The first time they kissed, it was raining.

It wasn’t dramatic, not cinematic. Just two friends too drunk to care about the storm outside, huddled under a blanket on Leo’s couch, laughing at some old horror movie they’d seen a dozen times. You had turned to say something—Leo couldn’t even remember what—and suddenly your mouths were too close. Close enough for the laughter to falter, close enough for breath to catch, and close enough that Leo didn’t stop it when you leaned in.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a slow unraveling. Clothes on the floor, whispered names, skin to skin. You didn’t talk about it in the morning. You made coffee. Leo pretended he wasn’t staring. It was easy, he told himself, just a moment. People make mistakes. People move on.

But you didn’t act like it was a mistake. You acted like it never happened at all.

You went back to hanging out like nothing had changed—video games, late-night walks, inside jokes. You still ruffled Leo’s hair and stole his fries and sent him dumb memes at 2 a.m. You never looked awkward. Never hesitated. Like that night had been erased.

But Leo couldn’t erase it. It looped in his head like a broken record—the way you had kissed him, like you meant it. The softness in your voice when you said his name. The way your fingers had lingered, almost reverent.

Leo had been in love with you long before that night. He just didn’t know how loud love could get until it echoed in silence.

Some days, he thought he imagined it. That maybe you were just drunk. That maybe he had read too much into it. That maybe he was stupid, and selfish, and pathetic for holding onto something that you clearly hadn’t.

But other days—most days—it hurt too much to pretend.

He wanted to say something. God, he wanted to scream. Do you remember? Did it mean anything? Did I mean anything? But the fear of losing you completely kept his mouth shut.

So he let it rot inside him.

Then one night, weeks after the kiss-that-wasn’t, they were sitting in Leo’s room again, playing music like always. You were lying on his bed, one arm flung over your eyes, humming along to the song. Leo was on the floor, picking at the threads of the carpet, trying not to stare.