookies, pastries, noodles at 2 a.m., feeding me every disaster he created with that stupid proud grin—
He had a gun.
A gun.
This isn't the Danny who burned pancakes and then argued—with full confidence—that the pan had a personal vendetta against him. I bought him a new pan on his 14th birthday so he couldn't complain anymore.
God I feel sick.
This isn't the Danny who used to make me fan his eyes after chopping onions.
This isn't the Danny who found joy in ridiculous things—like microwaving marshmallows until they exploded.
This man standing in front of me…
He doesn't laugh at his own stupid jokes.
He doesn't smell like vanilla and burnt sugar.
He doesn't move with that clumsy-boy softness I used to know.
He's sharp edges now.
Tight jaw.
Controlled breathing.
Veins standing out on his hands like he's holding the whole world too tightly.
And that's what breaks me.
Not that he changed.
But that I wasn't there to see the moment the world took all that softness from him.
Before I can say anything else—
A gunshot splits the air.
Not far.
Not outside.
Right there. Close enough that my ears ring and my legs nearly buckle.
I scream before I even register the sound. My body moves before my brain can—straight toward him.
Danny doesn't flinch.
Not a blink.
Not a breath out of rhythm.
"Danny—we have to get out—now—" My voice cracks. "If we stay, we're going to die—"
He grabs my chin, fingers steady, grounding,
"Stay here," he says, voice low, almost a growl. "No matter what happens—Rain—do not come outside. Do you hear me?"
I shake my head, breath failing.
"Danny—no—no—where are you going? Danny—are you actually going out there? Danny!"
He pulls me into him so fast the air leaves my lungs.
His arms lock around me, iron and desperation, his heart hammering against my cheek.
He breathes me in.
Then—God—he presses his lips to my forehead.
"No! Don't do all of this , just why? Stay here , we will find a way " I cried.
"I need to take care of this," he whispers against my skin.
"Take care of what?" My voice breaks. "Danny—WHAT does that mean?"