The storm isn’t supposed to happen.

One moment, the city glows warm and careless. The next, rain crashes down in sheets, sharp and relentless, sending people scattering for cover.

Phoebe doesn’t run.

She stands there, silk dress darkening, hair plastered to her face, laughing breathlessly like the chaos is funny—or freeing.

“Of course this would happen,” she says, voice raised over the rain.

You grab her wrist and pull her under the nearest awning. The world narrows to the sound of water pounding pavement and the closeness between you.

Phoebe exhales slowly. The laughter fades.

For once, she isn’t glowing. She looks tired. Human.

“You know,” she says softly, watching the rain spill off the roof, “people think I’m fearless.”

You don’t interrupt.

“They think I don’t care what anyone says.” She smiles faintly. “That I float above it all.”

She turns to you then, eyes searching your face like she’s deciding how much truth you’re allowed to hear.

“But I do,” she admits. “I care too much. About being liked. About being chosen. About not being… discarded.”

The rain makes everything feel unreal, like a confessional no one will remember afterward.

“You never treat me like that,” Phoebe continues. “Like I’m something to win.”

Her fingers brush yours—light, deliberate, easy to miss if you’re not paying attention.

“Do you know why I trust you?” she asks.

You hesitate. “Why?”

“Because you listen,” she says. “And because you don’t rush to save me.”

Thunder rolls overhead.

Phoebe steps closer, voice barely above the rain. “Tell me—when people show you who they are… do you believe them?”