It was the kind of evening that smelled like wet earth and lavender. Clouds hung low, dark as ink but gentle in their descent, curling over the valley like a sleepy sigh. The trees rustled with the breeze, leaves shimmering silver-green, and every flower seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

Nestled at the edge of a mossy field was a small stone cottage, its windows glowing with the last of the day’s light. Vines curled up its sides, clinging lovingly to the wood frames. A garden—wild and overgrown in the prettiest way—stretched out from the porch, bursting with blooms that danced in the wind.

Rowan stood barefoot in the grass just past the cottage, arms spread out like wings, face tilted toward the sky. The first drops of rain had begun to fall, soft as whispers. The kind of rain that made everything blur slightly, like the world had turned into a watercolor.

Behind him, you stood on the porch, half-sheltered beneath the sloping roof, watching.

“You coming out?” Rowan called, his voice light, like laughter in the wind.

You stepped down cautiously, boots crunching the damp path, rain peppering your hair now. You joined Rowan beneath the trees, where the branches arched like cathedrals above you, droplets falling in lazy trails from leaf to leaf.

“You hate the rain?” Rowan asked suddenly, turning to look at you with curious eyes.

You hesitated. The thunder growled somewhere beyond the hills, soft and sleepy. You watched the way Rowan looked up, like the storm was a lullaby written just for him.

“Kinda,” you said at last. “It always made me feel… stuck inside. Like I had to wait for it to pass.”

Rowan smiled, stepping closer. “How can anyone hate the rain?”

And in that moment, you didn’t know. Because everything around you smelled like rosemary and fresh grass, the world painted in soft blues and greens. Rain curled in Rowan’s lashes and soaked through his sleeves, and still, he looked brighter than the sun had all week.

A petal from a cherry tree drifted down between you, wet and white.