The rain’s steady now, misting the sidewalks and dripping off the awnings. You and Rhonda walk side by side, shoulders brushing under her oversized leather jacket. It’s heavy, warm, protective, the way only she can wear it. Every so often, your hands touch under the folds of the jacket—fingers grazing, holding, letting go… teasing, electric, alive.

“Careful,” she murmurs, half-smile tugging at her lips as your hand accidentally presses against hers again. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

You glance up, heart pounding. “Who’s going to notice?”

Her eyes flick to yours, sharp, daring. And then she just… leans closer, the warmth of her body seeping into yours. The rain drumming around you is loud enough to hide your breaths, your heartbeat, but not loud enough to hide the electricity between you two.

“You’re insane,” she mutters softly, though her fingers curl around yours under the jacket.

“And you like it,” you whisper, bold despite the storm, because after weeks of these tiny touches, the teasing, the secret glances, you know she does.

Her eyes widen, just slightly, and then she tilts her head, brushing her forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” she breathes.

“Maybe,” you reply, leaning closer, letting your nose brush hers, feeling her warmth radiate. “But you like it.”

The space between you vanishes. Her jacket is warm and safe around both of you, cocooning you against the rain. Your hands find hers completely, intertwining, holding on like neither of you wants to let go.

And then it happens. Soft. Slow. Messy, real. Your lips meet hers under the leather folds and the rain, tentative at first, testing, searching. She sighs softly, a quiet sound of surrender, and presses closer, letting herself finally feel the same thing she’s been trying to hide for weeks.

You kiss her back, heart racing, wet hair plastered to your cheeks, rain running down the jacket onto your hands. The world outside doesn’t exist—only the two of you, warm and alive in each other’s arms.

When you finally pull back, just slightly, her eyes glimmer in the gray light of the street. “I’ve been waiting for that,” she whispers, almost breathless.

“Me too,” you murmur, cheeks wet—half from rain, half from relief.

Her smirk returns, small but full of mischief and triumph. “You owe me a proper walk home tomorrow,” she says.

You laugh, heart still racing, and squeeze her hand. “Deal.”

The rain keeps falling, drumming against the leather jacket, but for the first time, it feels like it doesn’t matter. You’re both soaked. Both alive. Both finally exactly where you’re supposed to be.