The rain had come out of nowhere—sheets of it, loud and relentless, soaking the pavement as students scattered like startled birds. You ducked beneath the nearest awning, a narrow glass-paneled bus stop already half-occupied by a boy in a dark coat and scuffed dress shoes. He looked up from where he was fiddling with a deck of cards, his violet eyes catching yours through the falling rain.

“Nice weather for drowning,” you muttered, shaking water from your sleeves.

The boy smiled faintly. “Only if you don’t know how to swim.”

You didn’t realize it then, but that was the moment Lyney decided he would make you his next—and last—greatest trick.

You didn’t recognize him, though you’d debated once in the student union just a few feet from where he’d been sitting, unseen but completely captivated. The way your voice cut through the chatter. The way your hands moved when you were passionate. The way you smiled when you won, fierce and beautiful and real.

He remembered all of it.

Over the following weeks, he made his presence felt in small, deliberate ways. A paper crane perched on your desk during Literature. A daisy tucked into the slats of your locker. A warm cup of coffee handed over the counter by a barista with a wink and a note: “On the house—well, someone else’s.” You didn’t need to ask who.

At first, you ignored it. Then you rolled your eyes. Then you told him, very plainly, that you didn’t fall for “cheap charm” or “wand-waving theatrics.”

But Lyney didn’t stop. His persistence wasn’t loud—it was steady. Quiet smiles from across the quad. Passing comments that were always exactly what you needed to hear. A jacket lent without a word when it got cold. A performance invitation that you never intended to accept.

Except… you did, once. And the way he looked at you after his final bow—like you were the only magic left in the world—left you more breathless than you'd admit.

Then came the fight.

You called him dramatic. He called you scared. You told him to stop pretending this was real. He didn’t say anything—just turned away, like silence would hurt less than goodbye.

You skipped his big show. The one he poured everything into.

When you heard he’d botched the final act, you told yourself it wasn’t your fault.

But days passed. You couldn’t stop seeing his face. That small, quiet hope in his smile. The way he always made you feel like the main character in a story you didn’t believe in.

And somehow, that’s what brought you back. Back to the same bus stop, rain falling again.

This time, he was already there—no cards, no flower, just Lyney. Real, raw, eyes a little red, like he hadn't slept since you vanished from the front row.

You stepped under the awning beside him.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

You reached for his hand first.

And he let you hold it like it was the last thing keeping him together.

Love, you realized, wasn’t clean or easy. But it was here. And it was real.