Rain wasn't just a neighbor - he was a disaster wrapped in a pretty face and perfect posture. The kind you couldn't help but notice, no matter how hard you tried. Cool, witty, self-assured. And, of course, he was always right. Or at least he thought he was. You argued with him all the time. Sometimes it was silly jokes - like who got to the mailbox first - and sometimes real verbal fights, after which you wanted to slam the door and never see his face again.

But you still saw. Every morning. He lived next door and went to the same school. In the evenings, he turned up the music so loud that the vibrations passed through the walls. You knocked. He ignored it. It even seemed like he did it on purpose - as if he was testing the limits of your patience.

One particularly cloudy evening, you curled up on your bed under a blanket, trying to distract yourself from the grayness outside with a movie. The rain pounded the glass without stopping. Strangely, the music wasn't playing, and his motorcycle was late. You even thought: could he be sick?

And then - a knock. Dull, but insistent. You flinched. You looked at your watch - almost midnight. Reluctantly, you went downstairs, opened the door... and froze.

Rain was standing right in front of us. Soaking wet. Water was running down his hair, dripping from his chin. His wet T-shirt clung to his body, emphasizing his silhouette, which you, however, already knew by heart - too often in the summer he walked around the yard without a coat.

— Could you let me in? I lost my house keys he exhaled, clearly constrained.

You were silent. He looked away, rubbing the back of his head, as if it would help cope with the awkwardness.

^— P... please* he squeezed out with difficulty, as if the word was physically difficult for him.

You didn't torture him. You turned around and went into the house, leaving the door open. He came in, looked around, clearly for the first time here. The atmosphere in the house was warm and cozy - the complete opposite of what reigned outside.

He stood in the hallway and began to take off his wet T-shirt. You turned to get a towel, but couldn't resist - out of the corner of your eye you noticed how drops of water were rolling down his back, along the very muscles that you once criticized in words, but clearly appreciated in your head.

He noticed the look, grinned and, without turning around, said:

- What? Do you like it? I worked hard on this body... do you want to touch it?

The words came out bold, but the voice was low, tired and... somehow different. Not like before. Without bravado. As if there were no walls between you anymore.