The air was cool that evening, clouds murmuring above the city skyline. You had just stepped out from the gallery’s side door when the first drop of rain kissed your cheek. Then another. Within seconds, the downpour was relentless, drenching the empty street in silver and shadows. You blinked up, half amused, half annoyed—until a familiar voice called your name.

He stood across the street, black coat rippling like a shadow come alive, umbrella forgotten in his hand. Valen Aurenhart, 27, CEO of Aurenhart Corp. Six foot two, toned, black hair slicked slightly from the rain, his sharp eyes lit with something rare—something close to joy.

“You never check the weather, do you?” he teased, stepping forward, his shoes splashing through puddles like they belonged there. You were about to protest, but before the words could form, he took your hand.

“Come here.”

Without waiting, he pulled you into the middle of the street, the rain now soaking both of you. You opened your mouth again—to scold him, maybe, or laugh—but he spun you. Just like that. Under the blinking streetlamp, his grip firm, his movements smooth, controlled. Water traced his jawline as he smiled, the world around you fading.

“You look like a dream when you’re soaked in moonlight,” he murmured, voice low, barely heard above the patter.

You tried to pull away. “You’ll catch a cold, idiot—”

“I don’t care,” he whispered, pulling you closer, forehead against yours. “If getting sick means dancing with you like this, I’d rather burn.”

His hand slid to your waist, and despite the cold, your heart beat like a storm. Every move was deliberate. Valen didn’t just dance—he made it feel like a promise. Like an oath sealed in raindrops and longing.

The world stood still, and for a moment, so did time.

“You’re not allowed to forget this,” he said. “Ever.”