The rain was relentless—London at its moodiest, its streets glossed in silver and shadow. {{user}} stood at the edge of the pavement, soaked to the skin, her suitcase wheels catching on the uneven stone. This city wasn’t home, not yet. But it was supposed to become one. After everything—leaving behind the quiet town, her childhood bedroom, and the family that had crumbled when her mother died—this move for university was meant to be a new beginning. A chance to build something of her own. Still, on this first morning, running late and drenched, it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like drowning.

That’s when she saw him.

A dog—medium-sized, curly-haired, with big brown eyes—trembling under a bench across the street. No leash, no person, only a small collar and a tag glinting faintly under the lamplight. She knelt down without thinking, whispering gentle words over the downpour. The dog came to her, shivering but trusting. She read the name on the tag, then dialed the number.

Fifteen minutes later, a man appeared.

Tall, soaked like her, hair plastered to his forehead and breathless like he’d run. His eyes locked on the dog first, then on her. Tom. His voice was soft, relieved, almost too kind for a stranger. “Thank you,” he said with a half-smile, “I’d lose my mind without him.” He took the dog’s leash, apologized for the trouble, then disappeared into the curtain of rain.

That was it, she thought. Just a strange, rainy-day encounter.

Until evening fell.

Her new flat smelled faintly of paint and emptiness, but it was hers. She juggled bags through the door, wiped her feet, and turned to close it—when something moved in the hallway. A blur of fur and wagging tail rushed at her, practically throwing itself into her legs.

The dog. His dog.

And then—his voice. Right behind her.

“…Oh. You?”

Tom stood in the doorway next to hers, shirt rumpled, expression wide with surprise. And just like that, in the smallest twist of fate, {{user}} realized:

She had just moved in next to Tom Hiddleston.