Rain misted over Pacifica, soft for once instead of violent. Kurt stood with you beneath the broken overhang of an abandoned shop, the neon sign above flickering just enough to paint his jaw in blue light.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” you answered.

His lips twitched — almost a smile. His hand brushed yours, just barely, like he was testing whether you’d pull away. You didn’t.

For a man made of steel and sharp edges, he softened only in inches. And tonight, he gave you one.

“Every time you walk away,” he murmured, “I wonder if you’ll come back.”

You stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough that the air shifted between you.

“I always come back.”

He exhaled — a slow, shaky breath that betrayed more than words did. Then his hand rose, hesitant but certain, fingers cupping your jaw with a gentleness that didn’t fit a man like him.

“Good,” he said.

And he kissed you.

Not rough. Not claiming. Just slow, deliberate, almost disbelieving — like he’d imagined it too many times and wasn’t convinced it was real.

Your hands slid into his coat, pulling him closer. His forehead rested against yours afterward, his breath warm against your lips.

“Don’t disappear tonight,” he whispered.

You didn’t plan to.

And the rain kept falling around you, but neither of you cared anymore.