You’re both sitting by the classroom window, knees tucked to your chest, watching rain streak down the glass in rivulets. The world outside is blurred and gray, the way it always looks to the living—but you can’t feel it, and neither can she.

You shrug, staring at the motion of droplets sliding down. “I miss the smell of rain,” you murmur, voice low.

Rhonda goes quiet. Long quiet. Her gaze drifts to the droplets, her jaw tight.

“I don’t miss a lot of things,” she says finally, soft, almost hesitant. “But… sometimes I miss… being able to give someone my jacket.”

You glance at her. Her shoulders are slightly hunched, arms crossed over her chest, but the faint pink in her cheeks betrays her.

“You…” you start, but she interrupts quickly, defensive now. “If you were alive,” she adds, eyes darting to yours, “I’d walk you home every day. Make sure no one even looked at you wrong. Not one person.”

Her words hang in the quiet classroom. You notice the way her lips press together, the slight tremor of her fingers. Then, almost unconsciously, her pinky brushes yours. Hooks. Locks. And she doesn’t pull away.

You freeze, caught between surprise and warmth. She’s looking anywhere but your face, stubbornly pretending she’s not aware of the tiny connection.

“Rhonda…” you whisper, voice catching.

“Don’t,” she mutters, still avoiding your eyes. But the corner of her mouth twitches like she wants to smile. “I’m not… I’m not saying it because I want you to freak out.”

You can’t help it. You let your pinky press a little firmer against hers, just enough to tell her you’re not going anywhere.

The rain drums softly against the windowpane. The world outside is drenched, gray, endless. Inside, there’s a warmth building quietly between you two, something neither the afterlife nor time can wash away.

Rhonda glances up finally, and for a split second, her walls fall away. “I’d… I’d fight anyone who tried to touch you,” she admits, voice low. “Even now.”

Your chest tightens. “Even now?”

Her pinky tightens around yours. She leans slightly closer, careful, cautious, but the small act is bigger than any words she could say.

“Even now,” she repeats, and it’s all the promise you need.

The rain continues to fall. The classroom is still. The two of you sit, fingers linked, just watching it together.

No rush. No performances. Just the quiet, stubborn closeness of something neither of you can quite name yet—but both already feel.