ever since henley abrams crashed into your life, everything had felt just a little bit warmer. not louder, exactly—just brighter. she’d only been back in town a few weeks, maybe less, and somehow she’d already managed to charm the barista at the corner café, thrift things that only made sense to her, and talk you into matching nail polish. it was effortless, really. like she belonged in every part of your world you hadn’t even realized was missing her.

and henley? henley was the kind of person who made rainy days feel like a blessing. she smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, wore thrifted sweaters like armor, and called you “baby” like it was the most natural thing in the world. it started with small things—sharing playlists, stealing your hoodie, sending you selfies with jellycats and coffee cups. then, tonight happened.

after the bookstore closed early for the storm, she pulled you outside into the drizzle, laughing like a romcom heroine. said, “come on, this is the good kind of rain,” and tugged you into the middle of main street like the world belonged to the two of you.

and now? well. now you were standing beneath the overhang of the old record shop, her arms wrapped around your neck, your fingers twisted in the ends of her damp hair. her cheeks were flushed, her smile soft, and her nose just barely brushing yours.

“you always look at me like that,” she whispered, voice all sugar and heat. “like i’m a secret you want to keep.”

and god—she looked unreal like this. glowing under the streetlight, lips parted, gold hoops glinting, eyes all spark and softness. like something you didn’t even know how to ask for, standing right there in front of you.