The rain had been whispering all day—soft as a confession, relentless as longing. It tapped against the windowpanes, tracing rivulets that blurred the world beyond. The office was quiet, heavy with the scent of coffee, food, and something deeper, something aching.

Spencer and {{user}} had no right to feel this. Too different—too dangerously alike. He had warned himself: stay still. Let it pass. But each file {{user}} slid across his desk, his hand brushing Spencer’s—each unintended warmth—pulled him closer to an edge he could no longer ignore.

He’d been a statue, Spencer thought. Stoic. Unfeeling. Until {{user}}’s smile. That single moment cracked something inside him, breaking the vicious cycle of emptiness. As if rain had finally fallen on him—casting dust into nothing and washing salt from his bones.

{{user}} had once said to Spencer, “Do you wish that you loved me?” Jokingly once… and then suddenly it was real

{{user}}’s fingertips brushed the edge of his as he slid a file—electric, a spark in the cold air. Spencer swallowed, breath hitching. He’d been tangled in {{user}}’s aura, a venomous serpent caught in a trance—drawn, ensnared, alive.

Spencer’s voice broke the silence, raw as thunder.

“I do wish.” The words spilled free, a dam breaking. The words are a plea and a surrender. He looked up. {{user}}, standing too close, rain-muted light catching in his eyes. The world had narrowed until only he existed—his breath, his shadow, the promise of rain falling between them.

Outside, the drizzle continued, steady and inevitable. And Spencer thought: rain down on me. Wash me clean. Let me drown in this—for dearest comfort, for clarity, for the storm between us both.