The storm had been building all day—clouds thick as bruises, wind chasing leaves through the cobbled streets. You hadn’t thought much of it when you left your flat. You just needed to walk. To breathe. To shake off the silence Simon always left behind, like smoke, whenever he walked out of your life.

He had a habit of that. Coming close. Letting you in just enough to feel the heat of his world, then vanishing like he was never really there. Always the same excuse: “You’re safer without me.” “I don’t want you hurt.” “This life… it doesn’t mix with yours.”

You used to argue. Say it wasn’t his choice. That you knew what you wanted. But it never mattered. He’d already decided. This last time, he didn’t even argue—just looked haunted, kissed your forehead like a goodbye, and disappeared.

That was two weeks ago. You’d almost let him go.

Almost.

Now, cold rain pours like it’s trying to erase you. You press into a shuttered storefront, soaked to the skin. No coat. No turning back.

Pathetic. Shivering. Dripping. Ghosted.

Then you hear it.

Heavy boots pounding wet pavement. Someone running. Fast.

You barely have time to register the sound before he rounds the corner—Simon—barefaced, soaked, breathless, and wide-eyed like he’s been chasing you through warzones. Rain mats his blond hair to his skull. His black hoodie clings to him, water streaming from the hem. He looks wrecked.

“Jesus, there you are,” he pants, coming to a stop in front of you. “I’ve been lookin’ everywhere.”

Your heart stumbles.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice rough from cold and something else.

He doesn’t answer immediately. He’s staring at you like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he didn’t expect you to still be standing here, like part of him thought you’d be gone for good. His chest heaves.

Then he steps forward and cups your face in both hands—wet gloves cold against your cheeks.

“I can’t do it,” he says, voice cracking like the sky above. “I tried. I told myself it was better for you if I stayed away, if I let you move on—but I can’t. I can’t walk away from you.”

The rain comes down harder. Your clothes stick to your skin like a second punishment. But all you can feel is him. His trembling hands. His pulse hammering under his thumb where it brushes your jaw.

“I’m not good at this,” he goes on, words thick with everything he never says. “I don’t know how to be soft. I don’t know how to keep you safe without breaking my own heart every time I leave. But the thought of you out here, alone, thinking I don’t love you—”

He swallows. His eyes are stormier than the sky, rimmed red.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much it scares the bloody hell out of me.”