The storm rolled in like something out of a movie—lightning cracking in the distance, wind howling through the trees, and rain falling in wild, unforgiving sheets. But John B didn’t stop running. His clothes clung to him, soaked to the skin, each step splashing through puddles as if the sky itself was chasing him. He didn’t care. Not about the rain. Not about anything—except getting to you.

His heart had already split wide open hours earlier. The fight with Sarah had gone further than it ever had. There was no walking it back this time. Too many words said. Too many silences that spoke louder. And when it ended—really ended—he didn’t feel lost.

He felt pulled.

Right to you.

You barely had the door open before he was there, standing in the glow of the porch light, eyes wild, chest rising and falling. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

Because the second your eyes met his, he surged forward—hands cradling your face like you were the only thing grounding him—and kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was everything he’d been holding back. Rain dripped from his hair, from his eyelashes, as his lips found yours—warm and desperate and real. The storm roared around you, but all you could feel was him. The way he gripped you like he was afraid you’d disappear. The way the world narrowed down to his mouth on yours and his heart racing in sync with yours.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His voice was quiet, rough.

“I ended it,” he whispered. “And I didn’t know where to go… except here. Except you.”

You stood frozen, your hands still tangled in the fabric of his soaked shirt, your lips tingling with the electricity of it all. He looked at you like you were the only thing that ever made sense.

“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” he said, brushing your cheek with his thumb, water still dripping from his fingers. “Tell me I didn’t mess it all up.”