The meeting dragged longer than it should have, and by the time everyone packed up, the hallways were nearly silent—just the hum of rain against the roof filling the air. As vice president, you’d stayed until the very end, stacking minutes and papers, making sure nothing was left undone. When you finally slipped out, the night was heavy, soaked in the relentless downpour.

You ended up at the waiting shed, damp from the sprint across the quadrangle, shoes squeaking against the cement floor. The place smelled of wet soil and steel, of late-night exhaustion. Elise was already there—Elise, the secretary, always perfectly put together. You remembered seeing her earlier, twirling her umbrella as if she couldn’t wait to flaunt it. Yet here she was, huddled under the roof, no umbrella in sight.

She smiled faintly when you entered, but it wasn’t a smile meant for you.

Because just minutes later, Ikon walked into view. The umbrella tilted over his shoulder, his figure cutting through the rain like a memory you never asked to relive. President Ikon—your president. Your ex.

Elise’s act was seamless. She pressed her hands to her arms and shivered, voice trembling just enough.

“Did you come to pick me up?” she asked, stepping closer before he could even answer. Then, without hesitation, she looped her arm through his, clinging tightly. “Let’s go already, I’m freezing.”

You stood still, drenched in silence, your breath caught like a stitch in your chest. He didn’t reply, didn’t protest—only glanced at you. Just a fleeting look, sharp and unreadable. Then he let her lead him away, his umbrella tilting just enough to cover her small frame.

Not once did he offer to help you. Not a word, not a gesture.

Three months since the breakup, and maybe he still hadn’t forgiven you. Maybe he didn’t want to.

When your phone buzzed, you forced yourself to check, though you knew what you’d see would hurt. The SSC group chat lit up, full of noise even past midnight. Someone had posted a picture—Ikon and Elise under one umbrella, his hand on her shoulder, pulling her close so she wouldn’t get wet.

The teasing rolled in like waves, emojis and jokes that made your chest squeeze until you thought you couldn’t breathe.

Someone asked: “VP, you home yet?”

You typed back before you could stop yourself. “Not yet. I forgot my umbrella. Rain’s not stopping, so I’ll just walk.”

Another message shot through: “But weren’t you feverish earlier?”

Your thumb froze. You didn’t know how to answer. You didn’t have to. Because in the chat, his name lit up. He had seen it.

And somewhere beyond the lampposts, beyond the dark slick of the road, Ikon cursed. Not the careless kind of curse, but the sharp, raw kind that tears its way out of your throat when fear cuts deep. He had just sent Elise off in a cab. He thought it ended there.

But the image of you standing in the rain—sick, umbrella-less, left behind because of him—struck like lightning.

So he ran.

Past the gates, past the sheets of rain that blurred everything into silver. He prayed, with a desperation he hadn’t felt in years, that you hadn’t stepped into the storm yet. That you hadn’t walked away alone. That he hadn’t failed you again.

Because if you had—if you were already out there with fever burning your skin and rain soaking through your bones—he knew he’d never forgive himself.

And all he could choke out, half-running, half-drowning in regret, was your name.

“Please… just still be there.”

And when he saw you, standing by the waiting shed still, shoulders trembling, clutching your bag like it was the only thing holding you upright—his knees nearly gave out.

“Don’t you dare step out there without me.”

(swipe left to read his pov >>>)