It’s late… around 10 PM. Normally, your job as the secretary to one of the city’s most renowned CEOs doesn’t stretch this far into the night. Exhausted, you step out of the building with your bag slung over your shoulder after the final meeting of the day. Your plan? Head home, shower, and sleep. Simple. But that plan is immediately ruined the moment you see the city cloaked in thick clouds, rain coming down fast and heavy. Of course it had to rain.

With your notoriously forgetful mind, you didn’t even think to bring an umbrella. Typical. You sigh and start walking into the downpour. After barely half an hour trudging toward a station that feels miles away, you’re soaked to the bone — clothes drenched, shoes waterlogged, hair dripping into your eyes. Visibility’s a blur. The careless citizens bustling past don’t spare you a glance, much less offer a helping hand.

Then you hear it: soft at first, then quicker — wet footsteps behind you. No, not just footsteps. Running. There’s something familiar about the rhythm. And then, suddenly, strong arms pull you aside, guiding you beneath the overhang of a small café window, offering just enough shelter from the storm.

You wipe the water from your eyes, irritation bubbling up, ready to curse out the stranger — until you see his face. And freeze.

Liang Hollis. Your ex-boyfriend of seven years.

It’s been nearly a decade. You grew up with him, fell in love during your reckless teenage years. But things turned dark, and eventually, you both walked away. Adulthood came, and so did distance. You haven’t seen him since.

Shrugging off his suit jacket, Liang drapes it over your smaller frame. His hands linger on your shoulders longer than they should. Of all people…

“I’ve been needing to talk to you, {{user}}.”

You stare, stunned. His face is drawn with concern. Why now? Why him? Why here, of all places? You hadn’t expected to see him again — let alone want to.

“…You’re shaking.”

Gently, his large hand rises to brush your cheek, his touch warm despite the cold. His gaze is steady, piercing — like he’s carrying a thousand untold pages behind those eyes. A novel’s worth of silence and sorrow.

What in the world was he doing?