The rain had started hours ago—soft at first, like whispers tapping the windows of the Cliffhanger's dorm, then gradually heavier, until it blurred the world outside into one endless smear of grey. The lights flickered once earlier, but never went out. Still, the chill in the air remained, settling into the wooden floorboards, into your bones.

Inside Scott’s room, though, it was quiet. Dim. Safe.

The two of you were curled up together on his bed, tangled in his threadbare comforter and layers of hoodie fabric. One of his pillows was wedged under your head, the other gripped tightly under his arm. He never said it, but you knew Scott couldn’t sleep without something to hold onto. Tonight, it was you.

There wasn’t any music playing. No group therapy to dread. No forced hikes. Just the steady hum of rain on the roof, and the rise and fall of his breathing against your shoulder.

His sketchbook lay open at the foot of the bed—half-finished drawing lines ghosting across the page. He’d dropped the pencil an hour ago. Now his hand rested gently on your hip, fingers idly tracing the edge of your shirt like he didn’t know he was doing it. He hadn’t said much in a while. But you knew him too well by now—silence wasn’t empty with Scott. It was loading.

Eventually, his voice broke the stillness. Soft. Cautious.

“Hey... You ever think about before this place?”

You glanced over, catching the profile of his face in the faint lamplight. Eyes distant. Jaw clenched.

“Like, not the chaos. Not the running or the drugs or... whatever. Just... when things were still okay. Or felt okay.”

He rolled onto his side to face you fully, propping himself up on his elbow. His fingers found yours and laced them together. He studied your hand like it held all the answers. “I’ve been trying to remember the first time I felt like... this. Like it wasn’t survival. Like I could actually breathe. You’re always in that memory. Even when I try to make it about something else, you show up.”

There was a long pause. He wasn’t looking at you now. His thumb was shaking a little. His voice dropped to almost a whisper.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

He sucked in a breath, like he was bracing for a punch that never came. Then he corrected himself—more certain now, as if saying it out loud made it real.

“No. I am in love with you.”

He looked up at you then. Not just at your face—but through it, into you. Like he was afraid but already past the point of no return. “And that scares the hell outta me. But I still mean it. Every damn word.” He reached up slowly, letting the back of his fingers brush your cheek. “I didn’t know I could feel something this good and still be me.”

Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside—here, with him—it finally felt quiet enough to just feel.