Rain hits the pavement in relentless sheets, turning the street into a blurred reflection of lights and shadows.

He shouldn’t have been out this late.

That’s what he tells himself as he pulls his jacket tighter, head ducked against the downpour, shoes splashing through shallow water as he cuts through the quieter part of town. The kind of street people avoid when the weather turns bad.

Except—

There’s someone there.

At first, he thinks it’s just a trick of the light. A shape near the bus stop, half-hidden behind the flickering glow of a dying streetlamp.

Then lightning flashes.

And the shape becomes a girl.

No—

A woman.

Standing barefoot on the wet pavement, soaked through, clutching the edges of a white dress that is very clearly not meant for rain.

Or streets.

Or running.

He slows.

Watches.

She doesn’t see him yet.

Her hair—once styled, probably perfectly—now clings to her face and neck in damp strands. The dress, heavy with water, drags slightly at her ankles, lace darkened and ruined by mud.

A bride.

His first instinct is simple.

Walk away.

This is none of his business. People don’t end up like this without complications attached. Loud ones. Messy ones.

He takes a step back.

Then she laughs.

It’s quiet. Almost swallowed by the rain—but there’s something wrong with it. Not joy. Not relief.

Something cracked.

He stops.

“…Great plan,” she mutters to herself, voice trembling just enough to carry. “Run away. Brilliant. Really thought that through.”

He exhales slowly.

Damn it.

“You usually critique your life choices out loud,” he calls over the rain, “or is tonight special?”

She freezes.

Slowly—very slowly—she turns toward him.

For a second, she just stares.

Like she wasn’t expecting anyone to answer back.

Up close, it’s worse.

Her makeup is smeared—not dramatically, just enough to show she tried to keep it together and failed. Her eyes are too bright, too sharp, like she hasn’t decided yet whether she’s going to cry again or not.

“Go away,” she says.

Not harsh.

Just… tired.

He tilts his head slightly. “Tempting.”

She huffs a weak breath, almost another laugh, shaking her head. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

“You’re barefoot. In the rain. In a wedding dress.”

A pause.

“I’ve had better nights,” she admits.

He steps closer anyway.

Slow. Careful.

Like approaching something that might bolt.

“Did you run far?” he asks.

Her lips press together.

“Far enough.”

“Someone looking for you?”

Silence.

That’s answer enough.

He sighs, running a hand through his already damp hair. “You picked a terrible place to stop.”

“I didn’t pick it,” she says quietly. “I just… couldn’t keep going.”

That lands differently.

Not dramatic.

Just honest.

He glances around—empty street, rain getting heavier, the kind of cold that seeps in fast if you stand still too long.

Then back at her.

“You’re going to get sick,” he says.

She shrugs, hugging her arms tighter around herself. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing that happens today.”

There’s that crack again.

He studies her for a second longer.

Then—

“Come on.”

She blinks. “What?”

“My place is a few minutes from here,” he says. “Dry clothes. Heat. No questions you don’t want to answer.”

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“You just invite random runaway brides home often?”

“Only on days ending in ‘y’.”

Despite everything, that almost pulls a real reaction from her—a faint, disbelieving exhale.

“I don’t even know you,” she says.

“Good,” he replies. “Less awkward history.”

She hesitates.

You can see it—the calculation, the doubt, the thin thread of instinct telling her to be careful battling the very real fact that she’s cold, exhausted, and out of options.

Another roll of thunder breaks overhead.

She flinches slightly.

He notices.

“Or,” he adds, softer now, shrugging out of his jacket, “you can keep standing here proving a point to no one.”

He steps closer just enough to drape the jacket over her shoulders.

She stiffens at first—

Then stills.

It’s warm.

Dry.

The contrast hits immediately.

Her fingers clutch the fabric before she can stop herself.