The rain fell like it had something to prove. Heavy, relentless sheets, soaking everything in sight and turning the Plaza de España into a beautiful, miserable postcard. Seville was supposed to be dry this time of year—sun-drenched and golden, like in the pictures. But no. Of course the one time we came, it rained like hell.

She walked ahead of me along the covered walkway, arms crossed tight over her chest, teeth probably clenched the way they always were when she was pretending she wasn’t cold. She still did that thing where she rubbed her arms as if that would help. It didn’t. Her navy top was practically glued to her skin, her jeans soaked halfway up her legs. She hadn’t brought a jacket. Left it on the coach. Classic her. She never really thought she’d need it. She loved the rain, after all. Said it made everything feel more alive. More cinematic.

Yeah, cinematic. This was straight out of a tragic indie film. Meanwhile, I had layers on—shirt, fleece, coat. I’d packed for practicality. I always did. Which she used to tease me about.

“You pack like a dad,” she once said, flipping through my suitcase with that smug little smirk. “Functional. Predictable.” She wasn’t wrong.

Still, I’d give up the dry clothes in a second if it meant she wasn’t shivering like that.

We weren’t supposed to be here together. That was the worst part. This wasn’t our trip. It was a university group tour—art and architecture students mostly, plus a few language geeks like me. She wasn’t even in my group anymore. We hadn’t spoken much in months. Kept our distance. Civil, but careful.

But earlier today, somehow, we’d ended up sitting near each other on the bus. Not speaking. Not really needing to. I think part of me liked being near her even if I wasn’t allowed to admit it anymore. When the group scattered in the downpour, I followed her instinctively. And now, here we were. Lost. Alone. Drenched.

Just like old times—except worse.

I glanced at my phone. Still raining for at least two more hours. No signal. Fantastic.

I looked up at her again. She’d made her way halfway up the grand staircase, pausing under one of the stone arches, her face turned out toward the plaza. Even with the rain soaking her to the bone, she still looked… breathtaking. Like she belonged in this kind of place. In every kind of place, really. That hadn’t changed.

She always had that effortless kind of presence—people noticed her. Wanted to be around her. Wanted to be with her. Including me, once. Especially me.

It hadn’t ended badly, exactly. Just...messily. Long nights turned into long silences. Too many things left unsaid. We both wanted space. That was almost a year ago.

I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed just standing next to her until now.

I took a few slow steps up the stairs after her. Water sloshed inside my shoes. My hands were jammed in my coat pockets, and I didn’t know what I was expecting. An umbrella? A miracle? She turned when she heard my footsteps.

“So what do we do now?” I asked, voice raised a little over the rain.

She looked at me. Not annoyed exactly. But tired. Cold. Wet. Her eyes scanned mine for something—help, maybe. Or comfort. Or just an answer I didn’t have.

What did we do now? I had no clue. We’d lost the group. There was no real shelter nearby. We were stuck with each other, at least for the time being.

But weirdly...that didn’t feel like the worst thing.