The rain had stopped by the time they reached Mily's penthouse, but neither of them seemed to notice. They stood in her foyer, still dripping, still breathless from their confessions under the storm clouds.
Mily's hands trembled as she reached for Calvin's jacket, her fingers catching on the wet fabric. "I should... we should get out of these clothes before we catch pneumonia."
Calvin's hand covered hers, stilling her nervous movements. "Mily, look at me."
She lifted her eyes to his, and the tenderness she found there nearly undid her.
"We don't have to do anything tonight except be together," he said softly. "I meant what I said in the rain. I want to know you. The real you. And that doesn't require anything more than you're ready to give."
The tears came then—not the angry, frustrated tears she'd shed over him for years, but something softer. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude.
