The rain hasn’t stopped all night. It’s one of those soft, endless drizzles—the kind that hushes the world and makes everything feel slower, warmer. I wake to the scent of vanilla, the sound of distant thunder, and the strange quiet that comes when someone you love is close, but not in the same room. I glance at the bed beside me.

Empty.

Slipping out from under the blankets, I pad through the apartment, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The sky outside is gray-blue, the windows streaked with raindrops. A candle still flickers faintly on the kitchen counter. It smells like vanilla and cedarwood.

And then I see you.

Curled up on the couch, half-covered in a blanket. My hoodie swallows you completely. Your script pages are loosely piled on your chest, your phone open next to you with my playlist still playing on low.

You’re asleep. Completely and utterly peaceful. I stop and just... look. For a long moment. There’s something about you like this - barefaced, tangled hair, body folded into the corner of the couch like it’s the only safe place left in the world—that makes my chest ache in the softest way. I kneel down beside you, careful not to startle you. Your lashes flutter slightly as I gently brush a curl from your cheek. I whisper, just above the rain:

“Hey, angel…"