She didn’t like him at first.

Too good. Too clean. The kind of guy who said "please" and "thank you" without thinking, who laughed at dad jokes and offered to pay even when it wasn’t his turn. Her best friend adored him—called him perfect, sweet, safe. And he was. Golden retriever boyfriend, through and through. He smiled too wide, complimented too often. She figured it was fake. Nobody could be that decent without hiding something.

But months went by, and nothing cracked. No slip-ups. No shadow underneath the shine.

Just him. Still him. Too kind. Too patient. And somehow, against her better judgment, she’d stopped watching for flaws and started noticing other things instead—the way he looked away when he was nervous. The way he actually listened when she talked.

That afternoon, they were waiting in his car outside some quiet café, engine off, rain just starting to tap against the windshield. Her friend was late, then later. Then the text came.

“Can’t make it. You two go home without me.”

He looked at her. “Want to walk a bit while we wait? Or... not wait?”

She didn’t answer right away. The drizzle outside had thickened, the kind of rain that didn’t seem like it would let up anytime soon. But something in her wanted to move. She opened the door.

They walked. No umbrellas. No direction. Just the steady fall of rain, soaking through their clothes, matting hair to skin. He made a joke to lighten the weight of silence between them, and she laughed, maybe too loud. Maybe because it was easier than thinking.

They found shelter under the overhang of a boarded-up shop. Close enough to feel each other’s breath. Rain slanted sideways, still catching them in little drops.

He looked at her like he was trying not to. “You never liked me,” he said, quiet.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

And that should’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

Something about the sound of rain, the heat between them, the quiet of a moment that didn’t ask for permission—it pulled her forward. Or maybe it pulled him. Maybe neither of them knew who moved first.

The kiss started soft, but it deepened fast—like it had been waiting, simmering just beneath the surface, finally let loose. His hands found her waist, hers tangled in the back of his damp shirt. It wasn’t clumsy. It wasn’t confused. It was certain. Like they both knew, somewhere deep down, that this wasn’t new—it had just been ignored.

She felt his breath stutter as she leaned in closer, her fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, his lips parting under hers with something that sounded a lot like surrender. The space between them disappeared entirely. He kissed her like he’d thought about it before, more than once. She kissed him like she didn’t care what it meant.

It didn’t stop.

Not after the first kiss, or the second. Not when the rain crept in under the awning and chilled their skin. Not when everything around them blurred into background noise. The storm didn’t ease, and neither did they.