Rain had a way of turning everything into a confession.  

The city outside was blurred, silver, and soft—too quiet, too honest.

Bailey Dofen leaned against the window of the training dorm, watching droplets race each other down the glass.  

Her body ached, her shoulder bandaged, her thoughts too loud.  

There was a knock.  

She didn’t turn. “It’s open.”

Man stepped inside, damp from the rain, hair mussed, smile hesitant.  

He held a takeout bag in one hand and a ridiculous bouquet of convenience-store daisies in the other.

“You’re early,” she said.

“You’re predictable,” he countered. “I figured I’d beat your insomnia.”

“I don’t have insomnia.”

He set the food down. “Then you’re very committed to staring at rain for someone who sleeps fine.”

She exhaled, finally facing him. “You came all the way here just to lecture me?”

“Partly. Mostly to feed you. And maybe annoy you a little.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Good. Now eat.”

They sat on the couch, the storm murmuring outside.  

Bailey poked at the food with her chopsticks. “You’re terrible at timing.”

“I’m consistent,” he said.

“You’re intrusive.”

“I’m devoted.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours.”

She froze. He blinked, then winced. “That came out too fast, didn’t it?”

“A little.”

“Do I get points for honesty?”

“Depends if you survive the night.”

He laughed softly. “Worth it.”

She looked down at the noodles, hiding a smile. “You really don’t know how to stop.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

“Dangerous answer.”

“True one.”

For a while, they just ate. No noise except the rain, soft and steady like breath.  

When she reached for a napkin, their fingers brushed—brief, accidental, too deliberate to be an accident.  

She didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

Her pulse betrayed her first.  

He noticed, of course he did.

“Still say you’re fine?” he asked quietly.

She met his eyes. “Still say you’re not an idiot?”

“Touché.”

The silence stretched, fragile as glass.  

He leaned closer, not enough to touch, just enough to make the air between them hum.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

She didn’t.

His hand lifted, barely brushing her jaw, thumb tracing the edge of her bandage instead of her skin.  

“You really should rest,” he said softly.

“You really should leave,” she replied.

“Neither of us is good at should.”

“That’s the problem.”

“Or the reason,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “For what?”

“For everything that’s happening right now.”

Her voice almost broke. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

“I know.”

“Then why does it feel—” She stopped, the words trembling.

He waited. “Like what?”

“Like I’ve been holding my breath for months,” she said, “and you’re the first person who noticed.”

He exhaled, slow. “Then breathe, Bailey.”

Her eyes closed. “And if I fall apart?”

“I’ll catch you.”

“You promise a lot.”

“I keep the important ones.”

The rain grew heavier.  

He finally leaned back, breaking the spell before either of them crossed that invisible line.  

Bailey opened her eyes, feeling the distance like loss.

“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she asked, half teasing, half terrified.

He smiled faintly. “Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d let me.”

Her breath hitched. “And that’s bad?”

“No,” he said. “That’s real.”

He stood, slipping his jacket off and draping it over the armrest. “Keep it. You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“Still efficient.”

He smiled at that, the kind of smile that hurt a little to look at.  

“Sleep, Bailey.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll stay until you do.”

She wanted to argue. She didn’t.  

When she finally drifted off, he was still there—quiet, watching, the rain softening his edges.

And though she never saw it, he whispered something before he left.

“Don’t get used to silence without me.”